Perfect Chaos

“What are you doing here?” Lainey asks, most certainly on the defense. Fuck. How am I going to explain this? I look at her, finding her ridiculously blue eyes dark with annoyance. It’s a turnaround from the flustered woman who hotfooted it out the elevator earlier, and the nervous woman I faced in the conference room this morning. In fact, I feel like I’m dealing with an entirely different woman altogether. “Well?”

“Like I said, meeting a friend for a drink.”

“And conveniently in the same bar as me? So, where is he, then?”

“Who said it was a he?”

Her scowl is fierce. “So where is she then?”

“No-show.” I shrug.

“Oh, so you’ve been stood up?”

Shit. My ego wilts. “No woman in the land would ever stand me up.”

“Clearly.”

Hold up a minute. Why am I even entertaining her? It’s none of her damn business what I’m doing here, or who I’m meeting. Who does she think she is? I go to tell her just that, but—

“I know you’ve been following me.” Her lips stretch into a straight, accusing line, and my intended counter shrivels and dies on my lips. “What’s your game, Mr. Christianson?”

Bollocks. I desperately search for something to dig me out of the hole I so easily dug myself into. I’m a twat. “I don’t play games, Miss—” It suddenly occurs to me that I have no clue what the hell her surname is. Because Sal didn’t involve me when hiring her. Fucker.

“Summer,” she finishes for me.

Lainey Summer? Even her name is beautiful. “I don’t play games,” I reiterate, looking down at her hand where it still has hold of my wrist. “Can I have my arm back?”

She, too, looks down, and then wrenches her hand away quickly. “Do you make a habit of following your employees?”

“I wasn’t following you,” I grate, getting myself worked up. This is good. My building frustration is dousing the attraction. A bit. “I was meeting a friend for a drink. He called and said he’s not going to make it. I’m leaving.”

“So it’s a he now, is it?”

Fuck it.

She laughs, stepping back, keeping suspicious eyes on my guilty form. “Whatever, but I don’t believe you, for the record. Have a good evening, Mr. Christianson.” She turns and saunters off, back into the bar. I’m not imagining it. She’s injecting extra sway into those fucking hips, the hips I want to hold while she rides me.

“Shitting hell,” I curse to myself, viciously pushing into the door and putting myself outside before I go after her and cause a scene. Or ravish her.

I stomp across the road to my car, yanking the door open and throwing myself into the seat. As I look across to the hotel, my stupid fucking mind asks over and over how her night will play out. All I can see is that box of condoms. A whole fucking box. Will he fuck her? Or will he just kiss her? Talk to her? Damn it. I rake a frustrated hand through my hair, looking up to the rearview mirror. I look as pissed off as I feel.

I was hoping the stand-offish Lainey would douse my growing problem. It hasn’t. Feisty Lainey is just as enticing, if not more. I’ve never had a woman fight me like that, and it’s really fucking hot. I want to go in there, tell that old dude where to go, and drag her into a hotel room. I wouldn’t be Mr. Perfect per se, but I’d make sure our night was pretty fucking perfect. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I smash a fist into the steering wheel, fighting to get my stupid thoughts under control. “She works for you, Ty. Keep telling yourself that.”

I dial Pamela. “Change of plan. Meet me at mine,” I say as soon as she answers, before quickly hanging up. I’m not wasting time at a bar. I’m going to fuck Pamela until she makes me forget about Lainey Summer.“Oh, yeah, baby. Yeah. Oh, Ty. Yes, yes, yes.”

I sink my fingers into Pamela’s hips and grind her down onto my lap, searching for the release I need. “Come on,” I yell, sweat pouring from my brow with the effort it’s taking me to get to where I need to be, my frustration growing. What the fuck is wrong with me? Pamela’s generous breasts bounce before my eyes, and I move my hands to them, grabbing them hard and powering on, faster and harder.

“Oh, yes. Yes, baby, yes,” she cries.

I growl, looking up, blinking rapidly as her face, full of ecstasy, starts to blur. I shake my head to clear my vision. It doesn’t work. Pamela’s pretty face is a fuzzy blob of nothing. “Fuck.” Closing my eyes briefly, I reopen them, finding a perfectly clear image of a face. But it isn’t Pamela’s face. I’m looking at Lainey.