One Bossy Date: Chapter 9

King Shameless left us a cloud folder from hell.

It’s more than two thousand documents deep and still loading as I sip my coffee a few days later.

“How are we going to get through this before we turn eighty?” Jenn asks.

The sinking pit in my stomach says we won’t, but we’ll try.

I need to earn my keep since this job is the first breathing space with Dad’s bills in years. I skim through ten thirty-second videos, mostly Great Recession era offers begging people to snap up cheap rooms.

They’re about as exciting as watching an ant crawl up a wall.

Only nine hundred and ninety more to go.

“Jenn, if it’s obviously ancient, just watch the first five seconds. This crap is way too outdated to be useful.”

“You want to do this ten at a time?” she asks.

“Do you know a better way?”

“No. I kind of took this job expecting to write copy or maybe do some light video editing… I never really expected to quality check a thousand ads for ideas to solve Winthrope’s review problem.”

The ads are short and mostly irrelevant, thank God. We manage to pick up the pace when we’re over a hundred in.

By noon, we’ve made a tiny dent in the workload.

Jenn groans at an old ad featuring disgraced Hollywood starlet Evangeline Triton. “Oh my God, isn’t this the actress who went crazy on her hero son? What did we do to deserve this? None of this is remotely helpful.”

“Payback for Hawaii,” I mutter under my breath.

Although I’m not sure what I did there to piss him off.

Maybe it was sending him that big fat Yuck to his totally inappropriate offer of haunting me with naked photos.

Like we really need to make this more awkward.

Jenn glances at our office door to make sure it’s closed. “So, um…ignore me if this is too personal, but now that the truth is out… I can’t believe you kissed Brock Winthrope.”

I spin around in my seat.

She smiles shyly. “Was it good? I guess it must have been because when he was NIH, you wouldn’t shut up about it.”

“Jenn. Shut up!” I hiss.

“Right. I figured.” A wide grin covers her face as she turns away.

It’s just like being back in high school. I notice the way she’s moving in her chair, and it’s obvious she isn’t done.

She’s going to explode if she doesn’t say it.

“What’s eating you?” I say with a sigh. “Just spit it out.”

“…does he look even better in the shower than he looks in his suits?” She’s blushing when she looks at me again. “That’s the only thing people ever liked about Winthrope. On the man-o-meter from one to ten, he’s a twenty.”

Blood pumps under my face. “You’re asking about the CEO naked? I’m trying to keep things professional here.”

“Fine, fine, keep telling yourself that.” Her smile wilts.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Girl, the way you called him out in that meeting—you were daring him not to flirt.”

Was not!

Wait. Did she think I was—oh.

“He was flirting?” I say, pretending to play dumb.

“Like you weren’t.” Jenn laughs. “I love you, Pippa, but you’re such a nerd sometimes.”

Maybe so, but that doesn’t answer my question.

And if I have to ask again, I know I’m just inviting death by innuendo and memories of our naked boss.

“So will you answer my question? Is he as hot as he looks without clothes?”

“Jenn!”

“Oh, Pippa. We’ve been friends for ten years. You can tell me if he still seems as hot as you said back in Hawaii now that you know who he really is.”

My face is melting.

I hate myself as I nod—only to humor her.

She laughs so hard her chair rolls across the floor.

I’m almost grateful for the tap on our door a split second before it pops open. That shuts her up.

Then I see who it is and my relief disappears.

Brock takes up the entire doorframe, tracing his eyes from me to Jenn and back to me again.

We both sit up straight and go quiet. I bite my lip to keep from laughing.

“Are we actually working?” His eyes lance through me.

I throw him a dirty look. “Are you? Or did you just drop by to give us your impression of detention teacher?”

“Miss Renee, this assignment is critical,” he snaps. “The faster you work through the slush pile, the sooner you’ll be generating new ideas.”

“I can think of things I’d rather work through.” Jenn realizes what she blurted out too late and claps a hand over her mouth.

Brock’s jaw clenches as he stares at me through flaming blue slitted eyes. He leans over me to look at my screen.

I hate how I stiffen down to my toes.

I hate that he smells so good.

My breath hitches at his proximity and every part of me vibrates.

He exhales slowly, his jaw clenched like he’s refusing to smile. “Almost halfway there, I see. But if you two insist on laughing like schoolgirls, keep it down. I can hear you from my damn office.”

