ARROGANT PLAYBOY (3 page)

A flaxen-haired Dutch exchange
student a few years back who was desperate for my attention after a drunken
hookup. She wanted me so bad; she did the entire thing for free.

“Yellow and orange are
energetic colors. We’re an energy corporation.”

Odessa’s green eyes widen, and
she blows a disapproving breath past her lips as she turns the screen back and types
a million words a minute.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m emailing my web
developer.” She pokes the screen with her fingertip. “There. Okay, so let’s
hone and polish your brand, then once we have it where we want it, I’ll blast
all media venues, put out press releases, create your social media accounts,
draft up some posts for you to keep in your back pocket. My consulting fee
includes one future crisis. If your company is ever under media fire, you
contact me, and I’ll draft up a press release to put out the flames.”

I can see how a woman like her
would be good at putting out fires. You can’t argue with her. Everything that
comes out of her mouth functions like definitive proof that she’s a woman who’s
rarely wrong about a thing.

Color me impressed, but I’ll
never admit that to her. Or to my brother. He’s still on my shit list for not
trusting me.

Odessa’s phone rings, and she
slides it from her bag. “Devin, hi. How are you?”

She smiles. Ear to ear. She
didn’t even smile that wide last night after a round of multiple orgasms when
my tongue was buried deep inside her and my fingertips dug into the flesh of
her inner thighs, pinning her to the bed.

She stands, walking around my
office and chatting to this guy as she flattens her palm across the top of her
hair and stands by the window. I wake my computer and pull up a browser, typing
in the address to my favorite travel website and pretending not to listen.

I’m due for a vacation. Cabo
sounds good. Cabo in the spring is perfection.

“Thanks, Devin. You’re the
best,” she says. “I appreciate it. Seriously. I owe you. Drinks on me, okay?
All right…”

My grip on my computer mouse
could easily pop the buttons off. Why does she kiss Devin’s ass, but speak to
me with disgust in her voice?

I’m Beckham
fucking
King.

Any other woman would be
flicking her tongue across her lips and shooting me coy glances. Any other
woman would be tugging her blouse down to “accidentally” give me a peek. Any
other woman would be toying with her hair and batting her eyes and raving about
how amazing last night was.

Not Odessa.

A woman who wants nothing to do
with me after one of my infamous all-nighters should be a blessing. I should be
celebrating; not wanting to bend her over the back of my desk and show her how
very wrong she is about me.

She waltzed into my life last
night and out of my apartment with my crown in tow.

I’m getting it back.

Starting now.

ODESSA

My office isn’t a shoebox, so
there’s that.

I retire my tablet and crack my
laptop open; spreading my things across the desk I’ll call mine for the next
three weeks. The bulk of the last three hours were spent in Beckham’s office,
developing a plan of action and discussing goals and hammering in the
importance of conveying passion and innovation in all that they do.

I don’t think he listened to a
damn word I said. He kept looking at me, his eyes flashing. He’d rake his jaw,
brows furrowed, and say, “What was that again?”

Maybe working for him is a bad
idea, but I need the job. My savings is paltry at best, unemployment is
laughably trivial, and if Jeremiah doesn’t come back, I’ll be forced to swing
our enormous rent payment until the lease is up in a few more months.

“I’m going to lunch.”

I glance up to find Beckham in
my doorway, one foot in my office and the other out.

“Are you asking if I want
anything or are you telling me because you think I care?” I yawn and click my
pen, refusing to meet his gaze. Really starting to wish I’d have slept last night
instead of…slept with him.

I almost feel bad being so
cruel. I am
not
a mean girl. Anyone
who knows me says I’m spun sugar and warm honey, instantly likeable. Personable.
True blue. But this façade today is absolutely necessary. The man kissed me and
chased me outside his apartment this morning. Who knows what he’s capable of? I
have to protect myself, which is a shame because I love making new friends.

