Down & Dirty (Lightning 1)

I know a dismissal when I see it—especially one as rude as this—so I get up and walk to the door. And no matter how many times I tell myself to be good, to just walk out the door, to not say anything else to antagonize her, I can’t help myself.

Which is why, when I get to the door, I turn to her with the sweetest, most saccharine smile I can muster and ask, “What happens when I sell Hunter Browning a house? Do I get to keep my job, then?”

“Let’s not count our chickens before they hatch, Emerson.” She smiles back just as sweetly. “After all, men like Hunter are full of promises. Too bad they so rarely deliver on them. But I guess you’ll just have to learn that the hard way.”

She turns back to her computer then—once more dismissing me—and I’m so angry I don’t trust myself to say anything else for fear I’ll end up shouting at her that I understand men like Hunter better than she ever will. Even when she says, “Please make sure to shut the door on your way out. Some of us actually have work to do.”

Instead of telling her off, like I really, really want to do, I pull out my phone and text Sage a GIF of the Wicked Witch from the Wizard of Oz. Then text: My new boss.

Sage responds immediately, with a GIF of Dorothy’s house falling on the Wicked Witch of the East.

So many reasons I love that girl.

Chapter 9

Hunter

I pull into the underground parking lot of my sister’s condominium complex around seven-thirty, after a long afternoon of watching game tape. Normally, I get here around six or so, but since I spent the morning looking at houses, I had to fit in my workout after team meetings today instead of before.

Thinking about this morning’s fruitless house-hunting expedition has me thinking about Emerson. And about the look on her face as she watched me stare up at that damn house on Coronado.

Why did I take her there? I wonder for about the millionth time as I pull into a spot and park my truck. More, why did I even go there? I haven’t been by that place in years, haven’t let myself think about it in nearly that long. So how the hell did we end up there today? And more, why when Emerson asked me about what kind of home I wanted, did that one pop immediately to mind?

The answer is an ache deep inside me and fuck it. Just fuck it. I shut it down as I climb out of the truck and slam the door harder than I need to. I’ve got enough going on in my life right now without dragging ancient history into it.

I walk toward the elevator, distracting myself from the past—and from the immediate future—by thinking about Emerson’s hot little body.

About that see-through white shirt she was wearing this morning and her full, lush breasts.

About the way those breasts felt pressed against my chest and the way her mouth felt moving against mine.

Fuck she’d felt good.

Just the memory of her taste, her scent, the fucking amazing sounds she made as she pressed herself against me, has me growing hard in my jeans. Considering what’s waiting for me upstairs, now isn’t the optimal time for me to be sporting a hard-on, but as I press the button for the tenth floor, I can’t stop thinking about her. Can’t stop wondering when she’ll let me fuck her.

And it is when, not if. Any other outcome is out of the question. Not when I want her as much as I do. Not when that kiss made it obvious that she wants me, too.

The elevator dings and I step off with a grimace, the warmth that came with thinking about Emerson dissipating as I walk along the outdoor corridor to my sister’s condo. For a second, I think about turning around. About going back downstairs, climbing in my truck and driving far, far away from here.

Not forever. Just for tonight. Just until I can get a handle on what’s happening. Just until I can come to grips with it.

But who the fuck am I kidding? There is no coming to grips with this. No getting a handle on it. No doing anything but muddling through no matter how much it fucking sucks. Besides, Heather can’t walk away and neither can Lucy and Brent. So why the fuck should I have the luxury.

I shouldn’t. I don’t. And if I’m honest, I don’t even want it. I just want things to be different. I just want them to be better, want Heather to be better.

I knock on the door, just to let them know I’m here, then use my key to open the front door. I’ve barely taken a step inside before Lucy and Brent come tearing down the hall at me, elbowing and shoving each other as they race to see who can get to me first.

Lucy wins, because even though she’s younger she’s also sneakier. She distracts Brent with a hard elbow to the ribs, then—while he’s wincing in pain—she weaves around him and comes barreling straight at me.

I know I shouldn’t reward her—Heather is constantly harping about them being nicer to each other—but I can’t help it. When she slams into me, her little arms wrapping around my waist and holding on like it’s been twelve weeks since she’s seen me instead of twelve hours, I can’t help but melt.

I swing her up into my arms, holding her to one side as she peppers kisses to my cheek in between squeals of “Uncle Hunter, Uncle Hunter. You’re finally here!” I reach for Brent with the other arm, pulling him in for the more manly one-armed hug befitting a ten-year-old boy and his uncle.

“How you doing?” I ask him, ruffling his hair before pressing a kiss onto the top of Lucy’s head.

He shrugs. “Good.”

“Yeah?” I search his face, looking for proof that he really is okay. It’s not there—of course it isn’t—and I pull him in for another quick hug before propelling us down the hallway.