And wow. A weight lifts from my shoulders at having made a decision and voicing it to my trusted friend.

  Zane smiles slyly. “Nice! I knew you couldn’t resist him.”

  I lean back in the seat, feeling confident and more like myself.

  “I’m not going to fall in love, just so you know,” I declare. “I’m going to win the bet, and I’m going to get laid. That. Is. All.”

  Zane pats me on the shoulder, like whatever you say. “Sure, sure. I’m just glad you’re going to get some.”

  Me fucking too.

  When the plane lands, I send a text to Rafe.

  One word.

  Gunnar: Yes.

  Then I follow it up with a request.

  Gunnar: Can I see you tonight?

  His reply comes in two minutes. It includes only his address and a time.

  I head to my car, walking on air, and my phone rings. I figure it’ll be Rafe, all sexy and dirty, maybe giving me orders in advance. I’m about to answer with a hey babe when I see my agent’s calling.

  I pick up. “Hey, Josh. What’s up?”

  “You. Me. Drinks. I have deals to discuss with you. Deals that will make you very, very happy.”

  Could this day get any better? Thank you, universe, for rewarding me. I am No Distractions Gunnar.

  That evening, I meet Josh for drinks at The Spotted Zebra, a bar near my home. I spot him outside the watering hole, and he’s all smiles and swagger as I stride up to join him. “You definitely look like you have all the sweet deals for me,” I say.

  “Yes, I do,” Josh says, then claps my shoulder.

  We go inside and order drinks, then I can’t wait any longer. “Bring it on,” I say, beckoning for him to tell me the news.

  Josh holds up one finger. “First. Boyfriend Material sent me the terms of the deal today,” he says.

  When he rattles them off, I whistle. “Hot damn, that’ll cover pretty much a year of medical school.”

  Josh looks pleased. “And you want to know why they were so keen on it? Why they wanted to lock it in?”

  The server brings our drinks and I thank her. Then Josh and I clink glasses.

  “Because of the thirst trap I sent?” I ask, answering him as I take a drink of my bourbon.

  “Yes, exactly. But also because Boyfriend Material is the exclusive dating app partner for Rafe Rodman,” he says.

  I freeze, the glass midair, the condensation sliding down the side. “What?”

  Why the hell did he just mention . . . my lover’s company?

  “Rafe Rodman. The underwear you modeled in the thirst trap. You were flirting with the owner online,” Josh says, like he needs to jog my memory.

  Yeah, I know who he is, thank you very much.

  “But what does his company have to do with Boyfriend Material?” I ask heavily, an anchor sinking in my gut.

  “Boyfriend Material is a corporate partner of Rafe Rodman, and they use the same marketing agency. Not only does Boyfriend Material want you to create some fun content on making a thirst trap, but the agency wants you for a new marketing campaign for the underwear.” He punctuates his deal-making with a rocker salute. “Boom. Who looks out for you, Gun?”

  I gulp, the heat draining from my face. “Rafe Rodman wants me?”

  The double meaning. Oh, the fucking double meaning.

  “Yes,” Josh says.

  Still, something doesn’t add up. “Are you sure?”

  Josh grins, wide and proud. “I got you two deals, man. Who’s the best agent ever?”

  “You are,” I say, but I’m not feeling it. I should be jumping up and dancing on the bar. Sponsorship deals pay mortgages. They fund retirements. They pay tuition.

  “They totally want you. Apparently, Rafe’s company is launching a whole new marketing campaign and they want you to be the face of the You Do You campaign.” Josh scratches his chin. “Oh wait, is it the butt? Do they want you to be the butt of it? Or the pelvis? Or the cock of it?”

  I can’t even laugh. My head spins with questions like, Is this really happening? And, Did my agent seriously just offer me a deal to partner with my lover’s company?

  Rafe’s obsessed with honesty, but he’s been working a deal for me without letting on? Is he trying to buy me?

  “Is this for real?” I press. “Are you sure?”