Beckham’s mouth slacks. I doubt
he’s a man who normally struggles to find words, but I’ve rendered him
speechless. In an instant, he’s gone, the soles of his shiny dress shoes tromping
down the hall.

It’s okay if he’s upset with
me. I don’t want him to like me.

I shrug it off and return to my
work.

First order of business? Create
a Facebook profile for Townsend Energy Holdings.

The outline of a figure catches
the corner of my eye as it passes my open door. Did he come back?

I focus on my screen, signing
up for a new account and using Beckham’s email as the primary.

The outline swishes across my
doorway again. Men don’t swish. Maybe it’s Julie?

“He went to lunch,” I call out
to her, though I’m not sure why he’d tell me and not his assistant.

A light rapping on my door
precedes a lanky blonde who’s definitely not Julie. “Hi, sorry. I was looking
for Beckham.”

She’s dressed to the nines. A
full face of designer makeup. Tight skirt. Victoria’s Secret runway waves to
complement the lacy lingerie she’s probably wearing underneath it all. A brown sack
with a deli logo on the front is clutched in her left hand.

“I brought him lunch.” She raises
the bag.

“Oh.” My stomach drops. Is
she…is she his
girlfriend
? Did I
sleep with a taken man last night? Numbness washes over me, quickly replaced
with a bitter taste in my mouth. “He left a few minutes ago. Was he expecting
you?”

Her head shakes, her shiny
waves cascading and bouncing practically in slow motion. “Not at all. Thought
I’d surprise him.”

She’s totally his girlfriend.

Fucking scumbag.

“I’ll tell him you stopped by.
What’s your name?”

“You don’t have to do that.
It’s okay.”

“You sure?” I lift a brow,
poking my tongue into my cheek. “If you want to wait around, you can hang out
in here. His office is probably locked.”

“I don’t think he’d like that.”
Her voice is airy, breathy. Like Marilyn Monroe. It’s got to be an act. There’s
depth in her curious stare.

“You should stay.” Rain
trickles down the window behind me. I point to an empty chair against the far
wall. “It’s warm in here. And dry. And he’ll be back soon.”

And
I feel like a piece of shit for sleeping with your boyfriend, even if it wasn’t
my fault he didn’t tell me he was taken…so let me make it up to you.

“You want some chocolate?” I
offer. She looks like she could use a few pieces. I dig into my bag and pull
out a miniature Snickers. Damn Easter candy. I can never resist buying a jumbo
clearance bag every spring.

“I can’t stay.” She glances
around, up and down the hallway like she’s about to get caught by some invisible
hall monitor.

“He’s going to be really sorry
he missed you.” I’ll see to it personally.

“Please don’t tell him I
stopped by.” For someone who went through the trouble of bringing him lunch,
she sure doesn’t want to make a big deal of it.

I bet he’s an asshole of a
boyfriend.

“O-okay.” I drop the chocolate.

Before I have a chance to say
another word, the blonde girl is gone. I didn’t even get a chance to ask her
name. The entire exchange replays in my head not once but twice. Something
isn’t adding up. I’m sure I’m missing some important detail hidden between the
lines of our conversation, but my wearied brain isn’t firing on all cylinders.

I brush it off and return to my
screen. The iconic blue Facebook logo glares from the top corner. I’ve been
trying to stay away from my personal account for the last two weeks for fear of
seeing what Jeremiah’s been up to.

But tired and curious is a
lethal combination.

I give myself five minutes.
Five minutes to log in and log out and continue on my merry way.

Taking a deep breath, I sign
into my account and type Jeremiah Crawford’s name in the search bar.

His profile picture is
different. It used to be the two of us, fishing from the dock that extends out
from his grandparents’ lake house last Thanksgiving. Now it’s a picture of
Jeremiah standing on some red carpet with a white backdrop covered in some bourbon
company’s logo.

Interesting.
He’s doing endorsements now.

