Page 95 of Turn Me On

Then, I ruffle Gage’s hair. “Oh, and feel free to enjoy the sweet potatoes.”

“Unlikely.”

“Then order some burgers and fries. And put it on my tab,” I call out as I head to the door.

“Dude, I’m in your room. Of course it’s on your tab,” he says, then smiles. “And good luck.”

I’ll need it. This won’t be easy. But it’s necessary. “Thanks.” I take a beat. “For making me pick.”

He waves me out, and I go.

28

RSVPS

Maddox

The party ends in forty-five minutes, and I’m strung as tight as a violin. Zane RSVP’d, but two hours in and well past dinner, the big-hearted, swagger-filled man is noticeably absent.

Is he ever going to show up?

As I circulate on the patio of the trendy Mexican restaurant in the heart of Venice, I’m constantly checking the door. Each time a strapping, burly guy strides in, my heart jackhammers then plummets when it’s not him.

Every time I talk to a client, a plus one, or a co-worker, I force myself to stay present, but my muscles are knotted from all this…waiting.

If Zane doesn’t appear, I’ll drive to his hotel the second this party ends, march to his room, and pound on the door. Don’t know his room number but I’ll figure it out somehow.

I check my watch. Twenty more minutes. Things are winding down. Clients start to take off. I do another lap, chatting with Crosby and his wife, Nadia, who owns the Hawks—the first, I rep; the second, I strike deals with. “Good to see you two,” I say to the pair.

She huffs at me. “I’m still mad at you, Maddox. You drove a hard bargain with Nate Chandler.” Her eyes narrow as she mentions one of her star players, a guy I brought to CTM.

I blow on my nails. “That’s my job.”

“He’s a tough one, baby cakes,” Crosby says, then drops a kiss to her cheek. “And I love it when he’s getting me sexy new deals.”

Ordinarily, I’d delight in this conversation, but it’s hard to stay present. Fortunately, after another minute, Nadia nods to the door. I jerk my gaze, stealing the chance to check for Zane. But no dice. Then, Nadia says, “We should take off.”

Crosby offers me a fist for knocking. “See you at the game tomorrow.”

I take that as my reminder.

The clock is ticking. I need to find Zane tonight. He’ll be busy all day tomorrow—batting practice, press events, the game.

As they leave, I stare at the door. Where the hell is he?

I reach for my phone. Screw waiting. I’ll text him. Ask to see him at his hotel. Ask for his room number.

But wingtips click on the patio, and a too-familiar smile comes my way.

Seriously? I’m about to text Zane and Vance comes by? Respect the boss and all that, but lately I feel like I’m living under a microscope.

“Great party. Thanks for picking this spot,” Vance says, surveying the scene, clearly eager to preside over the event with me.

But I don’t want to live my life magnified right now. “Glad you like it, but I need a second.”

I step away from my boss, getting some necessary distance. I write a quick message to Zane and hit send.Can I see you tonight at your hotel? I’d love to grab a drink and talk. I can be there in thirty minutes.

Annoyed I can’t take off now, I drop my phone in my back pocket. A few more guests move toward the door, and like we’re giving our regards at a wedding, Vance and I say goodbye to each one. Soon, most of the guests are gone, but Adriana entertains a hardy crew in a spirited game of bocce ball—a pitcher with the Barn Owls, a left fielder from the New York Minotaurs, and the catcher from the San Diego Devils, Trace Woodson. He’s not a client, but the other guys are so he’s here as a friend.