  Josh laughs. “I am this sure,” he says, then gives me the dollar amount.

  This double offer is real, indeed, to the tune of . . . a fuck-ton of money. But something else will collapse. I know it. Because there’s no way I can have it all.

  Josh and I leave the bar, and when he takes off, I stand on the street corner in a daze, trying to figure out where I’m going next.

  My phone buzzes, and I check it with a sense of foreboding.

  Rafe: Here’s the code to my building. 5512.

  I stare at it for endless minutes, debating where to go, what to do, and how much to say to the man who’s trying to buy me.

  30

  THE PRICE OF ME

  Gunnar

  I am not for sale.

  I can’t be bought for thirty days or for even one night. But it sure looks like that’s what Rafe is trying to do.

  What other explanation is there for the timing of this deal to be the face—or cock—of his brand? I march back toward my house, building up a new head of steam as I go. The man made such a song and dance about honesty and then . . . this. This deal that makes it seem as if he’d own me.

  I huff out a breath. I want to hit the treadmill. I want to lift weights. I want to move. I need to burn off this annoyance with a run that makes my thighs scream.

  But I also need to see Rafe and get to the bottom of this latest move in his game of sex chess.

  I stop by my place for my car, then peel away from Hayes Valley and cut across town. The route takes me toward the ballpark. My home away from home. The place where I feel most like myself.

  Rafe lives near there, and when his building comes into view, I let out a long exhale of begrudging admiration. The dude is loaded, no doubt. He lives in the most exclusive skyscraper in the city, in the penthouse, of course. I drive into the parking garage, pull into a visitor spot, and cut the engine. In the elevator, I punch in Rafe’s key code.

  5512.

  Part of me feels victorious that I’ve earned his key code. But another part wonders if this was always part of his plan. Lure me, tease me, toy with me. Then own me. On the way up, I sort through what I want to say. How to handle this. I don’t have a plan because I’m moving through a haze of anger and shock.

  When I step out on his floor, I can practically smell the greenbacks. Everything here is sleek, chrome, white—the decor screams if you have to ask the price, you can’t afford it.

  Rafe can afford anything. He’s all about money and honesty. That’s why he has that stupid fucking membership to his private club. Because he has more money than he knows what to do with.

  When I reach his door, I rap loudly. Even my knock sounds irritated.

  Rafe doesn’t make me wait. A few seconds later he opens the door, and I catch my breath with a hiss.

  I missed him, and that makes me even madder.

  He’s so stunning with those dark eyes and the chiseled cut of his jaw. He’s wearing blue jeans, something I’ve never seen him in. But I’m sure they cost a thousand dollars and they’re designer. He’s barefoot, and there’s something so sexy about that, as well as the crisp, charcoal-colored button-down that I want to rip off him.

  My libido is not helping.

  Nor is Rafe—the fucker didn’t shave this week. Rafe with stubble might be my favorite Rafe look. He’s Seductive Rafe tonight, because it seems he’s got a whole plan for me. Sexy music floats through an expensive sound system, a mix that sounds like D’Angelo or Sam Smith.

  The man who wants me at any price holds a tumbler of scotch, the picture of cool.

  “You’re here,” he says, so smooth and sexy. As if he knew all along I’d say yes to his arrangement.

  Of course he did. He tried to buy my yes.

  He leans in close like he’s going to give me a welcome-home kiss. I jerk my face away and step inside, kicking off my shoes. I don’t wait for him to tell me to take them off. Rafe is the type of guy who doesn’t let you walk around his home in your shoes.

  In the living room, a stunning view pulls me toward to the floor-to-ceiling windows showing off the night beyond, the stars winking in the sky, the ballpark below.

  I whistle. “Nice view.”

  “It is. I rather enjoy being near the ballpark.” He says it like it’s an insider secret. He has so many secrets.

  “Yeah? You’re not really a baseball fan though.” I toss it out like I’ve caught him in a lie.

  “I think I’m becoming more of one,” he says and strides over to me. “I find I have quite an interest in the game these days.”

