The Negotiator (Harbor City 1)

He crossed the threshold out onto the balcony but stopped well clear of the monstrosity they’d gotten at the flea market the previous week. “I didn’t agree to this.”

“Of course you did.” She leaned forward over the cart and brushed off a piece of flaking paint—the move giving him an eyeful of her hard-on inducing cleavage—and winked at him before straightening back up. “It’s totally on the napkin.”

He could almost hear the snap and fizz that was his mental synapses short circuiting as the more primal part of his brain took over—the one that concerned itself with fucking or fighting. Scratch that. It was only concerned with fucking which, judging by the knowing little smirk on her face, she knew. Another negotiation tactic? That wasn’t fair. Well, if she was going to sink to that level, he really didn’t have any other choice but to do the same.

“I remember writing down going to the flea market,” he said, reaching behind his neck and pulling off his T-shirt as he strolled over to the chaise lounge. Feeling her gaze on him as sure as a touch, he sat down on the chair, stretched out his legs, and put his hands behind his head. “I never wrote anything down about going to DIY hell.”

“What do you think the flea market is all about?” She tossed the dust mask at him and it landed in the middle of his bare chest. “You’re going to need this.”

He picked up the mask, making sure to flex his biceps as he held up the not heavy item and examined it as if it was even a tenth as interesting as the hungry look on her face right now. “Explain to me again why I would rather refinish that crap cart when we could

entertain each other in much better ways?”

With one hand on her cocked out hip, she tried for intimidating but all he saw was hot-chick-he-wanted-naked and soon. She must have noticed that because her eyes narrowed and she got that stubborn tilt to her chin that he’d started looking forward to seeing more than he probably should.

“Don’t tell me you’re the kind of guy who welches on his promises.”

“I believe I did everything you wanted last night.” The fact that either of them could walk today was damn close to a miracle.

Her blush was immediate and only a shade or two off scarlet. “Enough stalling, Mr. Ego. Put on the mask and help me sand this thing down.”

“God, I wish that was a euphemism,” he muttered, but he got up and put on the stupid mask and walked over to the cart.

She handed him the steel wool and got to work with a paint scraper. They worked together, she’d scrape off the paint and he’d follow up with the steel wool to sand down the edges between the paint layers. It had been working pretty much the same in his office at Carlyle Tower. She’d claimed his conference table and had gone to work diving into the Singapore project proposal and pointing out areas where a few tweaks here and there in the language or his approach could make a difference. So far, it was working. They had a follow-up dinner meeting with Mr. Lim in a week, which is exactly what he was prepping for when he got suckered into pretending to be someone on one of the HGTV shows Clover loved.

Thirty minutes later, finally finished removing decades of paint, he stood up and stretched his back, barely managing to stop a self-satisfied smirk when he caught her checking him out. “Why are we doing this if you’re just going to paint over it?”

“Because if you don’t get the little things right in the beginning, it’ll just fuck up your results in the end.” She laid the paint scraper down on the cart’s top shelf, took off her mask, and dropped her fingers to the waistband of her yoga pants.

He went from having a semi just from being in the same breathing space to a full-on steel rod in a heartbeat. She was fucking with him. No doubt about it. Good thing he gave as good as he got—in and out of bed. He yanked off the dust mask and dropped it before circling around the cart until he stood behind her. He didn’t touch her. That’s what she expected.

“Those are some deep thoughts,” he continued on, walking back to the chaise lounge and sitting down, resting his hands on his abs and closing his eyes. “So much so that I’m going on break to think about them.”

The sound of steps growing closer, followed by the unmistakable sound of her clothes hitting the floor—at least that’s what his lust-soaked imagination said it was—made his breath catch. Keeping his eyes closed and his hands to himself was murder with her so close, but he knew how negotiations like this worked. He gave her an inch and she’d take all seven—shit, what was he thinking because that sounded pretty fucking awesome. But before he could do anything, she straddled him and brought his hands to her—damn—still clothed hips.

She leaned forward, her hair tickling his neck and nipped his earlobe. “Somebody has to show you how the world works at the ground level.”

“And you’re the woman for the job, huh?” He tightened his grip, hooking his thumbs into the inside of her waistband.

“Exactly,” she said as she rocked against him.

Unable to take it anymore, he opened his eyes. Her face was right above his. Her eyes were hazy and her lips parted. Oh hell. Forget negotiating, teasing, tormenting, or whatever they were doing right now. He’d had enough.

Adjusting his hold on her hips, he picked her up and swung her over his shoulder as he got up and headed back inside. “Too bad I have another job for you right now.”

And he couldn’t wait to outline exactly what he wanted from her. After all, turnabout was fair play.

…

Sitting in the back of the cab by herself, Clover finished typing up a follow-up email about the boots she’d ordered not being delivered. It was weird. She’d order a few dresses, maybe some lingerie, and the boots. Everything always arrived but the boots. Right about now she could really use those boots as a physical reminder that the date to leave for Australia was getting ever closer, because the more time she spent with Sawyer, the harder it was getting to remember that fact—and she desperately needed to.

Trying her best to ignore the way her gut twisted at the thought, she shoved her phone into her purse, slipped the cab driver a twenty, and bounded out of the cab, eager for a killer Vito’s pineapple shake. Okay, and for the company of a certain someone who had been the reason why she hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in two and a half weeks. Not that she was complaining—because she definitely was not, but there was no denying her caffeine intake had dramatically increased.

She pushed open the door and walked into the diner, but instead of the tinkling from the bell attached to the door, the sound of a dozen barking dogs froze her to the spot.

“Don’t just stand there, close the door and flip the open sign to closed,” Donna said from her usual spot behind the counter, her ever-present gray updo transformed into a high ponytail.

Clover did as asked, despite the fact that she was trying to process the scene in front of her. Sawyer sat in their usual booth looking happy-hour hot with his suit jacket gone, his collar unbuttoned, and his navy-striped tie hanging loose around his neck. However, where Clover usually sat across from him was the biggest poodle she’d ever seen. White, massive, and with the yes-I’m-judging-you look that only standard poodles could really carry off. The dog had a blinged out collar that read: Vito. If one dog in the diner had given the health department a fit, the fact that there were twelve—most of which were wearing party hats and seated at the booths along with their owners—would have made the inspector keel over.