Outmatched

It occurred to me Rhys was something of a contradiction. “Why is it okay for you to ‘prostitute’ yourself and not Dean?”

His brow furrowed. “Didn’t we just confirm this isn’t prostitution?”

“Don’t be obtuse.”

“Look, my brother didn’t go to college to piss that education down the toilet making easy money escorting you to an event every now and then. He needs to focus on finding a career. I have a career—I run a gym. I need money for that gym. Doing this brings in that money. End of story. Now, do we have a deal?”

“Contract first.”

He sighed, scrubbing a hand over his unshaven jaw. “Fine.”

Oh dear lord in heaven, was I going to do this?

“You all right?” He squinted at me. “You look a little pale.”

“That occurs with hypotension caused by a drop in blood pressure and that happens when you go into shock, which is what I’m sure is happening to me right now.” I flicked a weary hand at him. “Deal with the devil and all that.”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re cracked in the head?”

“Yes,” I huffed. “You. This evening. Before you hijacked my life.”

“Saved your ass, you mean.” He winked at me.

“Morgan, I’m putting no winking in the contract. No winking, no calling me Tinker Bell, and no cursing.” I drew to a halt, not far from my building, and narrowed my gaze. “Do you recycle?”

Rhys looked at me like I really was cracked. “Who doesn’t?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised. So that’s a yes?”

He shrugged impatiently. “Yeah, of course I recycle.”

“Do you have a ‘honk if you like’ sticker on your car?”

His brow furrowed. “No…”

I sighed in relief. Okay, maybe we could do this. “Where’s your gym? I’ll bring the contract around this weekend.”

“It’s called Lights Out, just off Fourth in Chelsea. I’m usually free during lunchtime.”

I nodded, wondering at the name. It sounded more like a nightclub than a gym. “All right. I’ll drop by Saturday afternoon.” I moved to walk around him.

“I’m still walking you home.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“And yet here I am doing it.” He gave me another boyish grin that caused those butterflies to flutter again. I felt outmaneuvered, and I couldn’t remember the last time someone had made me feel vulnerable, like I had little control over the situation.

Oh man. This guy was such a bad idea.

We walked the rest of the way to my building in silence, shooting each other wary looks (okay, mine were wary; his were deliberately provoking) as we strolled.

Finally, we turned onto Harrison Avenue, where Zoe, my college roommate and bestie, owned a modern, two-bedroom apartment bought for her by her wealthy absentee father. She let me stay there for less than half the actual rent the room would normally cost. It was great. I got to stay in a nice place, in pricey Back Bay, and the bonus? It had nothing to do with my parents.

If I’d gotten an apartment I could afford on my salary, I’d be living well outside the city in a place my parents would disapprove of. That would have caused me anxiety, they would have constantly plagued me to use my trust fund on a nicer place, and my stubborn refusal to do so would have caused a rift between us, thus leading to more anxiety on my part because I hated disappointing my parents as much as I hated relying on their money.

Thankfully, Zoe didn’t want to live alone and begged me to take her second bedroom.

Win-win.

“This is me.” I stopped outside the glass-fronted reception. Lights blazed inside, showcasing the marble floors and expensive furnishings of the huge reception space.

I glanced at Rhys. His expression had flattened. “Figures,” he muttered.

I frowned, wondering why he was so prejudiced against people with money. He hadn’t seemed that way with Fairchild, and he had more money than God. Shuddering at the thought, I huffed. “Well, good night, then.”

There was no boyish grin this time. Instead he gave me a curt nod before walking away.

“Oh yeah, he’s Prince Charming all right.” I hauled open the reception door, wondering what the heck I’d just gotten myself into.

Rhys

“Wakey, wakey, asshole!”

The shout barely broke through the fog of sleep when the slap of cold water hit. All over. A gasp of shock tore from my throat, and I lurched up, already swinging.

Dean, smart little fucker that he was, had made sure to stay out of striking range. He stood by the bedroom door, empty bucket in hand, smirking. “Sleeping naked, Rhys? I’d pegged you for a tighty-whitie type.”

With a roar, I launched out of bed. He dropped the bucket and ran—saved by the fact that I wasn’t about to chase my brother down buck-ass naked. Cursing, I wiped off my face and reached for a pair of sweats. The little fucker was going to get it.

My feet pounded the floorboards. I hadn’t heard him leave my loft, so I knew he was somewhere. So, not as smart as I’d thought he was.