Page 84 of Turn Me On
22
WRINKLED SHIRTS AND OILY SALESMEN
Maddox
At first, the text message feels like a prank. But that’s not Braxton’s style. Plus, it comes with three missed calls last night. My stomach drops so hard I feel it hit the carpet of the swank suite.
I jump out of bed and jerk on my pants, tugging them up, zipping in a flurry. Somehow, reading this message while I’m nearly naked makes me feel ten thousand times worse. I’ve got to call him back, and do it stat. I silenced my phone last night when we stripped. I didn’t care about a thing but getting into bed with Zane. I’ve been MIA for twelve hours. That’s an eternity as an agent who’s not on a flight.
Zane’s sound asleep, so I spin around, hunting for my shirt. Heart sprinting with fear, I find it on the floor.
It’s still twisted and stretched too far. I stuff my arms into it in a frenzy then head to the mirror. I cringe as I do the buttons.Walk of shameis written all over my wrinkled clothes, sleep-rumpled hair, and guilty eyes.
Am I wracked with guilt over sleeping with a client or losing one I was wooing?
Both. Fucking both.
But there’s only one of those I can possibly undo. This message from Braxton.Thank you, but I’ve decided to go elsewhere.
I jam my feet into my shoes, brush my teeth, and get the fuck away from the scene of the crime. Zane doesn’t even stir when I reach the door, then open it. The second I’m in the hallway, though, a new reality smacks me.
This is his team hotel.
I could run into another Dragon here. I could bump into Gunnar, or Declan, or Holden, or any of the guys. I know all of them. I could potentially have business relationships with all of them. My wardrobe screams dirty deeds.
I beeline for the stairwell, since if there are two things I know about ballplayers, it’s this—they don’t wake up early if they don’t have to, and if they do, they’re taking the elevator. Once I’m in the stairwell, I stab Braxton’s name on my phone to call him.
But the connection crackles, and I can’t hear him, surrounded by concrete. Racing down the steps, pulse skittering, I dictate a clunky text.I’ll call you in one minute. I promise.
I hit send, then bound down the rest of the way. When the stairwell lets me out near the restaurant’s kitchen, I’m grateful for this small miracle.
I avoided Zane’s teammates.
But I’m also embarrassed all over again, when I have to walk through the lobby, wearing a shirt my forbidden lover tied me up in last night.
I lower my head, click on my emails, and busy myself with my phone in case anyone sees me. The nanosecond I hit the New York street, I dial Braxton.
He answers on the third ring. “Hey there,” he says, and he sounds…distant.
Like he’s not the fun guy on the links. He’s slapped up a wall already.
I waste no time. “I’d love a chance to hear what made you decide to go with another agency. And maybe to make one more pitch to convince you. I know contract work is important to you and I’m masterful with loopholes to protect you,” I say, wincing privately over other loopholes. “I’ve been putting out feelers to some watchmakers. Remember how you told me your digital watch is like your best friend? I think a partnership with a watchmaker would be right up your alley once we get you that new contract with a team. Since you’re an early riser,” I say, and I believe all this fervently, but I feel like an oily salesman.
Trying to sell him.
Because my gut tells me something.
Something awful.
Something I won’t like.
This isn’t about him. It’s about me. It’s what I did wrong.
“That sounds super cool, but the thing is—”
The athlete is cut off and Ronan’s big, booming voice comes on the line. “Hey, man. Thanks again for the round of pool. But listen, and I hate to be a dick,” he says, and I bet he doesn’t. I bet he likes being a dick. “We needed you to be available last night when we called. And again this morning at eight. Wanted to talk to you about incentives and stuff. But twelve hours is a little too long to return a call, so we’re going with a small agency. Best of luck.”
Then Ronan hangs up.