The Negotiator (Harbor City 1)

Have you met someone you like?

When are you going to settle down?

What about that one boy from that one trip? He seemed nice.

It would be a why-do-you-make-such-poor-life-choices and why-don’t-I-have-grandbabies-yet guilt fest from the get-go, just like every time they talked. She was so not in the mood for that. Anyway, her mom would probably tell her to do some tired Audrey Hepburn pearls and a little black dress thing—nothing imaginative, nothing fun. If Clover was anything, it was the total opposite of that, which is why she’d left Sparksville in the first place. It was also exactly why she and her mom rarely got along anymore. All her mom wanted was a mini-me Stepford wife clone. All Clover wanted was to forge her own adventurous way.

Having reached the end of the line when it came to Daphne’s closet, Clover started shoving hangers back down the way she’d already come, hopeful she’d missed something fabulous.

An hour later Clover’s bed was covered in piles of black, gold, hot pink, white, and red full-length dresses and long skirts that had been pulled from hers and Daphne’s closets. She’d tried them all on. Some were too small. Others were just laughably wrong on her. Sawyer was going to be here any minute and Clover stood in the middle of her room in bare feet, a sports bra, hair in a high ponytail, and Daphne’s floor-length, simple black chiffon skirt.

Clover did a quick spin in front of the mirror to watch the skirt twirl. After spending the last hour changing clothes with the seriousness of a woman facing the guillotine, she had to do something just for fun. She was halfway through the turn—her reflection a blur in the mirror—when the idea hit.

She sprinted over to her dresser, yanked open the top drawer and pulled out a sequined black racerback crop top. After nearly dislocating her shoulder wriggling out of the sports bra from hell, she put on an equally uncomfortable strapless bra and slipped on the top. It came to rest at the bottom of her rib cage, showing off the three inches of pale skin above the skirt’s waistband. A pair of strappy designer-knockoff black stilettos and a pair of chandelier earrings with sparkling fake emeralds completed the look.

One look in the mirror and Clover’s nerves evaporated into mist. The outfit wasn’t Harbor City socialite material, but neither was she—and thank God for that. She grabbed her phone, snapped a selfie, and sent it to Daphne.

Daphne: OMG yes!!!

Clover: You really think?

Daphne: Fuck yes. You slay! Hate missing this.

Clover: Miss you, too. Catch up tomorrow?

Daphne: Hells yes. Croissants and coffee on me.

Clover’s phone vibrated in her hand.

The number that flashed on the screen was the one Amara had given her for Sawyer. The text read: Now.

Clover: Gotta go.

Daphne: Kill ’em with hotness!

Clover: xoxo

Hustling as quick as she could in the steep heels, Clover dropped her phone and her lipstick into a little purse as she quick-stepped it to the door. She paused at the front door long enough to take in a deep breath, steel her spine, and give herself a ten-second pep talk.

You’re there to do your job. Don’t let all the rich bitches scare you.

With that, she opened the door and hurried out into the evening and toward the ebony Town Car double parked in front of her building.

…

Sawyer scrolled through email on his phone while he cooled his heels in the backseat of his chauffeured car. Still no response from Mr. Lim about the tweaked proposal he’d sent last week. Something was wrong—that Sawyer couldn’t pinpoint the problem made him twitch. Deals like this one didn’t come along every day, and Sawyer wasn’t about to miss out on it. Whatever it took, he was going to land it.

“Sir,” his driver said. “I believe your date has arrived.”

“She’s not my date, Linus. She’s—” He looked out the window and the next words died on his tongue.

Clover stood at the top of the steps leading to the door of the brownstone, looking very much like a very not plain Jane. The sequins on her black top that molded itself against her high curves sparkled in the setting sun’s light, showering the bare slash of toned skin above her waistband in dots of light. The sight drew his attention like a tractor beam. The filmy skirt that fell from her waist to the ground teased at what was underneath as she sailed down the stairs, all smooth sex appeal and tempting promise. Even her hair tantalized—a long, golden silk rope of a ponytail that his fingers itched to either take down or wrap around his fist as he—

Fuck, Carlyle. Get your shit together. You do not get to go there. She may not be technically an employee, but she’s still off-limits. Very. Off. Limits.

“Yeah, tell that to my cock,” he muttered to himself as he pushed open the car door and stepped out onto the sidewalk just as Linus was rounding the front of the Town Car to hold open the door. The driver arched an eyebrow at Sawyer’s break in a long-established protocol but kept the rest of his face bland and unreadable.

It was enough though. Sawyer ground his teeth together, determined to pull back from whatever brink he was toeing.