Chapter Thirteen

A week later, Sawyer sat at his desk in his home office catching up on a morning of missed work, thanks to his second ever trip to the flea market and reread the same email for the third time without comprehending a single word. Too much of his attention was focused on the strange noises coming from the general direction of his living room. By the time the second loud bang sounded—followed by a muffled groan, what had to be a curse in another language, and a shouted promise from Clover that she was all right—he shut the lid of his laptop and got up. He wasn’t going to get a damn thing done until he figured out what in the world was going on.

Walking down the hall, he found a pile of deliveries from Dylan’s Department Store. Included among the sexy date-night dresses that showed just enough skin to tantalize and work-appropriate dresses in bright colors and patterns that had probably never been seen before in Carlyle Tower was a pair of heavy-duty hiking boots. He stopped and studied the boots. Since Clover wasn’t going to any construction sites, they had to be for her Australia trip.

After a quick glance toward the balcony where he could hear her cursing again, he grabbed the boots and carried them to the hall closet and shoved them in the back on the very top shelf next to another pair that had been delivered a few days earlier.

It wasn’t like she was going any time soon, and so he’d rather have the big picture showing exactly what he envisioned right now. There was nothing more to it than that. No reason to overthink it. They were just boots.

He found Clover out on the balcony and almost swallowed his tongue, but not before he could offer a quiet thank you to whoever had invented yoga pants and tank tops. Her tight black pants molded perfectly to the curve of the ass he’d worshiped last night and every night for the past week. His cock twitched against his thigh and his brain was already working out if the potted bushes the decorator had placed at strategic positions on the balcony would block the neighbors’ view, because all he wanted at the moment was to peel her yoga pants down, spread her legs, and fuck her until they were both blind.

She looked up and spotted him. “Perfect timing,” she said as she rolled the heavy, rusted-out wreck of a metal medical tray out onto a newspaper covered section of the balcony.

“For what?” He had ideas. Lots of them.

She held out a white dust mask, the kind that was held in place by a rubber band that went around your head.

Oh no. Not happening. Not in this lifetime.

He crossed the threshold out onto the balcony but stopped well clear of the monstrosity they’d gotten at the flea market the previous week. “I didn’t agree to this.”

“Of course you did.” She leaned forward over the cart and brushed off a piece of flaking paint—the move giving him an eyeful of her hard-on inducing cleavage—and winked at him before straightening back up. “It’s totally on the napkin.”

He could almost hear the snap and fizz that was his mental synapses short circuiting as the more primal part of his brain took over—the one that concerned itself with fucking or fighting. Scratch that. It was only concerned with fucking which, judging by the knowing little smirk on her face, she knew. Another negotiation tactic? That wasn’t fair. Well, if she was going to sink to that level, he really didn’t have any other choice but to do the same.

“I remember writing down going to the flea market,” he said, reaching behind his neck and pulling off his T-shirt as he strolled over to the chaise lounge. Feeling her gaze on him as sure as a touch, he sat down on the chair, stretched out his legs, and put his hands behind his head. “I never wrote anything down about going to DIY hell.”

“What do you think the flea market is all about?” She tossed the dust mask at him and it landed in the middle of his bare chest. “You’re going to need this.”

He picked up the mask, making sure to flex his biceps as he held up the not heavy item and examined it as if it was even a tenth as interesting as the hungry look on her face right now. “Explain to me again why I would rather refinish that crap cart when we could entertain each other in much better ways?”

With one hand on her cocked out hip, she tried for intimidating but all he saw was hot-chick-he-wanted-naked and soon. She must have noticed that because her eyes narrowed and she got that stubborn tilt to her chin that he’d started looking forward to seeing more than he probably should.

“Don’t tell me you’re the kind of guy who welches on his promises.”

“I believe I did everything you wanted last night.” The fact that either of them could walk today was damn close to a miracle.

Her blush was immediate and only a shade or two off scarlet. “Enough stalling, Mr. Ego. Put on the mask and help me sand this thing down.”

“God, I wish that was a euphemism,” he muttered, but he got up and put on the stupid mask and walked over to the cart.

She handed him the steel wool and got to work with a paint scraper. They worked together, she’d scrape off the paint and he’d follow up with the steel wool to sand down the edges between the paint layers. It had been working pretty much the same in his office at Carlyle Tower. She’d claimed his conference table and had gone to work diving into the Singapore project proposal and pointing out areas where a few tweaks here and there in the language or his approach could make a difference. So far, it was working. They had a follow-up dinner meeting with Mr. Lim in a week, which is exactly what he was prepping for when he got suckered into pretending to be someone on one of the HGTV shows Clover loved.