“Got it. No fun. Is that it, Principal Buzzkill?” I glare at him.

“If either of you are hungry, I’m going to lunch with Keenan. You’re welcome to tag along.”

Oh, now he’s trying to be nice?

Jenn stands and pushes her chair under her desk.

“We’re not,” I say quickly, ignoring my friend’s scorned look.

“It’s on the company’s dime,” Brock offers.

“That makes us even less hungry, Mr. Winthrope.” I smile at him. “Enjoy your lunch.”

He mutters something that sounds a lot like “insolent” under his breath, turning away from me.

“Could you leave now? We have a ton of work to do—”

“And your boss is an ogre?” he growls over his shoulder.

“You said it, not me, Shrek.”

Shaking his head, he stomps out of our office, shutting the door behind him.

“Are you crazy!” Jenn shouts the second he’s gone. “Pippa, why? I know you can hear my stomach growling from here. We’ve worked so much my eyes are crossing, and I’m starving.”

“Calm down. We’ll grab pizza so we can keep chugging along. I saved us a lot of awkward silences at some stuffy restaurant. You’re welcome.”

Her frown has zero gratitude.

“Pippa. We could have escaped for a walk and fresh air. Listen, the next time you go kissing some weirdo intruder, please make sure he doesn’t have the power to turn us into bugs. This sucks.”

“Oh, he’s just waving his dick around. The lunch thing was a total flex.”

“Pretty big flex. You’ve got the CEO mad enough to barge in micromanaging us,” she points out, flicking her hair over her shoulder.

“It feels like he’s looking for something, but I have no clue what. It would be a hell of a lot easier to find if he’d just tell us what he really wants.”

“Here’s a protip. When it comes to working with Brock Winthrope—he will never make things easy. Never. I promise. You should have let him buy us lunch. He owes us for this crap!”

“Hey, I need to keep it professional here. For reasons.”

“What would be so damn unprofessional about lunch with the boss and his assistant?” She’s quiet for a minute before a slow, catlike grin pulls at her lips.

I try not to shudder.

“You’re not over your little crush. That’s why you can’t stand having lunch with him,” she says matter-of-factly.

“You know you’re my best friend and I’d never tell you anything that isn’t true, right?” I say, staring her down.

“Yeah?”

“Okay. If you don’t shut up, I’m going to throw you down the hall. That’s not a threat. I used to put you to bed in college when you’d pass out in the break room.”

She rolls her eyes. “Sorr-y! I didn’t mean to hit a nerve, crankypants.”

“Liar.” I pick up the phone and call in a pizza order.

We keep working at the Everest-high pile of old ads until the front desk calls to say it’s been delivered.

“We need new copywriters.” I push my chair under my desk.

Jenn opens the door. “Why?”

“Because this stuff is mind-numbing. Ads need to be cute or funny or at least vaguely interesting to get attention these days.”

She nods. “Don’t be too harsh. People worked hard on that copy and it’s ten years out of date.”

“Maybe they need a workshop or something. Something to spice things up.”

We stop to eat lunch and make small talk about Maisy’s not-so-secret crushes and Jenn’s lovely grandma with her rustic inn on an island not far from here.

The day is almost over by the time we close out the last video, update our shared notes, and start moving on to the reviews from hell.

“Check this out. Here’s an interesting tidbit from Chicago,” I say, my eyes flicking over the words. “It calls the food ‘inedible cat vomit,’ but apparently the cuisine at the Winthrope Lanai wowed them.”

“Well, Chicago is a long way from Lanai,” Jenn says with a shrug. “Maybe the Chicago restaurant just sucks and the Lanai’s is awesome. Because, um, Hawaii.”

I frown.

She could be right.

Considering what happened to me, though, it’s safe to assume there could be some major glitches with all the resorts.

My office phone rings. “This is Piper.”

“Piper, it’s Keenan. Mr. Winthrope would like to see you in his office and he’s too much of a workaholic walrus to call you himself. Can you make it?”

“…sure,” I say after wincing. “Jenn too?”

“I believe he only requested you,” Keenan says quietly.

Oh, boy.

An image of Winthrope’s hot mouth tracing mine as he shoves me against his desk competes with the firing from hell where he’s roaring in my face and thrusting a box in my hands, ordering me to clean out my stuff and go.

“Do you know what it’s about?” I ask.

“I don’t. Sorry.”

