“Yeah.” Rhys held out a hand to shake Jackson’s. “I’m Parker’s boyfriend. Rhys. How’s it going?”
I think my brain was having a signaling issue because I thought I just heard him say he was my boyfriend.
Rhys smirked at me, the devil dancing in those disarming eyes.
He did!
He most assuredly did!
What the heck was he up to?
I was going to vomit. I was going to vomit all over Mr. Fairchild’s Prada loafers.
“Rhys?” Mr. Fairchild practically bulldozed past Jackson to get to my tormentor. “Rhys Morgan, I’ll be damned.”
Wait, what?
I watched Fairchild pump Rhys’s hand, grinning at him like he was the second coming, and then felt the floor disappear beneath me when he turned to Jackson and said, “You didn’t tell me Parker was dating Rhys Morgan.”
At our blank expressions, Fairchild guffawed. “He’s only the best goddamn heavyweight boxer this country has seen in a generation.” He clamped a hand down on Rhys’s shoulder. “You’re sitting with me, son.”
What?
As Mr. Fairchild led Dean’s brother into the restaurant, Rhys looked over his shoulder at me and winked.
Actually winked.
Ugh, he was the devil.
In all my sand-snake dimension wishing, had I inadvertently wished open a gate to another dimension where an angry boxer just lied to my bosses about dating me?
Jackson and Camille grinned. “Guess who just became teacher’s pet,” Jackson teased. At my frown, he laughed. “I’m kidding. But it’s always great to keep Fairchild interested at these dinners. This is good, Parker.”
No.
This was a disaster.
Three
Rhys
What the hell was I doing? Though I ambled at apparent ease by Fairchild’s side, it felt like I was hurtling downhill on a runaway cart. I didn’t want to be here. I sure as hell didn’t want to be arm candy for an entitled—albeit cute—rich chick. Yet here I was, walking through a restaurant that looked more like an exclusive gentlemen’s club library.
Patrons watched us pass, more than one set of eyes lingering on my ripped jeans and scuffed work boots. This was a place for suits and silks, not rough and scruff.
The responsible side of me was saying get out, turn around and get the hell out now, that this was a disaster in the making. Unfortunately, I lived my life listening to the hothead inside who said let it ride. Plus, there was the bonus of Parker Brown glaring a hole through my back with each step I took.
She was a piece of work with her outraged protestations of innocence. That she somehow managed to look down her cute nose at me even though the top of her head barely reached my shoulder was a true talent. Little Miss Priss had actually shooed me. It would have been adorable if she hadn’t been trying to buy my brother’s services.
Even though I was laughing it up with Fairchild, pretending to listen to him ramble on about boxing stats, my awareness was attuned to Parker the same way it would have been if we were opponents about to enter the ring. Yeah, you worked the audience into a frenzy by talking yourself up, but what you were really doing was psyching out the competition.
And Parker Brown was rattled. I swore I heard her mutter something about sand snakes, whatever that meant. Her ire amused me.
When I saw her picture, I thought she’d crumble as quickly as dry toast when I told her off. I thought she was mildly pretty. I’d been wrong on both counts. Sure, she’d been flustered and blushed a nice deep pink, but she hadn’t folded. And her picture hadn’t done her justice.
A pixie with delicate bones and fine features, her skin was porcelain smooth, glowing with good health, her dark brown eyes too big for her heart-shaped face. I didn’t go for women like her. I liked a good, sweaty fuck to take the edge off. I’d be afraid I’d break Parker. Hell, I could probably span the woman’s waist with my hands.
I shook off thoughts of holding that slim waist steady as I… No. No. No. Discipline, Morgan. Use your fucking discipline.
“Rhys Morgan, I’ll be damned,” Fairchild said for the tenth time, his level of enthusiasm never waning. “Could have knocked me over with a feather when I saw you standing there.”
A simple uppercut would have knocked him over. Though he was fairly tall and appeared to be in reasonable shape, he had a glass jaw look about him—surface tough guy who’d talk a good game, then fold under the first sign of any real physical threat. That said, he obviously thought he was the man.
He strode through the space as though he owned it. Maybe he did. The guy oozed wealth, from his gray bespoke Savile Row suit to his fine Italian leather loafers. I once had the means to buy those things and strut around like an overpuffed peacock. But those days were best forgotten.