And just like that, my cock’s hard again. I adjust the napkin on my lap.
I take a careful swallow of hot latte and try to think of something really un-sexy. Like… My gaze roams until I see a crystal tumbler drying in the kitchen. The tumbler reminds me of Elliot and my conversation with him. Which then reminds me that Anthony Blackwood is in town.
The last time we saw each other, he told me he’d make me pay, and he meant every word. I hate it that he’s back in L.A. The bastard now has the resources and means to fuck with me.
On the other hand… Not everything is about me. He has business interests here in the city. And he’s probably moved on. He’s always been more practical than me. Had to be, since his asshole dad disinherited him.
Pain slices me like a thousand paper cuts. My hand tightens around the mug handle, and I can almost hear the softly crooning voice, begging to be flown to the moon.
Damn it.
I hit the play button on my phone. Some kind of classical cello piece comes out of its tinny speaker.
Forcing myself to shake off the old ghost, I finish the last of my coffee and go upstairs. Paige is at her desk, going through my mail.
And she’s wearing glasses.
I’ve never seen her in a pair, but she looks as hot as hell behind the horn-rimmed frames, her hair pulled back into a tidy bun. A white blouse and a gray pencil skirt that hug her curves just right complete the Sexy Librarian effect.
A small frown pinches her face, and she runs her teeth across her plump lower lip. My body tightens. I’d rather feel them against my mouth as I suck on her tongue. Her lips are amazing, full and soft and naturally pink. The shape of them together reminds me of a budding rose. What would be it like to have them around my dick?
My cock hardens instantly. If it could talk, it’d cry, “Let’s find out!”
Stop it, idiot, and play the role. Paige made it clear last night that she wasn’t interested in me that way. And I always respect people’s boundaries. To her, marrying me is a transaction.
The thought is as welcome as a cow pie at one of Elizabeth’s charity functions.
Just then Paige looks up from the letter in her hand.
“Morning, babe.” I plop down in the armchair across from her desk before she can notice my erection.
“Morning.” She drinks from The Sexiest Man Alive mug, most of her face hidden behind it. I make a mental note to get her one that says Wife of the Sexiest Man Alive. It should be black with gold lettering to match the one in her hand.
“Love your glasses. Sexy librarian,” I say when she’s done with her coffee.
“I’m only wearing them because I don’t have any contact cleaning solution.”
Her tart tone makes me want to find out how I can add a bit of honey to it. Contrary to people’s assumptions, I don’t like women who cling to me or agree with everything I say. I get enough of that from the people on my payroll. A little sass is better. “I thought the movers brought everything over.”
“I needed to buy a bottle yesterday, but I forgot in the”—she rolls her wrist—“excitement.”
“You should’ve asked Sue.” Sue Grotts is the chief housekeeper. “That’s what she’s for.”
Paige clears her throat. “I’ll make a note of it.”
“So…anything interesting?” I indicate all the new mail on her desk.
“No. Most of these aren’t for you.”
Huh. She hasn’t had time to start forwarding her mail. I get up and snatch a letter off the pile.
You bitch! You ruined everything. How dare you. You aren’t even that hot, you fat cow!
I stare at the neat typing. I don’t know the font name or anything like that, but I recognize the professional look. It’s the kind that people use for their résumés. Predictably, the perp didn’t sign her name.
Paige reaches over and takes it from my hand. “I told you, they aren’t for you. I’m taking care of them.”
“Jesus. What the hell is this? How many of these things did you get?”
“A few. They were in boxes, left at the gates.”
My chest feels tight and hot. I tug at the neckline of my shirt. “Want to find out who did it and sue the hell out of them?”
“Why?”
“To make an example.”
“Forget it.” She waves my offer away. “It’ll die down soon enough. I’m fine.”
“Well, I’m not.”
She peers at me over her glasses. “Haven’t you heard of the Streisand Effect?”
“Uh…vaguely.”
“Publicizing something like this would only encourage people who’re thinking about doing it but haven’t done it yet. And some would do it just to copycat.” She shrugs. “I’ve been dealing with crazy mail on your behalf for years. I can handle it.”