“Okay. I’ll be there. Thanks.” I hang up the phone.

“What’s wrong?” Jenn asks.

“Winthrope wants to see me.”

“What now? Where does he find the time?” she huffs.

“Who knows, but I have a feeling it can’t be good.”

“Oh, relax. You’ll be fine. We didn’t do anything except hack through the jungle of blah he ordered us to.”

She’s right, even if that feels too easy.

I laugh. “Maybe he wants to cuss me out for having a spine.”

“Can you blame him?”

Yes.

He did lie about being a lowly resort manager.

I steel my spine, gather my courage, and march to Winthrope’s office without waiting for more sass from Jenn.

He’s just your average frowny man with an entire saguaro cactus up his butt.

Just a man with nine zeros in his bank account.

I can handle this.

I take a deep breath, ready to knock on his door, but he yells at me to come in like he has some sixth sense.

Psychic bastard.

Barely one step inside his office and I’m already rattled, but I keep moving.

“Report. I’d like your assessment of what you’ve seen today,” he clips.

Not even a hello.

Peachy.

And a report? Yikes.

I’m so not prepared.

“I don’t have anything written down,” I say flatly, refusing to show any fear.

His gaze sharpens.

“An oral report will suffice, Miss Renee. I trust a few hours of dusty ads haven’t short-circuited your razor-sharp wits.”

You wish, asshat, I think to myself.

“Well, we’ve gone through the videos, but we’re just starting on the reviews. My assessment isn’t much more flattering than yours—the old material sucks. It feels like it was made for retired guys who live on golf courses, and I can’t imagine the vibe was much different in 2012 or whenever.”

He stares at me, his face set like an unreadable stone.

My toes invert, curling against my feet because I can’t hide the rest of me.

All the brave words in the world can’t override Brock Winthrope’s intimidation stare.

“I’m not trying to insult your marketers just for fun,” I tell him. “And I’m not sure how to say this, but you told me my ability to say things you don’t want to hear made me right for this gig, so I’m just going to go for it—”

“That bad, huh?”

I pause, unsure how to soften the blow. The ads are stale cereal.

“They’re too corporate. Too stiff. A hard sell a decade ago and impossible in this market,” I say.

“Those ads brought my grandfather over a billion dollars a year,” he bites off.

“But times change, don’t they?” I ask gently. “They’re too formal and disconnected. I looked you up, honestly, and I see how they talk about you online.”

“How’s that, Miss Renee?” His stare deepens.

Ugh. Like he doesn’t know.

He’s richer than Midas. Dangerously handsome. Skilled at his craft—supposedly—but everyone worships the brand name more than the man like he’s just a continuation of his world-famous grandfather.

“You’re basically Mr. Young Money, right? I’d guess that’s what you’re trying to attract. Young money after a luxury experience who travel a ton. The old ads aren’t going to cut it. If they rolled across my screen back when I was doing content stuff, I’d keep on scrolling.”

“You’re not doing your travel videos anymore?” He sounds surprised.

My face heats.

Ignore it.

There’s no need to make things more personal, and it’s none of his business anyhow.

“Like I was saying, we’ve just gotten to the negative stuff, but some of it, it’s, well—” How do I say this? “Intense.”

“Tell me something I don’t already know, Miss Renee. I’ve already concluded there are five hundred ways to call my resorts dogshit. When I figure out what the hell’s going on, I’ll sue the perpetrator into smoking ash.” He’s so mad he’s almost growling.

His piercing blue eyes become molten sapphire.

Scary hot, even if I hate that he’s so upset.

“Are you alright? This seems like it’s getting kinda personal,” I say.

His eyes soften. “This isn’t your fault. Clearly. You weren’t even on the radar when it started months ago. It’s just very goddamned frustrating.”

Our eyes connect.

When I realize what’s happening, I rock back slightly.

Oh, God. He’s managed to get under my skin again.

I’m feeling actual sympathy for Brock damn Winthrope.

“Anyhow, I need you on a conference call with my Australian marketing head this evening,” he says slowly. “We need more cross-pollinating across regional divisions if we want fresh ideas. It’s going to be a late night, so order food on the company card.”

Oh.

I rode with Jennifer today because my car kicked the bucket, and I also promised Maisy I’d stay with Dad tonight so she could go out with friends.

She’s just a high school kid. She should get a social life at least a few times a week.

“About that. I’d love to, but—I rode with Jennifer.”

