Overlooked(31)

"Shut up. How much alcohol have you had?"

"Enough."

"Clearly not. I'll have them send up another bottle."

"Pinot Grigio, please. I don't want to stain this thing." I gesture pointlessly to the white lacy nightie I'm wearing. "My dry cleaner would hate me then too."

"Everyone's dry cleaner hates them. It's a fact of life. Jamie will be up there in three minutes. Chug it and do the deed, girl. If you can pull this off, you'll have the best revenge possible. We can watch David's head explode together."

"Chilled, please."

"You're lucky I love you. Three minutes." Lily hangs up.

My best friend managing one of the swankiest hotels in Los Angeles comes with a lot of perks. Like private doors and free rooms and wine. I need a lot more wine.

A steward, nametag Jamie, shows up in exactly three minutes with a chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio. Not top shelf, but nothing to sniff at, either. I fill up a wine glass to the top and gulp it down while watching the clock.

Almost thirty minutes passed. What if he doesn't show? That'd make for an even more awkward event in the courtroom.

"Oh, hello David. Hello lawyer I propositioned but was turned down by. Hello judge who now thinks I'm a whore."

Like Goodnight Moon, but so much worse.

I'm halfway through the bottle, lounging on a lush chaise and envisioning my demise, when the door makes a clicking sound and swings open. Framed in the hallway lighting stands the man who has made me crazy for a dozen different reasons for the last several weeks.

"I didn't think you'd have the balls to show." I say, wine-brave.

Eric says nothing. He shuts the door and takes off his jacket, throws it on the bar near the door. Next comes his tie, effortlessly undone and flung over his shoulder. He advances on me like a panther: sleek, sexy, predatorial. Nothing like the big, bumbling, out-of-shape lion I'm used to.

I take another sip of wine to steady myself. No one has touched me intimately, in a way I enjoyed, in longer than I cared to admit or think about. Watching Eric Stevens advance on me like this has every nerve in my body standing at attention.

Is it hot in here or just him?

"I had some things to take care of." Eric unbuttons his shirt and lets it hang, framing his impeccable washboard abs.

Abs I'd love to touch, lick, whatever. Forget the whole animal kingdom analogy, this man is carved out of granite like one of the gods they'd paint on pottery. He deserves a statue in his likeness.

Maybe this is all the wine talking.

Eric takes the wine bottle from my hands and presses it to his lips. He drains the rest of it and strips off his belt. His gaze burns through me. The pants drop to the floor and leave him in tight boxer-briefs.

"Can I get you a drink?"

"What are you offering?" I manage. I can only hope to remember this moment in the future so I can high-five myself over it. As it stands, my brain has gone near-hypothermic from the strip show going on before me.

He offers a cheeky grin that changes into a smirk and rests a cupped hand over his crotch. I'm drawn to it, desperate to know what lies under his fingers.

"You said you weren't going to sleep with me." I remind him. I force myself off the couch to regain a sense of self, some control over the situation. This is my game. I can feel him watching me now like I could feel him staring across that lacquered table twice a week.

"You said nothing about sleeping."

I lean against the suite bar and bite into a cherry. It's been so long since I've actually flirted with someone outside the bounds of cheesy Hollywood fakery that I'm not sure how to do it anymore. Maybe the wine was a bad idea.

"And giving me a blow job is not the same as fucking you." His smile is dangerous this time. I could absolutely see why so many women succumbed to this asshole.

"What big dreams you have."

Eric closes the space between us and surrounds me by bracing his arms on the bar. We are as close as we were in the bar, only this time there are far less clothes. His thick eyelashes open and close slowly and his nose gently touches mine. It's an otherwise sweet gesture, but this felt entirely different.

"I've seen the way you stare at me, Kate. I can hear how badly you want me over the droning noise of the moron who is your ex." He bites my lower lip and I feel myself melting underneath him. "I'm going to fuck you like I should have three weeks ago: on every surface in the room."

Eric goes for my lip again and I'm about to give him everything he'd ever want, when I catch a flash of color on his cheek. I'd been so preoccupied by his striptease and the intensity radiating off him I didn't see it until we were close enough to become entangled.

"Is that lipstick on your cheek?"