  The game. That’s what I’ve always been to him. A fucking game. He who has the most money wins.

  “Can I get you a drink, Gunnar? You seem tense.”

  No shit, Rafe.

  “Yes,” I say crisply. “I definitely need a drink for tonight.”

  He arches an inquisitive brow, but he doesn’t follow it up. He has his plan of seduction, knowing I’m here and assuming I’ll just fall to my knees for him. I follow him to a liquor cart in the corner of the open living room, a bottle of expensive libation resting on a mirrored surface. He lifts the decanter full of bourbon, I presume, and pours some for me.

  “Woodford Reserve Baccarat,” he says. “I thought you might like it, so I got it for you.” He hands me the dark liquid, another sign he’s trying to buy me. I’m not for sale, but I’m not turning down the bourbon.

  I take the glass, and he lifts his. “A toast?” he asks.

  This’ll be good. “What are we toasting to?”

  “To our arrangement.”

  That’s when I crack, hissing through gritted teeth. “Yeah, let’s talk about our arrangement. How you arranged for me.”

  He blinks and steps back. “Excuse me?”

  “You know what I mean,” I bite out.

  “I don’t think I do, Gunnar.” He sounds genuinely flummoxed.

  I’ll make it easy for him. First, I down the bourbon in my glass. The liquor scorches my throat and pushes me closer to my mission. Then, I set the tumbler on the liquor cart with a clink. “Why are you trying to buy me?”

  His baffled frown deepens. “How am I trying to buy you?”

  I scoff. “Give me a break. I’m not stupid.”

  “Gunnar,” he says, his clipped tone on the edge of confusion and frustration. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. But maybe you’d like to tell me.”

  “Maybe you’d like to tell me why your company just made me an offer to be the spokesperson for the You Do You campaign?”

  I’ve never seen Rafe Rodman caught completely off guard, wide-eyed and speechless.

  “They made you an offer?” he asks when he recovers his voice and sets his glass down.

  “You expect me to believe you’re in the dark about this?” Everything I know about him says that’s impossible.

  We stand in front of his windows, the entire city at our feet.

  “I met with my agent an hour ago,” I explain crisply. “Your marketing agency just offered me a deal to represent the You Do You campaign because of my thirst trap. The one for you. The one we fucking flirted over.” I point to him. “The one that got you to come to the goddamn ballpark. The one that started everything.”

  My voice rises with every line. Passion and emotion storm inside me. What the hell is going on with me? I feel so much for this man that it’s consuming me. “And it’s a great offer. But I feel like you’re trying to buy my yes.”

  There. I’ve put it all out there.

  I expect Rafe’s cool reserve to slip into place, but he only looks mystified.

  “I had no idea,” he says, as if he’s doing a lightning-fast scan of his brain for some clue. “I didn’t know a thing about this.”

  None of this makes any sense. I shake my head, trying to sort out which is more likely—that Rafe is that good an actor or that he didn’t know the marketing plan. “It’s your company. You love your business. How could you miss that they offered me a deal?”

  Rafe’s dark gaze pops with some realization, then he drops his head into his hands and says, “Because I fucked up.”

  31

  ONE NIGHT OR NOTHING

  Rafe

  I can’t believe I did something so utterly uncharacteristic of me, wouldn’t believe it if I weren’t so sure what had happened.

  Matthew set the campaign proposal in front of me at the marketing meeting the other day, and I signed off on it. His briefing must have included the celebrities he’d booked or hoped to book, and I’d missed it.

  How could I have been so careless?

  I set down my glass, cross to Gunnar, and take his shoulders. “Let me tell you what happened.” I want to beg him to understand, even though admitting my mistake feels like ripping out a piece of my black heart. But the truth matters, no matter how embarrassing, and I need to tell him.

  “Then elaborate,” he says, still caustic.

  I despise being vulnerable. I hate letting people see my flaws. But in his shoes, I’d feel bought too. When I look into those gorgeous blue eyes and see the hurt, I’d do anything to win his trust again.