“I’ll have my driver take you home then. We can share a car.”

Eep.

My skin turns to needles as he exhales slowly.

“You hate that idea? Fine, I’ll take a damn Uber. Something tells me I’ll fare better in one than you anyhow, Miss High-Maintenance.”

A startled laugh falls out of me. “Hey, the gentleman is back! Sort of.”

He smirks, stands up, and moves closer.

“After your friend’s comment earlier today, I presume Miss Sunshine kisses and tells,” he rumbles. “That’s a naughty fucking girl.”

I never knew words could be so destructive.

I’m burning down.

Right here.

Mere inches away from those hateful lips with the terrible power to cut me into pieces, drench me in gasoline, and leave me a blazing pyre.

“Dude, I’m sorry. I thought you were some wonky manager in Hawaii I’d never see again when I told her. And the way I reacted when I saw you—” I shrug. “Of course, she knew. I told her to drop it because it was a one-time mishap and we work together now.”

For a second, his nostrils flare, like he’s smelling me and trying very hard not to sink his teeth into my flesh.

Then he jerks back, swiveling on those tall legs and putting more space between us as he pivots to the sweeping view of the city outside.

“Go order dinner, Miss Renee. I’ll see you tonight.”

“…what should I order? Are you eating too?” I ask in a whisper.

“Whatever the hell you want.”

I’m about to self-combust.

We’re sitting on a sleek leather couch in his office, so close our sides are touching.

It’s impossible not to notice how gigantic he is next to me.

Even sitting down, he towers over me, a wall of a man with mile-wide shoulders and a jaw so chiseled it could shame Hercules.

Don’t stare at him. Pippa, don’t—

Oh, but my eyes don’t listen.

They wander over every inch of that button-down shirt wrapped around him so tight it almost looks painted on. His corded muscle is almost obscene when he’s freed from his jacket. My glance flicks helplessly down to his lap with a terrible memory of what I saw in the shower.

Does it ever get awkward when he takes a woman home and he’s just too big for them?

Would he be too much for me?

Would I even be able to close my hands around that ridiculous—

He whips his head toward me abruptly like he can read my thoughts.

I gasp, shrinking back in my seat.

“Feeling all right, Miss Renee?” he snaps.

“Yeah! I just—” I grab the water bottle at my side and pretend I’ve been drinking. “I’m fine.”

I’m anything but.

It’s a minor miracle I remember to breathe before he punches up the reason for this meeting on the laptop screen he’s positioned on the table in front of us.

Michelle, Winthrope Australia’s marketing director, comes through Zoom a minute later. I’m a little jealous at the wide, alluring grin she gives him with her platinum-blond model good looks.

I pry my mind off his unmentionables long enough to listen to her ad successes and struggles.

The meeting drags on for roughly half an hour. We’ve gone over some new marketing ideas, but the conversation always swings back to the reviews.

I’m beginning to think he’s obsessed, and not in a healthy way.

Is he just an egomaniac after all? Is criticism his kryptonite?

“I’ve been reaching out to organic influencers like we discussed months ago with some success,” Michelle says cheerfully. “The big ones kept turning me down, but then I found a lovely young lady from Brisbane with a middling following. She had an in with an entire group of shockingly powerful TravelTok people, and well, the results speak for themselves.”

“They do. Your revenue growth leads the pack over our other branches for two quarters straight. That’s a move in the right direction,” Brock says happily.

I’m annoyed with another pang of jealousy as she smiles at him like a golden lab who’s just been thrown a bone.

“Is Winthrope Australia implementing the reward system Robert Clivewell proposed?” he asks.

“Oh, yes. We’ve started a lovely pilot program in Sydney. Robert recommended we review the data for a few months before extending it, and I tend to agree,” she says.

He nods. “Good. That’s everything I need to know then. Anything else?”

“No. I’ll let you two go. I know it’s rather late there.” She waves at the screen. “Ta-ta for now.”

We wave back to her, and I feel a hint of mounting dread, knowing I’m about to be alone with Winthrope, and this time with no distractions.

She exits the meeting first.

Brock closes the program and sets his laptop on the coffee table beside him, clasping his hands as he looks at me. “What did you think?”

God. I so don’t want to answer that.

Everyone’s working hard, but I still think we’re missing the mark, helplessly picking at insights overseas that might not apply here.

