Fuck It (Yama Yama)

I slide off his lap, hissing at the sting between my legs, and he gets to his feet, heading into the bathroom to dispose of the condom. While he’s in there, I quickly call for a cab, then locate my panties and bra and put them on. I want to make this as easy as possible to avoid any awkwardness where he thinks I might try to stay the night.

I’m putting my dress on when he emerges and stops in his tracks. “Why are you getting dressed?”

“Because running around nude in public is generally frowned upon.”

His strides eat up the carpet, and he wraps his arms around my waist. “Stay the night. I’ll take you home in the morning.”

I’m so tempted, but this is how it starts. This is how the line gets blurred, and I end up in a relationship that’s destined to end badly. “I’d like to, but I need to get home,” I lie.

My hands thread into his wavy hair. “Can we do this again?”

“We could do it again tonight if you’d stay,” he replies, trying to charm me with his smile.

“I’m sorry. I can’t. I’ve already called a cab.”

“Fine. Stubborn woman.” I kiss him once more before we hear the cab honk, and he walks me to the door. “Let me know when you get home okay.”

“I will. I had a great time.”

A wide smile takes over his face. “Me too, sweetheart.”

CHAPTER 7

SICILY

It’s dark when I jolt awake, and my eyes widen on the clock beside the bed that’s trying to convince me it’s after eleven. But that can’t be possible. It was lunch time. And I was just in Anderson’s car.

My eyes dart around, noticing only a small stream of light coming from the crack in the door.

Totally not my house.

Anderson’s house?

I’m in Anderson’s house…

Shifting out of the bed, I wobble when I’m on my feet. I’m not drunk, and there’s no headache, but I’m still in my heels apparently. In fact, I’m as fully dressed as I was when I left the restaurant.

Tossing away the shoes, I pad out the door and down the short hallway. The second I hear a small rift of soft music, I turn toward the massive living room and find Anderson.

Pretty sure my mouth tries to water and go dry at the same time.

His hair is wet like he just had a shower. He’s in a T-shirt instead of a suit. And he’s totally rocking some designer sweats. His bare feet sit perched on an ottoman, and his eyes are intensely trained on the laptop screen in his lap.

So this is Anderson Harper when he’s not at the office. I like this version of him.

He seems relaxed and tense at the same time, yet completely comfortable too.

“You left my shoes on,” I randomly state, as though that’s the best way to thank your boss for picking you up from lunch, finding you drunk, and taking you to his house for you to sober up, instead of firing you on the spot.

He blinks and looks up, his right eyebrow arching. “Feel better?”

“Feel sober. And embarrassed. And I’m really, really sorry. I don’t know—”

“Shit happens,” he interrupts, waving his hand dismissively. “Besides, you were exhausted. You’ve been killing yourself on this project. At least the alcohol forced you to sleep.”

Either he’s the most understanding boss ever, or he’s being nice to help me save face. Both contradict my opinion of him two days ago.

“People don’t like shoes on their beds. Why’d you leave mine on?” I have no idea why I’m stuck on that. Blame it on the booze brain.

I love it when he looks confused. It’s a sexy look on him. It’s getting harder and harder to ignore his sexy.

“Because I didn’t want to touch you more than necessary,” he finally answers.

Ouch.

Got it.

Now I feel like a complete idiot.

I look away, swallowing down the broken shards of my pride, barely noting the muttered curse he releases.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he grumbles. “I’m trying not to cross any lines, and you’re making it really fucking hard.”

Frowning, I look back over at him as he shuts his laptop and sits up, putting it down on the ottoman where his feet were.

“Taking my shoes off would have been crossing the line?” My feet hurt. I’ll blame that on my incessant fixation with my damn shoes.

“Taking your shoes off would’ve been like starting the undressing process on my bed. I’m having a damn hard time remembering you’re Roman’s sister right now. I thought I’d be fine after you quit being pissed at me. Thought I’d get over it if I got you to be nice. But I think that’s just as bad.”

He sounds annoyed, but this time I’m confused. “You’re not making any sense.”

“I’m not making any sense?” he asks incredulously. “Two days ago, you were plotting my murder—”