He doesn't answer.

My chest tightens. Eric and I may not be in a relationship, this whole thing may actually hedge on a terrible idea, but it still sucker punches me in the gut. A bright red reminder of every night David came home smelling of another woman's perfume and lipstick on his neck. Every time he tried to pass it off as something from the costume department.

"Get the fuck out." I shove him off me. He stumbles back, anger and confusion blooming across his brow. "I said get out."

"Kate, I don't know what you're trying to do-"

"Out!" I yell. I gather up his clothes and throw them at him. He shoves his legs in the pants, going on about how insane I am, but I don't care. This was a terrible idea. I shouldn't have tried this. "I said out!"

"I'm getting dressed, woman." His deep voice snaps out at me. He looks like he wants to say more, but thinks better of it and storms out.

I think about falling to the floor in a dramatic fit, sobbing about how terrible my life is. Instead, I call Lily, tell her to send up another bottle, and eat every bag of M&Ms in the minibar.





CHAPTER EIGHT

ERIC



Every Monday morning is full of the same shit: closed blinds, dark shades and a gallon of coffee at my disposal. My booze expenses tripled since I took on the McArthur case and it's almost enough to make me want to drop it. The only thing keeping me going at this rate is the number of bills I shoot to him weekly to make up for his three-in-the-morning drunken rants.

That asshole actually had the audacity to act offended last week.

"I thought we were friends! I was calling my friend." David huffed. Likely still drunk. "This is bullshit, Eric, and you know it."

"David, I'm not your friend. I'm your attorney. Now keep it in your fucking pants and stop calling me in the middle of the night if you don't want to keep racking up fees. You know how contracts work, big guy."

He hung up on me and then had a money order hand-delivered by his assistant. She had a tight ass and huge tits and is probably fucking him. She offered to suck my dick before she left. I told her to fuck off.

Still, Monday morning is a bitch. I dump half a carton of sugar into my cup and rest my head on my desk. I don't want to be here.

"I wasn't expecting you in." Sophie squeaks, barging into my office. "I'm sorry, Mr. Stevens."

"Why wouldn't I be here?" I raise my head slowly because my heartbeat is threatening to blow my head clean off. "Aside from being half dead. Was there a meeting I missed?"

"Um, no." She sounds confused. Sophie is the most competent legal assistant I've ever had, so it makes me uneasy. "It's Sunday."

"No it's … " I grab my phone. "Goddammit, it's Sunday. Why are you here on a Sunday?"

"I'm here every Sunday." She says slowly. "You approve my-"

"Right. Right. Hungover. Sorry." Now I feel like a first-class idiot.

"Do you want me to get you anything?"

I shake my head. She leaves quietly and I fall back in my chair. Of course it's Sunday. I hit the bar last night with the boys on our usual day and ended up with Kate. Memories hit me in the gut, slowly piling back into place to fill in the holes from the night before.

She looked fucking fantastic in that red dress. Buying me drinks was a dangerous game and she looked ripe to play. And eat. I didn't believe her for a minute, but when I opened the door she was sprawled across a chaise, dressed in lace like she was waiting for me.

My cock jumps in my pants at the memory. She was gorgeous, brazen. I fully intended to have her screaming all night and deal with the fucking consequences later. Something happened, though, and she flipped shit.

"Mr. Stevens?" Sophie pops her head back in. "I think you need to see this, since you're here."

She drops a stack of tabloids on my desk. David is on the front cover of every one, but a different girl is on his arm or in his lap. Every headline spews the same thing: David McArthur is moving on.

I run a hand through my hair and toss one on the stack. It slides on the floor and Sophie jumps slightly to avoid it. This asshole's claim hinges on his plea that he still wants to make the marriage work, but he's hopping around from bed to bed, making my life that much more difficult.

"You have … " Sophie clears her throat through a giggle. "You have something on your cheek."

I wipe it off, still studying the photos. First, David needs to stay the fuck out of Hollywood and away from any camera. Second, I need Kate to start looking as bad as him. Right now, she's all charity galas and yoga classes and sob stories at lunch with her girlfriends. If she wins the judge over with her tears, I can kiss my big bonus goodbye.