“The ideas are fresh.” I don’t elaborate.

“And?” he clips.

“The midlist influencer thing seems smart, honestly. We can replicate that here pretty easily,” I say, biting my inner cheek. “Although their in-house content leaves a lot to be desired. Their ads just don’t capture any mystique, and you already know how I feel about the content here.”

“Mystique?”

“Yeah. Like remember when we were in Lanai and we talked about what life would be like if we could be different people? Even for one night?”

“Like either of us could ever forget, Miss Renee,” he says with a glance so sharp it hurts.

God.

Not what I was going for.

Not something he’ll ever let me live down, either.

“My point is, that’s what makes a luxury hotel stay so inviting. You don’t have to be you while you’re there. You get to switch off, step outside your comfort zone, and experience another life. That’s the magic that makes people travel and it’s what makes a short video of a fancy place shine. Thirty seconds of glory to spark the imagination.”

“You want us to sell fantasy then,” he growls.

I rock back and blink.

Huh? What’s he so upset about?

He lowers his voice when he speaks again, a thick whisper now. “I won’t pull too many insights from something so personal. Strange things said on a strange trip to a strange woman I hate having to resist.”

My hand trembles.

My breath catches in my throat.

I have to force out air around the lump in my throat.

“You have to resist me?”

I shouldn’t ask, but I’m breathing too hard. No way he doesn’t notice.

“We work together, Miss Renee.” His whispers go from strained to vulnerable.

That throat boulder only grows larger, and my ragged breathing isn’t helped by the fact that he’s breathing harder too.

“But it’s a struggle to—to resist me?” My free hand shakes so hard the notepad I’m using starts slipping out of my grasp.

His hand brushes against my skirt as he catches it.

Our eyes lock.

His hand lingers on my thigh.

“You have no goddamned clue. The fact that you’re here in front of me, dangling like a piece of meat in front of a hungry lion…” He doesn’t finish that sentence as he jerks his face away.

He doesn’t need to.

I can’t pull my eyes off him, and honestly, I don’t want to.

I know how dangerous this is.

Lion really is the best analogy when this man could swallow me whole in so many ways, equally wonderful and devastating.

I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I hope it’s more than words, even as my brain protests.

Oh, but he’s leaning forward, his weight eclipsing me.

I close my eyes, tilting my chin up in anticipation, this fever overwhelming me.

I can’t think.

I just feel as strong, searching arms wind around my back.

The next time I inhale, breathing him in, I open my eyes. Looks like I’m sandwiched between the back of the couch and Brock’s huge chest.

His nostrils flare.

His eyes flash like gas flames.

Then his mouth falls on mine and I’m so flipping gone.

Deliciously wrecked.

The way he rasps against my tongue tastes that much sweeter because it’s so reckless, so wrong, so taboo.

Every forbidden kiss I’ve dreamed about since Lanai happens in the span of a minute.

His tongue chases mine until I squirm.

He gives up another growl and I moan into his mouth.

“Fuck, Piper Renee. Do you have any clue?” he whispers, pulling away and pressing his hot forehead to mine.

“W-what?”

“All the shit you do to me. How many nights I couldn’t sleep. How often I had to wake the fuck up and stroke myself off, thinking about the ways I didn’t get to savage you in Hawaii. Do you know how many times I came in this hand?” He pauses, breathing flames against my lips, holding up his huge, clenched hand.

Oh my God.

“Woman, if you hadn’t come back to me, I would have hunted you down,” he whispers darkly.

I’m breathless.

I can’t remember who or what I am until he breaks my trance with another feral kiss. This time, his teeth seize my bottom lip, pulling with enough excitement to bruise.

I don’t care.

I want this sting.

I want him to demolish me as my hands twine through his sandy-dark hair, digging at his scalp just like I did when we kissed under a starry night sky.

No stars here except our own in this office, but God they’re so bright.

He clings to me tighter without breaking the kiss before he pulls away.

I need a few seconds before I open my eyes and see—

No.

Not that.

Not yet.

Please.

The heavy, stricken look on his face scares me.

Like there’s this gravity holding him back, telling him this is wrong, and he’d better stop before we both make a mistake we’ll never take back.

I scratch at his hair, desperately trying to move him closer.

His lip curls faintly.

He likes that I’m dying for him.

“Brock,” I whisper, sliding my foot up his leg as he dips his head again and storms my mouth.

Now, we’re in the moment.

