The Play Mate (Roommates, #2)

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“What’s going on with you today?” Cullen chuckled, giving me a confused look.

The smile on my lips faded. “Nothing.”

It was a total lie. I was still on a total high from my might-have-been-a-date with Smith last weekend. Maggie had said it wasn’t a date-it was just two friends who had almost banged while hanging out-but I disagreed. The chemistry that buzzed between us was impossible to ignore.

And so even though I was sitting at work bright and early on a Monday morning, I was humming, my feet kicked up on my desk.

Cullen shook his head. “It’s nice to see you feeling so cheery.”

Smith shot me a smile. “Did you get laid last weekend or something?”

I almost swallowed my tongue.

“Don’t you dare fucking answer that,” Cullen said, looking distraught while I erupted in laughter.

Smith’s playful side wasn’t one that came out often, but I loved the rare glimpses he gave me into who he really was and how his mind worked.

It was the part afterward that made me twitchy.

“Speaking of getting laid, Smith, what’s up with the new lady?” Cullen asked.

My heart jumped up into my throat.

Smith played it cool. “Nothing really.”

“Don’t play coy. You said it was someone from your past . . . so, who is she?”

Smith’s gaze flashed to mine with something that looked like concern. “It’s casual,” he said, directing his attention back to my brother.

“Isn’t it always with you, my man?” Cullen said with a wide grin.

A minute later, I managed to remove myself from the conversation with a mumbled excuse about needing to get something done, but for the rest of the morning, the scene replayed in my head.

This thing was supposed to be exactly that. Casual. What did it matter if Smith was seeing other women?

But, God, did it matter. I couldn’t get it out of my mind. If I kept this up with Smith-seeing him, flirting with him, kissing him-was I setting myself up for the heartbreak of the century?

Taking another sip of coffee from my trusty to-go mug, I opened up the design program to review the campaign I’d finished last week.

As I looked at the images of boy shorts and camisoles in the new spring line, in spite of my heartache over the reminder of Smith’s bad-boy nature, my mind wandered to much racier things . . .

The way Smith’s full, sensual mouth slid over terms like lace bodice, sweetheart cut, and ruching made my panties wet. And instead of teasing me for my overly complicated drink order like Cullen would have, Smith memorized the damn thing. A triple-shot venti soy-mocha latte with no whip. And delivered it to my desk without fanfare. No big production. No thank-you required. He gave it to me because he wanted to, knowing it would make me happy. Simple as that. Just the fact that a man was willing to do that for me without getting anything in return sparked something inside me.

The hardest part of all of this was that after our brief encounter, it wasn’t the sex that stuck with me. It was the intimacy that I missed. The way he’d gathered me up in his arms, pulled me in close to his chest-close enough to feel his body heat, to hear the steady thump of his heartbeat.

I missed the care he took with me, the tenderness I felt when his fingers moved over my skin, tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear. I hadn’t felt that kind of close connection with a man in a long time.

This might have been about sex when I started, but it had grown into something more. I didn’t want just sex like I’d initially thought. No, I wanted a man. And the man I wanted was Smith.

The building’s shared receptionist/secretary, Marjorie, poked her head into our office, and I resisted the urge to fan my face.

“You feeling okay, Evie? You look a little flushed,” she said, cocking her head as her perceptive blue eyes tried to peer into my soul.

She was a perfect secretary. Shared by all the tenants who rented offices in this building, she was the glue that held everything together. Super organized and a real scheduling wiz, but times like this, I wish she were just a tiny bit less observant.

I cleared my throat and pressed a hand to my cheek. “Yeah, I, uh . . . stopped at the gym during lunch for a yoga class. It’s been a while, so I’m a little overheated.”

She stepped into my office and slid a file folder onto my desk. “Oh, cool, what gym?”

What gym, indeed-liar, liar, pants on fire?