My breathing turns ragged, my thighs trembling. The sounds of the yoga class are a bizarre, serene soundtrack to the filthy movie playing behind my eyelids.
I’m so close. Teetering on the edge, my muscles clenching.
"Just a little more—"
My phone explodes with sound.
A full-volume, aggressive, blaring ringtone that shatters the moment like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head.
"NO!" I gasp, my hand freezing between my legs.
The phone keeps ringing, vibrating against the nightstand so violently it's inching toward the edge.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to hold onto the high, but it's gone. Evaporated. My orgasm retreats like a wave pulling back from shore.
"Are you fucking kidding me?!"
I grab the phone, ready to hurl it off the balcony.
My body is screaming at me to finish, to ignore the call, to chase the release that was seconds away. But my brain has already registered the name on the screen.
Colin Holden.
On a goddamnvideocall.
I let out a sound that's half groan, half growl, and grab the phone.
"Hello?" I answer, adjusting the sheets around me so he can't see anything.
"Josie! Morning!" Colin's voice booms through the speaker, way too cheerful for someone who just cockblocked me. "Hope I'm not catching you at a bad time."
He squints at the screen and I make sure to readjust.
"Not at all. What's up?"
"Just calling to let you know I need to push our meeting this morning. Came down with something—" He splutters a cough that's so fake it sounds like a dying vacuum cleaner. "I think I've caught this bug that's going around."
I frown, already suspicious. "You're sick?"
"Very sick. Can barely talk." He coughs again. It literally sounds about as convincing as Beck Morrison's 'innocent' face. "Probably shouldn't be on the phone, honestly. Germs and all."
Even if it was convincing, I can see him.
He's sitting in what is unmistakably a golf cart, a pair of clubs visible over his shoulder. He's even wearing a polo shirt so aggressively tropical it looks like a parrot exploded on him.
"Colin."
"Mhmm?"
"You're on a video call."
There's a long pause.
"Shit," he mutters, and I watch his face on the screen go through about five stages of realization in three seconds. "Okay, so here's the thing—"
"Colin, I can see the golf clubs sitting beside you. You're not sick. You're driving a fucking golf buggy!"
He has the audacity to grin. "Look, we can—"