No longer beholden to anything except this searing lust.

No rules, no demands, just his greedy tongue tracing the shape of my mouth and moving in hot rushes. Then the sweep of his hands up my legs, pulling them apart, slipping down where he stops at my panties.

“Fucking shit,” he rasps, almost choked. “I want to take this. I want this hot little pussy wrapped around every inch of me. I want to—”

His phone goes off as loudly as if someone just chucked an armed grenade into the room.

I jump back and slide toward the other end of the couch, fixing my clothes as he lurches up like it hurts him and stomps over to his desk.

I can’t look away, though, and he’s still holding my gaze as he snatches it up and then glares at the screen.

He makes no effort to answer.

Holy hell.

If there was ever a cue that it’s time to go…

I really should.

Get out of here while I still can, but I’m breathing too hard to speak, much less stand.

He’s still staring at his phone with a grimace. I don’t know if it’s something on the screen that’s upsetting him or the fact that I’m still here.

Once I’ve refilled the air in my lungs, I say, “Brock—um, Mr. Winthrope—I should go.” I turn my back, moving as briskly as I can without breaking into a full run. “I’ll have more for you tomorrow! I mean—not more of this, but more work.”

“You turn into a pumpkin at midnight or what?” he growls behind me.

“No. But you might turn into a bosshole when you come to your senses.” I don’t mean it. It’s hard to even get the words out.

He snorts, but gives nothing back.

My legs are jelly.

I’m having a hard time walking as I head for the elevator.

What did he say earlier about leaving this late? Something about a driver?

But I’m still reeling and stupid after that kiss.

God, how was it better than the first time when I tumbled into his arms?

I’ll just take an Uber home.

I need to get out of here ASAP.

But when I get off the elevator, there’s a large older man with greying hair standing by the wall in a princely blue-and-gold shirt.

I should be a little freaked since everyone else supposedly left hours ago, but this guy looks like he’s waiting for me in a place crawling with cameras and security monitors.

Plus, something about the grey hair reminds me of my dad.

“The boss said I’m to escort you home. Come,” he says with a hint of a foreign accent I can’t pin down. It sounds Eastern European.

“Oh, wait, you’re his driver?”

He nods. “And from now on, yours. I pick you up and deliver you to and from work. I have strict instructions not to let you walk alone after dark.”

Whoa.

I want to argue, but the stern look he gives me says the odds of letting me do anything else are zilch.

“Umm—you really don’t have to walk me to the car.” I shrug. “I mean, you’re already here waiting, so that’s fine for tonight. But in the future, it’s hardly necessary—”

“Mr. Winthrope says I mustn’t leave you alone in the dark. I walk you,” he says, thumping his chest.

Oof.

“Uh, right. Is this area that unsafe or something? Is Winthrope afraid of the dark? Is he allowed to walk alone?”

“He’s bigger than you. And richer. And the boss.”

Dang.

Who am I to argue with Ivan Drago’s impeccable logic?

Mostly, I don’t bother because it’s late and I’m tired and still seeing my life flash before my eyes after that kiss.

It’s not worth fighting a free, easy ride home, so I follow him to the sleek black Range Rover SUV waiting outside.

“Fyodor, but you can call me Fyo.” He opens the door for me.

I hold out my hand.

He shakes it with a grip like a garlic press.

“I’m Piper. Piper Renee.”

“So I heard. He also says you’re sweeter than honeycomb, which is why you cannot be left alone.”

My jaw drops.

I have a hard time picturing Brock saying that. Like ever.

And after he made such a big deal of me mentioning what happened in Lanai to Jenn, he’s been talking about me to this mafioso dude?

Though maybe that’s why he seems to have no regrets about lying to me in Hawaii.

He didn’t expect me to be anything but helpless, too fragile to survive a twenty-minute trip across town after sunset.

If I wasn’t so drained and confused, I’d be offended.

As the vehicle pulls up my driveway the next time I look up, I say, “You don’t need to pick me up tomorrow. I’ll go to work with my friend, Jennifer. She’s on the same team.”

“I will come. If you don’t get in, that’s on you,” he says bluntly.

Great.

Once I’m walking into the quiet house, I realize I have a new text. I tap the screen with a sigh.

Good night, Miss Piper Renee.

Oh, Brock Winthrope.

If only you knew how much you make me wonder whether or not I’ll ever have a good night again.