Headhunter (With Me in Seattle Mafia 2)

“I’m asleep.”

“Then why are you talking to me?”

I grin and turn to glance at him but end up hitting him in the chin with the ball of my shoulder.

“Ouch.”

“Sorry.” I wiggle around until I’m facing him but cover my mouth with the blanket—because, morning breath. “So sorry.”

“You don’t sound sorry.”

I just smile from behind the blanket. Shane opens an eye and then chuckles. “How are you this morning?”

“Oh, I hurt everywhere.”

“Wait. What?” He sits up, pulling the blanket from my mouth. It pools at his waist.

Jesus, his chest and abs are sculpted.

“Wow,” I whisper, wanting to reach out and touch him.

“What do you mean you hurt everywhere?”

“Calm down.” I slowly sit up beside him and wince with the effort. “He kicked me in the ribs a couple of times so they’re a bit sore today. And I have a headache. Probably from being slapped.”

“I want to fucking kill him.” The words are said with perfect calm, just as matter-of-factly as if he were giving me a weather report.

“I got to do that,” I reply. “It was an accident, but I can’t say that I’m sorry. Does that make me a bad person?”

“No.” He shuffles to the opposite side of the bed, and I see a glimpse of his tight, bare ass before he slips on his jeans and turns to me with them still unfastened. His dark hair is rumpled from sleep. His eyes not quite awake. And seeing him like this does things to me.

Sexy things.

I clear my throat and look away.

“I have to unpack,” I say and stand to escape the room.

“Wait.”

I turn back to him and see he’s gazing at me with a lazy grin. “I’m going to eventually tumble you into this bed and have my way with you, Ivie. But not while you’re hurting, and not until I’ve had time to kiss the hell out of you first.”

What in the hell am I supposed to say to that?

I start to speak, but it just comes out as a squeak, so I clear my throat and just say, “Okay.”

“You unpack. I’ll make breakfast. Do you like French toast?”

So much for going gluten-free. “I love it.”

“Excellent.” He pulls a black T-shirt over his head, covering up all that glorious, tanned skin and those abs, so I turn to go unpack. “Ivie?”

“Yeah?” I turn back to see his hot, dark eyes roaming up and down my body.

“Nice night thing.”

I glance down at my simple red sleep shirt. It says Knocked Out on the front. There’s nothing particularly sexy or interesting about it.

“Huh?”

He just grins, and his eyes fall level with my butt. I realize that it barely covers my round ass.

He’s been staring at my black panties and bare cheeks.

So, with a sassy turn, I let him enjoy the show.

Shane’s laughter follows me down the hall to the room that he offered me last night. I like Shane’s home. It’s simple. The kitchen is glorious, and I would love to work some magic in there. I love the farmhouse vibe.

Joanna Gaines would be proud.

But it’s evident that a bachelor lives here. There are no little touches like pretty towels, decorative rugs, or pieces of artwork hung here and there.

As wonderful as this place is now, it could be truly beautiful.

But it’s clean, it’s safe, and for now, that’s all I really need.

I start by unpacking my tote bag. I have all of my bathroom supplies in here, so I just take it with me to the restroom and unpack my razor, special hair mask, and other shower needs. I used my shampoo and conditioner last night but didn’t bother to unpack the rest.

I set up the sink with my favorite soap, toothbrush, and toothpaste, and all of my skin-care bottles—which is more than most people use, but I work at a medi-spa. Having flawless skin is important and healthy.

I toss the empty tote into the closet and move onto the suitcase.

I’ve had this thing for as long as I can remember. It’s the same one I had when I fled my father’s house all those years ago. I’ve added other luggage here and there over the years, but this one belonged to my mother, so I’ll likely keep it until it’s nothing but rags.

I tuck my jeans into an empty drawer in the dresser and hang my shirts in the closet, then stow my undies and bras in another drawer. I only brought a couple of pairs of shoes and lay them in the bottom of the closet.

When the suitcase is empty, I zip it shut, pick it up to stow it away, and hear a rattle.

“Did a button fall off of something? That would be my luck,” I mutter as I unzip it and glance inside.

But I don’t see anything.

I pick it up and shake it.

Still rattling.

The lining of the bag has several tears.