Page 18 of Hard to Love

“I don’t think your version of self-absorbed is different to hers, Car.”

Carson’s laugh says he pretty much agrees but is too much of a gentleman to put it into words. Instead, he acts like I never said the words at all. “I’m not sure what exactly to call it other than a goodwill tour.”

He’s playing down her antics. Fucking great.

“So her PR person will escort her to each event, make sure she shows up to do the song and dance, and all will be good,” I say trying to negate whatever he’s going to throw at me next.

“Except she’ll walk all over a PR person. She’ll charm them. Manipulate them. Give them the slip, and while the PR rep is busy lying that Stevie had to cancel last minute because she isn’t feeling well, pictures will pop up all over social media showing otherwise. It’s happened. She’s done it. I need someone I can depend on. Someone who I trust implicitly to hold her hand until she comes to her senses and decides her career isn’t worth ruining.”

“I’m not a babysitter, Carson. I’m an agent with a full client list and—”

“And a reputation for handling difficult ones at that.”

“Handling, yes. Handholding, no.”

“I’ve told Carson I don’t need a babysitter, a handholder, someone to keep me in check, or someone to tuck me into bed at night. In fact, I don’t need anyone,” a feminine, annoyed voice says as she stalks into the suite. By the time I turn to see who it is, her back is to me, and she’s already heading toward the refrigerator and grabbing a water. A mane of blond hair hangs down her back and sways in tempo with her hips. “So don’t waste your time, boys.”

There is a small crack as she breaks the seal on the water before she turns around to face us, a smirk on her lips.

“Either of you boys want a drink?” She looks from me to Carson and then back to me. “No? Didn’t think so.”

The same smirk I saw last night.

The same lips I saw last night.

Motherfucker.

FINN

I KNEW SHE REMINDED ME of someone when we met in the bar, but I couldn’t place her, couldn’t figure out who it was.

The brown wig she obviously wore didn’t help matters either.

But there she is in full living color—Stevie fucking Lancaster. The same woman who lay in my bed last night with nothing but silk and lace and a soft snore.

And today? Today her cheeks are still flushed, but this time it looks like it’s from the sun. She has a white, flowy cover-up over her bathing suit that’s tied around her neck. It’s obvious she’s already been for a swim because it’s wet where her tits rub against the thin fabric.

Sure, she’s covered in all the right places, but the sight of those wet spots only serves to stir my imagination—or rather the exact knowledge of the smell of her skin and the feel of those lace-clad nipples against my tongue.

Then there are those lips of hers. The ones that are shocked into the shape of an O as she stares at me with eyes wide in surprise. She glances over to Carson like a kid caught in a candy store before she looks at me again.

But for me, the shock has faded to a confused anger. She left money—paid me—as if I was her whore. Fucking hell, and now Carson thinks it’s best if I’m the one who holds her hand?

“Sounds to me like you leave a lot of things unfinished and just maybe you do need the handholding,” I say with a quirk of my eyebrow, the innuendo not subtle in the least.

“I finish things just fine if they’re worth my while. Maybe you should worry yourself with your own clients instead of butting your nose into my business.” She doesn’t break from my stare, the challenge a gleam in her eye.

Carson clears his throat. “Seems to me you two are off to a fabulous start. Finn Sanderson, this is Stevie Lancaster. Stevie, this is Finn.”

“Finn, huh?” she says as she looks me up and down as if she’s never seen me naked before. “He’s who you brought in here to handcuff me?”

Images ghost through my mind of her and handcuffs, which don’t really belong in the moment.

“I brought Finn on board because he’s well versed in getting athletes back on track after they take a break for one reason or other,” Carson says in a tone I’ve never heard from him. It’s not annoyed but rather . . . more exhausted than anything.

And maybe it’s me being the selfish prick I normally am but how did I not notice how tired Carson looks? How was I so wrapped up in anger at being summoned here that I didn’t look close enough to see the bags under his eyes and the fatigue etched in the lines of his face?

“Back on track?” She snorts.