  “I would never do that to you. I respect you too much,” I begin. “You have to know that.”

  “I didn’t think so.” His tone says I owe him a lot more than a vague explanation. “But, seriously, Rafe. What the hell?”

  With a surge of regret, I grip him tighter. “Let me check my facts. I want to tell you the truth, but I have to see if my suspicions are right.”

  I go to my couch and flip open my laptop on the table. “I put my phone on do not to disturb tonight,” I explain, still a little flustered.

  “Okay?” Gunnar says, clearly needing more details.

  “I set it so only your texts and calls would come through,” I say, hoping this insight helps Gunnar see my intentions—I wanted to only focus on him tonight. “But Matthew—he’s my marketing director—said he was going to send me final papers this evening for our new marketing campaign and I didn’t want to deal with it knowing you were coming over.”

  Except, I fear I know the answer to Gunnar’s what the hell happened question and it lies in my obsession. I click over to my email, ignoring Theresa’s note about the upcoming meetings in London with Bespoke, a company we’re trying to acquire. Instead, I open the note from Matthew, then click on the PDF for the You Do You contract. All I have to do is search for the name Gunnar Ford and it comes up immediately. I close my eyes, drop my head into my hand, and groan in utter frustration. Over myself – I missed this key detail of him.

  “What the hell is going on, Rafe?”

  “Matthew sent this over to me. It’s the final contract for the You Do You campaign. The one that I signed,” I say meeting his gaze. He’s wary. Of course he is. I haven’t even begun to explain myself fully. But I hope my face and the anguish I feel is a beginning. “Please stay.”

  He walks from the window to the couch but doesn’t sit. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  Some of the anger is stripped from his tone. But I want to remove it all. He deserves that much for the trust he has given me in our nights together.

  “Please,” I implore, reaching for his hand. “I want to explain it fully.”

  Gunnar takes my hand. “So talk, Rafe. Tell me what happened,” he says softly, then sits next to me.

  I flash back to the other day. When I was driven mad in the conference room with thoughts of him. “I had a meeting last week. The day you left. And I was distracted.”

  “No distractions,” Gunnar says gently, reminding me of our motto.

  “Exactly. But I was so consumed with thoughts of you.”

  “What kind of thoughts?”

  “All of them. You. Pleasing you.” My voice turns smoky at the thought of what I want to do to him. Things that will make him shout my name. That will drive him wild.

  “Don’t you want me to please you?” he asks.

  It’s such a relief to hear him tease me. I’ve missed it—the flirting and the sarcasm, and all of his utter Gunnar-ness. I missed him too much while he was away.

  “It comes down to the same thing,” I say, then return to my explanation. “And I drifted off in the meeting. I lost focus. All I could think about was you and the offer.”

  “So then what?” he asks, urging me to keep going.

  “I stopped paying attention to anything but your face, your body, and . . . you.”

  His lips twitch in a grin. “Yeah?”

  “Yes,” I say, then lift my hand and graze the corner of his lips with my thumb. He bites down on it, and I ask, “This delights you?”

  Gunnar gives a very cocky shrug—his signature move. “It sure does. Tell me more, Rafe. What were you thinking about?”

  “Where you were. Whether you were contemplating what it would be like to be with me for thirty days. Whether you would say yes. I was obsessed. When my team asked me if I approved of the marketing campaign, I simply said yes.”

  “You faked it,” he points out.

  I grimace. “I trusted them to put together a good campaign. I hire smart people so I don’t have to be involved in every decision. But this time, apparently, the details involved you.”

  “Seems they did,” he says, sounding resigned.

  “What would you have preferred me to do if I had been paying attention? Call you and ask whether you wanted to be part of it?” If there’s a way I could have handled this better, I want to know it.

  He doesn’t answer immediately, then says quietly, “I suppose so.”

  “I wish I’d been on the ball. That I’d heard your name and reached out right away to discuss it with you.” I swallow roughly. “Please know that.”