Risky Business

It’s her stamp of approval for sure, which is not easy to come by. In fact, I’d say it’s exceedingly rare. As far as I know, Taya doesn’t like anyone past me, her few close staff, and her manager. The rest of the world, other than her fans, could disappear in a crack in the earth and she’d be fine with it.

“Come on in. I need a coffee IV, STAT.” Turning around, I walk to the kitchen, swinging my hips a little extra because I know my sleep shorts leave the bottom of my ass cheeks hanging out. I hear Carson’s sharp intake of breath, and then he shuts and locks the door as he comes inside.

I pretend I don’t notice him watching me closely as I add water to the coffee maker and pop in a K-Cup. I ignore him as I grab a mug from the highest shelf, the one that requires me to stand on my tippy toes. I look deeply into my fresh coffee as if it holds the secrets of the universe.

“You’re killing me,” Carson groans. “And you know it.”

My lips twitch as I fight a smile, and when I look up, I see that he’s leaned back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest as he studies me. He’s dressed more casually than I've ever seen him, in athletic shorts, an Americana Land T-shirt, and tennis shoes. Carson looks amazing in a suit and sexy in jeans, but I think dressed-down Carson is my new favorite look. His legs look strong, his arms look like they could hold me up easily, and there’s a sharp edge to him that says he can not only manage a conference room, but also a ball field.

Wait. That bag wasn’t there before. Carson must have brought it with him.

“What’s that?” I ask. I set my coffee down, forgotten in favor of what looks like a present.

“That?” Carson repeats, looking sideways at the red, white, and blue bag. “Just a little something I brought for you. I thought you could wear it today.”

“You want me to change?” I ask, flirting with everything I’ve got. If he asked, I’d strip naked right here, right now.

Hell, he wouldn’t even have to ask. I’m considering doing it myself and inviting him to christen my countertops with me. His phone dings in his pocket, and he sighs heavily. “I’d give anything to have a few extra minutes right now, but we’ve got people waiting on us.”

“Who’s waiting, and where? For what?” I know there is nothing on my calendar today. I double-checked twice before falling into bed last night . . . or this morning, rather. The next appointment I have is the post-project evaluation at Monday’s meeting, and the top thing on my to-do list is emailing Patrick at Compass to catch him up on this assignment. Though that’s mainly so I can brag a bit and remind him of how lucky he is that I work for him.

“You’ll see. Go change.” He holds the bag out, one finger hooked through the handles.

I want answers, but given the sober look on Carson’s face, I’m only going to get them one way. I hop to it and run for the bag, snatching it and beelining for the bedroom. I reach in and pull out several pieces of Americana Land gear.

As quick as I can, I get dressed. Wearing a special edition Freddy Freebird shirt, athletic shorts, and flip flops printed with a flag design, I look in the mirror and nearly scream. My hair looks like I brushed it with a fork. It’s a good thing my other assets were on display because hopefully, they were enough to distract Carson from this mangled nest on my head.

There’s no time to wash it now, and if I’m right about Carson’s plans, my hair is going to be a bigger mess by the end of the day anyway, so I grab a ponytailer and twist my hair up into a messy bun. I then rush, furiously brushing my teeth, washing my face, and applying a quick but light bit of makeup, mostly mascara and lip gloss.

“Ready,” I say as I walk back into the living room.

Carson is sitting on the couch, typing on his phone, but when he sees me, he drops the device to his lap and stares at me slack-jawed. I grin, posing. “Thank you for the gear.”

He finds his tongue and says, “You look gorgeous. Very well-branded.” He lifts a dark brow to see if I catch the phrasing.

“Yeah, I’m a walking, talking billboard. I hope I’m not standing on the side of the street, though. I don’t think sign spinning is one of my many talents.”

He rumbles, “That’s okay, you have many, many others.” He stands, guiding me toward the door. “I told Toni and the others to go on without us, so we can stay here all day if you want. But . . .”