The Schemer (Harbor City 3)

“So you’re doing it for work?” That sounded about as romantic as a handful of unsalted pistachios, but at least it helped explain why in the hell he’d asked Irena of all people to marry him. His chances of actually falling for the she-devil were next to nil. “That’s crazy.”

“It’s the complete opposite of that. It’s business. Speaking of which, I need your help with some family business. You remember my nonna?”

She nodded while she took a sip of coffee as if he could see her. “Of course.”

“She is coming to the wedding,” Carlo said, his voice warming while talking about his hilariously grouchy grandma. “Would you mind being with her during the ceremony to translate? Normally, my father or I would do it, but I’ve asked him to stand up with me during the ceremony as a…what’s the word? Best man?”

“I’d be happy to sit with your nonna.” The woman was hysterical, all whispered snide remarks in Italian helpfully muffled by the black lace handkerchief she often held up to her mouth.

“Fantastico!”

Despite Carlo’s enthusiasm, she couldn’t help but worry that he was thinking only with his head and ignoring his heart and his conscience. “Are you really sure you want to go through with this?”

He grunted in what had to be the Italian verbal equivalent of rolling his eyes. “Unlike a certain secret romantic I know, I’m not waiting for true love.”

“Are you calling me a romantic?” That was so not her. She was a Riverside woman through and through. She grew up knowing that happily ever afters were bullshit.

He laughed. “If the high heel fits.”

“Well this one most definitely does not.”

And it didn’t. Really.

Chapter Ten

The best thing Tyler could say about an unscheduled client hand-holding trip to Denver was the necessary space it gave him from Everly. Physical space, anyway. Mentally, she’d set up house in his head and was clomping around in her ridiculous shoes that showed off her sexy ass. His dick perked up at the image. Damn. He was beginning to worry about his sanity when it came to her.

Beginning?

Shut up, self.

What he needed to be doing was planning his next move with Ferranti. His secret sources had outlined the hotel locations Ferranti’s team was considering and they were wrong—not all of them but enough that what could be a billion in profits was going to shrink to millions. Not that Tyler could present it that way in a proposal. People tended to react badly to being told they were idiots, but it had to be done. He just needed to figure out the right angle to take. What better time to do that than tonight while he was in one of Ferranti’s future competitor’s properties? Tyler forced his attention to focus on the upscale hotel room he was in tonight.

It was nothing like the house he’d grown up in. Plush carpet. Thick curtains. Pillows fluffy enough to skydive into. And he fucking hated it. It wasn’t that it gave off the don’t-touch-anything vibe of expensive places, but that the only thing he wanted to touch was across the country probably wearing four-inch heels and giving someone tons of I-don’t-give-a-shit attitude. Or did she only do that with him? Probably. Which was exactly why he shouldn’t be relaxing back on the king-size bed with its million thread count (or some stupid high number) sheets in only his boxers and reaching for his phone.

Too bad he was doing that anyway.

TYLER: What u doing?

EVERLY: Who is this?

TYLER: Your fav amateur chef.

Yeah, the one who happened to be grinning like an asshole for the first time in two days since he left Harbor City. Oh, and his dick was waving hello, too. Thank God he was smart enough not to share that tidbit of insider information with her.

EVERLY: How did you get my number?

TYLER: It’s on your lease agreement, Sherlock.

EVERLY: So you hide out in your apartment and just text insults? Is this your new hobby? Your smoke alarm hasn’t gone off lately.

TYLER: I’m in Denver.

EVERLY: Vacay?

TYLER: Nervous client.

EVERLY: I take it you’re bored.