“Did you hear a word I just said? One of your latest conquests threatened to report our company to the Better Business Bureau for unethical business practices. This isn’t just about you. This affects me too. And I’ll be damned if I watch everything we’ve built go down in flames because you can’t keep your dick in your pants.”
“Point taken.”
Hudson is pretty much the best friend and best business partner you could ask for. He’s smart as hell and dedicated, works like a dog day and night. And not to mention when we began our real-estate investment company five years ago, he singlehandedly fronted all the startup capital from his own savings and trust fund. It took me years to pay him back as the profits rolled in, and he never once made me feel lesser, or like I was in debt to him. Not to mention, he’s funny, well-off, and good-looking. He’s an excellent wingman. Plus he knows how to find the best tacos. And I’m not talking about the kind served with salsa. The dude is a magnet for *.
Unable to help myself, I allow my eyes to drift over to her again. The woman moving into 4B fills out a pair of yoga pants in ways that I doubt are even legal in some countries. I need to know what’s underneath those curve-hugging black athletic pants. Simple cotton panties, or a naughty G-string? Either way, I want to bury my fingers inside the waistband of those pants, peel them down her hips, and find out. Perhaps it’s because Hudson just made her forbidden fruit, but I want a taste. My damn mouth is practically watering.
She looks smart and put together, despite her casual attire that includes a tank top and tennis shoes. With a clipboard in one hand and her trusty number-two pencil in the other, she ticks items off her list, and instructs the movers who are unloading and carrying boxes up to her new place—which just so happens to be directly underneath mine.
“You’re not going to last three minutes, let alone three days.” Hudson grimaces, glancing over again at our newest resident.
“What do you know about her?”
He rolls his eyes but humors me. “Emery Elaine Winters. She’s an attorney. Excellent references. Even better credit score, and she signed a one-year lease. And she, and her *, are to remain in pristine condition, or so help me God . . .”
I can’t help the inappropriate comment just hanging on the tip of my tongue. “I could make sure her engine is running properly, give her a tune-up, if necessary.”
Hudson growls out a curse.
When I glance up at her again, I see Roxy, another of our residents, has joined Emery on the sidewalk. They appear to be making small talk, shaking hands, exchanging words, and smiling at each other. There’s something I strongly dislike about these two women talking. Roxy is an exotic dancer, and she and I have a bit of a rocky past. Which is a huge fucking understatement, but not something I care to dwell on now. Hudson mentions something about fourth-quarter taxes, and I tune him out, sure I just heard my name on Roxy’s over-glossed lips.
“Excuse me, I’ve got business to attend to.” I step around him, heading straight toward my new prize. Roxy spots me and takes off for the parking area.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Hudson calls after me.
“Just being neighborly. Someone’s got to properly welcome Miss Winters.”
“Damn it, Hayden,” I hear him shout.
“I’ve got this, buddy,” I shout back over my shoulder.
I can control myself around her. I have to, according to Hudson. I don’t like being told what to do, especially where my cock is concerned, and hell, it’ll probably only make me want her more. But as I close the distance between Emery and me, I make a plan.
Friends.
I will become friends with the so hot I want to bend her over and fuck her in broad daylight new girl.
This is either the best plan I’ve ever had, or will end with me sporting a black eye, courtesy of my best friend.
It’s go time.
Chapter Two
Emery
The blazing sun beats down on me, causing little beads of sweat to form at the back of my neck. My hand is damp where I’m holding the clipboard, and I wipe my forehead with my other arm. I feel a little ridiculous, sweating like a pig while I’m just directing the movers, who are doing all the actual work.
I’d known that Los Angeles would be hot, especially in June, but nothing could have prepared me for this. To a born-and-bred Michigan girl, “shorts weather” is pretty much anything above freezing. A hundred degrees might as well have been a million, for all it meant to me. Seeing a number on a weather report is completely different from feeling it in the flesh. I lick my chapped lips for the umpteenth time—the humidity, or lack thereof, is yet another thing I have to get used to.
“Hey there!” calls a bubbly female voice. “You look like you could use this.”
I turn to see a tall, dirty-blond woman holding out a bottle of water. I swallow at the sight of the cold droplets beading along the plastic. “Oh . . . thank you.” I accept it and drink fast. Before I know it, the bottle is half-empty.