Thirty minutes later, finally finished removing decades of paint, he stood up and stretched his back, barely managing to stop a self-satisfied smirk when he caught her checking him out. “Why are we doing this if you’re just going to paint over it?”

“Because if you don’t get the little things right in the beginning, it’ll just fuck up your results in the end.” She laid the paint scraper down on the cart’s top shelf, took off her mask, and dropped her fingers to the waistband of her yoga pants.

He went from having a semi just from being in the same breathing space to a full-on steel rod in a heartbeat. She was fucking with him. No doubt about it. Good thing he gave as good as he got—in and out of bed. He yanked off the dust mask and dropped it before circling around the cart until he stood behind her. He didn’t touch her. That’s what she expected.

“Those are some deep thoughts,” he continued on, walking back to the chaise lounge and sitting down, resting his hands on his abs and closing his eyes. “So much so that I’m going on break to think about them.”

The sound of steps growing closer, followed by the unmistakable sound of her clothes hitting the floor—at least that’s what his lust-soaked imagination said it was—made his breath catch. Keeping his eyes closed and his hands to himself was murder with her so close, but he knew how negotiations like this worked. He gave her an inch and she’d take all seven—shit, what was he thinking because that sounded pretty fucking awesome. But before he could do anything, she straddled him and brought his hands to her—damn—still clothed hips.

She leaned forward, her hair tickling his neck and nipped his earlobe. “Somebody has to show you how the world works at the ground level.”

“And you’re the woman for the job, huh?” He tightened his grip, hooking his thumbs into the inside of her waistband.

“Exactly,” she said as she rocked against him.

Unable to take it anymore, he opened his eyes. Her face was right above his. Her eyes were hazy and her lips parted. Oh hell. Forget negotiating, teasing, tormenting, or whatever they were doing right now. He’d had enough.

Adjusting his hold on her hips, he picked her up and swung her over his shoulder as he got up and headed back inside. “Too bad I have another job for you right now.”

And he couldn’t wait to outline exactly what he wanted from her. After all, turnabout was fair play.

…

Sitting in the back of the cab by herself, Clover finished typing up a follow-up email about the boots she’d ordered not being delivered. It was weird. She’d order a few dresses, maybe some lingerie, and the boots. Everything always arrived but the boots. Right about now she could really use those boots as a physical reminder that the date to leave for Australia was getting ever closer, because the more time she spent with Sawyer, the harder it was getting to remember that fact—and she desperately needed to.

Trying her best to ignore the way her gut twisted at the thought, she shoved her phone into her purse, slipped the cab driver a twenty, and bounded out of the cab, eager for a killer Vito’s pineapple shake. Okay, and for the company of a certain someone who had been the reason why she hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in two and a half weeks. Not that she was complaining—because she definitely was not, but there was no denying her caffeine intake had dramatically increased.

She pushed open the door and walked into the diner, but instead of the tinkling from the bell attached to the door, the sound of a dozen barking dogs froze her to the spot.

“Don’t just stand there, close the door and flip the open sign to closed,” Donna said from her usual spot behind the counter, her ever-present gray updo transformed into a high ponytail.

Clover did as asked, despite the fact that she was trying to process the scene in front of her. Sawyer sat in their usual booth looking happy-hour hot with his suit jacket gone, his collar unbuttoned, and his navy-striped tie hanging loose around his neck. However, where Clover usually sat across from him was the biggest poodle she’d ever seen. White, massive, and with the yes-I’m-judging-you look that only standard poodles could really carry off. The dog had a blinged out collar that read: Vito. If one dog in the diner had given the health department a fit, the fact that there were twelve—most of which were wearing party hats and seated at the booths along with their owners—would have made the inspector keel over.

She hustled past the panting dogs and their owners, who were seemingly oblivious to the serious weirdness of the moment as they talked amongst themselves, and slid into the booth beside Sawyer. “What’s going on?”

“Vito’s having a birthday party.”

“We were invited to a dog party?”

“No, I didn’t know it was happening, but when I showed up as Donna was closing up she said we could stay,” he said, before taking a bite of an extra salty fry. “The thing is, we have to share a booth with Vito.”

