Page 31 of Stud

Once I accepted she wasn’t interested in me, I’d apologize. When I was sure I wouldn’t say something hurtful, I’d explain. For now I needed to lick my wounds.

Nine

Four-letter word for the part of a truck’s crane used to hoist heavy materials. Or the sound your heart makes when you realize your crush is straight.

B O O M

Ainsley

Although I couldn’t afford college and had missed the wild frat parties that accompanied higher learning, I’d come a long way since my teen years. I now ran my own business. I was still close with my parents. I’d since met Gwen and Rachel, two best friends who would take a bullet for me. I’d also found redemption with my pink tool belt.

Unfortunately, my life still felt like it was spiraling down a storm drain.

The waiter I’d met while hanging out with Owen hadn’t wasted time asking me out. We’d met for drinks and talked about his burgeoning acting career and our shared love of Game of Thrones (aka: my love of Jon Snow), while a trio performed White Stripe covers, but it was work. Effort. Conversation would wane then disappear, awkward smiles traded, until we’d stumble back on track. He’d also use any excuse to brush his fingers against my arm. His flirting should have had my heart fluttering, but there wasn’t so much as a limp flicker.

Nothing like my dinner with Owen.

I’d relived those details the past five days. The memory of him describing his ideal BJ still reduced me to hot flashes, and the way we’d laughed and joked had been as comfortable as chatting with Gwen or Rachel. Except it was nothing like chatting with Gwen or Rachel. With them, I didn’t zone out, fantasizing about us kissing frantically. Or groping. Or groaning. Or fucking our brains out. I loved my friends, but I was all about the cock.

And so was Owen.

Which was fine. It really was. I was determined to ignore my raging attraction to the man and maintain our friendship, if he didn’t currently hate me. I’d had a pit in my stomach since my dinner with him. Maybe I shouldn’t have broached our sexual conversation. Maybe I’d crossed a line. All I knew was he’d shut down afterward, and his cold shoulder left me more confused than ever.

Then came my father’s call this morning. Their house had mold. A dent in the bedroom wall revealed rotting wood and unhealthy spores. It had to be fixed. It would cost money. He’d refused my offer to cover it, so I suggested I find someone through the build to help out. Total lie. I would hire someone, pay them, and tell Dad it was pro bono. If it meant keeping his dignity intact, a little fib wouldn’t hurt. It also meant putting any clothing purchases on hold for a while.

As pleased as I was to be volunteering in the community, my parents were sinking farther in debt, not digging themselves out. The Anton Bickley situation was a whole other ball of wax likely to plow over me. I hadn’t seen him since that first sighting. I still wasn’t sure what I’d do if he turned up. With my stress rising, I could have thrown in the towel and admitted bettering myself wouldn’t alter my life in any grand way.

Instead I upped my game.

I found myself in my favorite client’s office, asking Felipe to donate the stereos and TVs for the Habitat build. My motto: If at first you don’t succeed, find a way to outdo all do-gooders. (Cue “Eye of the Tiger.”) Following our twenty-minute meeting, I left Felipe’s office in brighter spirits. The gold Jimmy Choos I’d scored at a recent sale certainly helped matters, but philanthropy was some high-level stimulant.

I strutted out the door like I was walking a Fashion Week runway, positive that things were looking up. Felipe’s assistant, Cindy, was at her desk. Normally I’d gossip with her, bragging how Felipe had agreed to my request with gusto, but Cindy’s dark eyes flitted about. She waved me over in a flurry of aggressive hand gestures.

Not her usual behavior.

If those who took stress in stride were considered “cool as a cucumber,” Cindy was as chill as a margarita on ice. She was shorter than me, a petite Chinese woman with blunt bangs and bobbed hair. My first few months working for Felipe, she’d been all business with me, until we ran into each other at a club. Give Cindy a few shots of tequila, and the girl ruled a dance floor.

I hurried over and leaned close. “What’s up?”

“You may have a problem.” She lifted the small box I’d left on her desk while in Felipe’s office. “Is this for Dean’s wife or his mistress?”

By “this,” she meant the gold Tiffany’s bracelet with the hanging heart charm. The one I’d purchased on behalf of my client, Dean Linkletter, who worked down the hall. His office was beside Thomas Arlington the Third’s. A despicable corridor of cheating men.

“Wife,” I said.

“Shit.”

“Crap.”

“Shhh.”

I didn’t know why we were cursing or Cindy was shushing me, but unease prickled my neck. “Spill the beans.”

“Hank stepped away from reception, and the new girl, Letisha, let the mistress through, even though his wife is meeting him for lunch in twenty minutes.” She snarled in disgust at this faux pas. “Dean’s assistant messaged me that he’s about to have an aneurysm.”

“Crap,” I said again, with feeling.

If it weren’t for Cindy, I’d have waltzed into the douchebag’s office, brandishing the engraved gift for his wife in front of the mistress, who believed he was on the verge of a divorce. A misstep that would have damaged my business. I had five clients at this firm, each man sleazier than the next, Felipe aside. All were cutthroat attorneys who ate personal shoppers like me for breakfast and wielded their financial power like a khopesh. (Seven-letter word for an Egyptian sickle-sword.) If it got out that my lack of discretion—my fault or not—had brought ruin upon a man’s personal life, I’d be toast.