I brought up the notes I’d made on the iPad, shoving it over to him as I hopped off my stool and began clearing dishes.
“What’s this?” he asked about what I’d written.
“I made some notes on your platform,” I told him, clearing off the plates and placing them in the dishwasher.
While the food had been in the oven, I’d scanned some articles about him and browsed around his website, taking a look at random press conferences he’d given concerning news in his company or his interest in running for senator.
“Who writes your speeches?” I asked.
“I do.”
My eyebrows shot up, but I didn’t turn away in time. He’d seen my face.
“What?” he asked, sounding defensive.
I dried off my hands and faced him, wondering how I would tell a man as insistent and stubborn as Tyler Marek that he kind of stunk at something.
He watched me, and I gave him an apologetic smile. “No offense,” I inched out, “but your speeches are lacking. You’re about as heartwarming as a meat locker.”
His back straightened and his chin dipped, and for a moment I thought I was in for another spanking.
“And your online presence needs work,” I added. “You’re kind of dull.”
His eyes narrowed. “Get in my lap. I’ll show you how dull I am.”
I rolled my eyes, ignoring his threat as I circled the island and came to stand at his side.
“Here, look.” I tapped the screen, bringing up his social media.“Your Twitter followers.” I pointed to his number and then brought up another profile. “Mason Blackwell’s Twitter followers.”
I eyed him, hoping he saw the huge difference. Mason Blackwell had five times as many followers, but he didn’t have nearly the influence of Tyler Marek.
Tyler owned a multimillion-dollar worldwide corporation. So why did he come off looking like a hermit?
I went on, scrolling through the iPad, pointing things out. “You tweet – or the person you hired tweets – once every other day. And it’s boring,” I told him. “Retweets of articles, ‘have a nice day everyone,’ Blah.”
Tyler looked up, clearly not appreciating my attitude.
I continued. “He tweets every other hour, and it’s photos, family funnies, mundane crap, but it’s engaging,” I explained, meeting Tyler’s eyes.
He sighed, sounding stubborn. “I already hear this from my brother. I don’t need it from you,” he argued. “Twitter won’t put me in office. People vote for —”
“Whoever’s popular, Tyler,” I cut in, not sorry that I sounded curt. “Sorry to say, but not every voter makes informed decisions.”
And then a thought crossed my mind, and I grinned, grabbing the iPad and snapping a picture of his nearly empty bowl of fruit, save for a strawberry half and two blueberries.
Attaching the photo and adding a caption, I posted it under his profile. Lucky for me the device was already logged into his account.
Handing over the iPad, I let him take a look.
He read, “ ‘Having breakfast on lockdown. Stay safe out there everyone!’ ”
I blew on my fingernails and brushed them over my shirtsleeve, pleased with myself.
His eyebrows nose-dived. “Wait,” he bit out. “You can see my stomach in that picture.”
“Mmm-hmm,” I cooed, nodding.
He glared at me. “My bare stomach, Easton,” he pointed out, as if I were blind.
I held up my pointer finger and thumb, measuring an inch. “Just a sliver.”
The small white ceramic bowl was sitting near the edge of the island. The picture showed not only the bowl, but a nice slice of his tight stomach.
He shoved the iPad at me. “Delete it.”
I grabbed it, feigning nonchalance. “Sorry. No can do.” I shrugged and then looked at the iPad when I heard a notification alert. “Oh, look! It’s already been retweeted twice, and it’s probably been screenshot by ten other users,” I explained. “If you delete it now, it’ll look weird.”
“Give it to me.” He stood up, holding out his hand. “I’ll figure it out myself.”
“No!”
I ran around the island, stuffing the iPad into the microwave, and moved to turn around, but he was already at my back, stopping me.
I breathed out a laugh, the heat of the chase filling my lungs with excitement.
“You can’t have it,” I whispered, plastering my palms against the microwave.
His body blanketed my back, and his lips nuzzled my neck, making my eyelids grow heavy.
His fingertips grazed up over my hips, and I realized that he was pulling up the T-shirt.
“Maybe that’s not what I want anymore.” His gravelly voice was filled with promise, and I immediately groaned at the rush of heat between my legs.
But I wasn’t fooled.
“You’re trying to distract me,” I assessed, although I didn’t mind it in the least.
His quiet laugh tickled my ear, but his hands continued to roam, and I let my head fall to the side, feeling him immediately bury his nose in my neck.
“What is that?” he asked, popping his head up.
I blinked as his attention shifted, the tingles his hands were bringing dissipating. I listened, hearing beeps and whistles, and I turned around, smiling.
“Favorites, retweets, replies,” I listed, gloating. “The sounds of victory.”
He pinned me with a familiar stubborn look, but I caught the hint of amusement underneath.
“Go finish your work.” I jerked my chin in the direction of the hallway. “You can thank me later.”
FOURTEEN
TYLER
When I was her age, twenty-three, she was twelve, for Christ’s sake.
Not to mention that Brynne would have my head – and deservedly so – if she ever found out about the things I was doing with Christian’s teacher.
What the fuck was the matter with me?
Every time I had the opportunity to take the high road in my personal life, I didn’t. I’d put my kid on the back burner for the sake of my career, and now I felt like I was taking advantage of a young woman.
Sure, she was just as complicated as I was and she gave as good as she got, but I’d learned to assess the road ahead before taking steps. With her, I had no idea what the next hour held, much less the next week or month.
She was unpredictable and entirely too addicting. It wasn’t so much the woman she tried to be that I liked but the girl she tried to hide. The one who needed to be held.
I sat at my desk, trying to work through the laundry list of e-mails I’d accumulated since leaving work yesterday as her music played in the background and she sang along a few feet away. Something about “drown” or “drowning.” It had been so long since I’d listened to music, but thanks to her and Christian, I was getting up to speed.
Despite the fact that I was swamped, as usual.
Production had stopped in Brazil due to rain, and a contract I’d already secured in Japan now had a lower bidder, so I was trying to put out fires, but my head just wasn’t in the game today.
The storm outside had lightened, but it was still too heavy to enjoy leaving the house.
Not that I wanted to anyway.
I glanced over, seeing Easton standing at the bookshelves in my office, the hem of my T-shirt rising up her thigh and over the curve of her ass as she reached to the third shelf.
Jesus.
I blinked and refocused on my computer screen, mentally hitting myself for inviting her in here. I didn’t want her to be bored, so I’d told her to hang out, grab a book, and read or work on the spare laptop if she needed.
However, she’d quickly turned into a woman on a mission, unable to resist alphabetizing my small personal library.
“This doesn’t drive you crazy?” she’d complained, wincing at the sight of my messy shelves. “This would drive me crazy.”
Yeah, so I let her off her leash to have at it.
As long as she didn’t incorporate the entire fucking Dewey Decimal System into her organization, I had no problem watching her cute little behind while she reached for books.