She stole one of his fries and had it halfway to her mouth when Vito let out a low growl. The dog had its own plate of fries in front of it. Wait. She looked closer. Nope. They were fry-shaped dog biscuits. Vito didn’t seem interested though as he watched her purloined fry as if she’d snagged it from his dish.

“I’ve never been to a dog’s birthday party before,” she said.

“What?” Sawyer asked in mock surprise. “The woman who milked snakes has never been to something as pedestrian as a canine celebration?”

“Smart-ass.” Ignoring the dirty look and lazy growl from Vito, she popped the fry into her mouth. “I don’t think he likes me.”

“Maybe because he is a she.” Sawyer slung his arm over the back of the booth and twisted a strand of her hair around his fingers.

Without thinking about it she relaxed back into his embrace, feeling like she belonged there in a way she didn’t want to delve too deeply into. In a few weeks she’d be on her way to Australia to help the endangered Rock Wallabies and he’d be off changing Singapore’s skyline. Their paths couldn’t be any more different. This was a fun diversion, a mini-adventure, nothing more—so analyzing it instead of just enjoying the moment while it lasted wouldn’t do a damn bit of good.

Vito picked that moment to emit another half-hearted growl.

“A girl, huh? That would explain it,” Clover said.

“What?” he asked.

“Even Vito is a candidate to be the next Mrs. Carlyle.” She stole another fry. “God help you if your mom finds out.”

“If I buy you an extra-large pineapple shake and an order of your own fries, will you keep your mouth shut about it?” he asked before feeding her a fry.

“Bahaya,” she mumbled.

Vito cocked her head to one side.

Sawyer chuckled. “What does that mean?”

It meant danger because that’s the exact zone she was flying into without a parachute, but she wasn’t about to admit that.

So she lied. “Consider me bribed.”

The fry in her mouth turned to sawdust.

…

“You’d better not be eating all the popcorn,” Sawyer demanded two days later as he walked into the living room with two cold beers after successfully hiding another pair of hiking boots. If he didn’t learn to control that urge, he was going to end up paying for a dozen pairs that were stuffed into one secret place or another in his penthouse.

Clover froze, a handful of popcorn halfway to her mouth. “The bowl was extra full, it would have spilled everywhere and ruined your couch.”

“Likely story,” he said, sitting down next to her. He put the beers on the coffee table and grabbed the remote before she picked something horrible for movie night.

She snuggled up next to him, moving into the same position they ended up in whenever they were in one of her HGTV marathons. “So you’re really not willing to play rock, paper, scissors for the right to pick the movie?”

“Hell no.” Clover was hot. She rocked his world. But he could not take another mini-marathon of Flea Market Flip. “You’ve suckered me into fixing up that stupid bar cart.”

She snorted. “Talk all you want, I know you had fun.”

“It was total misery, which is why I get to pick the movie.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Stuffikins.”

Like a smart man, he kept his mouth shut and flipped through the list of streaming movies. Truth was, he’d had fun renovating the cart. She’d made it fun, teasing him about how someone whose company built skyscrapers had never used a paint spray gun before. The finished cart was in the living room, a bright red splash of color in his otherwise black and metallic room, drawing his attention the same way as the woman in his arms had started to do.

Per usual, the listed movies picked because of his watching history fell into two distinct categories: shit blows up and RomComs. He was about to swap over to the explosion side of things when one of his favorites popped on the screen.

“We could watch this. There’s fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes, true love, and miracles.”

She twisted around and looked up at him, her eyes wide. “Did you just quote The Princess Bride?”

Well, there was no use denying it now, but the expected embarrassment didn’t hit. Like almost everything else when it came to Clover, that reaction was unexpected. He hit play on the movie. “I have a thing.”

“Oh no way, I want all the dirty details.” She picked up both beers, kept one and handed him the other.

As the opening credits played on the movie, he took a long drink. “Do I get to take you home tonight even after I spill my secrets and you know I love watching old RomComs?”

Her answer was a quick brush of her lips against his. “If you don’t, there’ll be hell to pay.”

That soft kiss turned into another and another and another until the man in black was climbing the Cliffs of Insanity before Clover pulled away and grabbed the popcorn and then settled back down snuggled against him.

“We’re gonna miss the movie,” she said.

“Life is pain. Anyone who says differently is selling something,” he paraphrased another of his favorite lines.

But the thing was, since Clover had walked into his office and become his personal buffer, his life had lost that black tinge of pain that he hadn’t even realized had been there. The question was, would it come back when their contract was up, and did he even want to find out?