He’s standing alone in the
photo, hands in his pocket and signature approachable smile plastered across
his tan face. I click through his latest pictures: Jeremiah on set, Jeremiah
cooking crab legs, Jeremiah in the hair and makeup seat looking over his notes,
Jeremiah posing with fans, Jeremiah signing someone’s wooden spatula.

Two weeks ago, I was falling
asleep in his arms every night. Two weeks ago we were discussing honeymoon
locations and the possibility of moving out to L.A. if his show were to be
signed for an additional five years. Two weeks ago, we were still Jeremiah and
Sam, college sweethearts chasing their dreams hand in hand the way they’d
always planned.

Funny how all those years, I
was certain he loved me more than I loved him. There’s always one person who
loves a little bit harder than the other. I saw it in his eyes, in the way he’d
talk about me to our friends, and in the way he’d fill my water bottle with
extra ice every morning before I left for work or pre-toothpaste my toothbrush
if he got up first.

I always thought it was him.

Guess I was wrong.

“How’s it coming?”

Beckham’s voice startles me,
and I let out an audible gasp, jumping in my seat. Looking through Jeremiah’s
pictures must’ve swept me out of the moment and into some misty otherworld with
no concept of time or space. I’m not sure how long I stared at those photos,
but it had to have been a while if Beckham’s back from lunch.

“Back so soon?” I shut the
laptop on instinct. Big mistake. I should’ve played it cool, but now his gaze
dances between my computer and me.

“I hope you don’t intend on
billing us for whatever you were just doing,” he says.

“I’m on lunch.”

“Where’s your food?” He lingers
in my doorway.

I hold up the mini Snickers,
the one the woman rejected.

Beckham scoffs. “All right.”

“You missed your friend.” I
could smack myself. I told the girl I wouldn’t say anything, and in a desperate
moment of wanting him to stop wondering what I was just doing, I panicked and
changed the subject.

“
Friend
?”

“Friend. Girlfriend. Whatever.”

“I told you I don’t date.”

I don’t believe him. A man who
doesn’t date wouldn’t have chased me out of his building this morning, he
would’ve walked away, hit the shower, and forgotten my name in the hour that
followed.

“Your personal life is none of
my business.” I wave him away. “Forget I said anything.”

I lift my laptop lid and sign
out of my Facebook so I can get back to work. Beckham lingers some more. It’s
hard to work with him staring at me like that.

“You’re staring.” I type away,
avoiding giving him too much of my attention.

“Why’d you jump earlier anyway?”
His arms fold, his shoulder bumped up against the doorframe. “Were you…were you
Googling me?”

Narcissist. “Absolutely not.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t have to believe me.”

“Show me.”

“I will not.”

“It’s a legitimate request,
Odessa. If you’re working for me, I want to ensure you’re preoccupied with your
job duties and not wasting time researching my personal affairs.”

“First of all, I’m not working
for
you, I’m working
with
you. Your company hired me to help.
Second of all, you’re the last person on earth I’d be preoccupied with. You’re
honestly not my type. At all.”

“Likewise.” He lingers, and I
wish he’d get on. “If you weren’t researching me, you should have no issue
showing me what you were just doing.”

I could claw that smug look off
his infuriatingly handsome face if it wouldn’t cost me this consultancy.
Two-hundred dollars per hour times forty hours times three weeks is not worth
sacrificing. Not for him.

“It’s personal,” I say, realizing
it doesn’t help my case. Everything I say, my protective body language, my
apprehension, only serves to fuel his insane notion that I was Googling him.
And now it makes me want to Google him because obviously there’s something out
there with his name on it or he wouldn’t make such a big deal.

“Everything’s personal.”

“Still not going to show you.”

“Then I stand by my assumption.”

“You do that.” I’m not budging.
I don’t have to prove anything to him.

He’s gone before I have a
chance to fling some smart mouthed comment back at him. I need to be nicer to
him, at least for the sake of making the next three weeks bearable. But it’s so
hard to be nice to someone as arrogant and self-assured as Beckham King.

The second I hear his door
shut, I Google him.