“You know it, babes. We aren’t football players, going at it once a week. We’re working men, playing six or seven days a week, and it’s hard and awesome.”

  That schedule is also a reminder of his goals. He had a great series in New York over the weekend. But if he were to keep coming over late at night, staying up past midnight, enjoying the pleasures of my nightly seductions, and all the clever ways I’d service his kink, he’d be worn out and exhausted, which would affect his game. I can’t let that happen to him.

  But as I glance at the clock on the living room wall, the shrinking time weighs on me once more. We have one more hour, and I’ve never gone out with him in daytime. I want a last taste of what I’m giving up.

  “I bet you’re hungry. Can I take you out to breakfast?”

  Gunnar murmurs his approval of the idea, then stretches up and grabs my face. He pulls me over the back of the couch to give me a kiss, whispering against my lips, “I’m always hungry. For food, sex, or baseball. Let’s do it.”

  I take him to a nearby café in the Ferry Building, grabbing a picnic table outside where we can watch the ferries dock. He orders egg whites and potatoes without butter, and I opt for granola and yogurt. When the server leaves, I draw a deep breath of the sea air and gaze at the bay.

  “You got a boat fetish, Rafe?” he asks.

  I laugh. “Maybe you do, as I learned last night.”

  “I love the water. We always took beach vacations when I was a kid. I was a fish. Spent the whole time in the water.”

  “That’s not surprising, you being so active,” I say.

  “What about you? Were you a fish?” he asks.

  “A fish watcher. I grew up in London. Used to spend many afternoons walking along the River Thames and dreaming about the life I wanted.”

  Gunnar squints like that concerns him. “You weren’t happy growing up?”

  “I was happy. We didn’t have much. I wanted more—to build something, make something. Do big things for my family. I’d walk along the water and talk to the river.”

  He sets his chin in his hand. “That’s very European.”

  “I suppose,” I say with a laugh. “I always loved the water. Staring at it, imagining the stories of the people on the boats moving down it, where were they going to, where were they coming from.”

  “Is that what you think about when you’re sketching something new?” he asks. “Do you imagine the people wearing your designs as you create?”

  It’s like he has a view into my brain. “Those are all questions I ask myself when I’m working on new concepts. Where would a man wear these? How would he feel in them? How would he want to feel? I suppose all of that started when I used to wander along the water and imagine what the people were up to.”

  Gunnar’s smile widens, lighting up his blue eyes. “I’m learning so many fascinating things about you this morning.”

  And I’m learning things about him too. He’s intuitive. He’s an excellent listener, paying attention to what I say.

  The last man I fell in love with wasn’t like that. It took me too long to see the truth about Lucas. Foolishly, I thought we were a perfect match because we worked in the same industry.

  Wait.

  Why in the bloody hell am I thinking about love? Love isn’t in the cards with Gunnar. We are not in the cards.

  But breakfast is. The server brings our food, and we tuck in. I let myself enjoy this one perfect moment with my obsession.

  Only, Gunnar is proving to be so much more than an obsession.

  When we’ve finished eating and leave the café, I work up the will to say goodbye. In front of the Ferry Building, as crowds slip past us onto boats or into the financial district or out to the cable cars, I hold Gunnar’s face and bring him close for a kiss.

  “I almost wish I didn’t go into Edge that night,” I say, full of regret and longing.

  His eyes burn. “Don’t say that. Don’t wish me away.”

  “I wish this were easier, then.”

  “Nothing good is easy. But you don’t wish we never happened,” he says. “You wish we could keep happening, just like I do.”

  Then he grabs the back of my head, claims my mouth, and delivers the most searing kiss in the span of human existence. My brain melts and my bones liquefy. His kiss tempts me more than anything ever has. I want to say fuck my one-night plans, let’s do every night instead.

  But Gunnar is stronger than I am. When we break the kiss, he lifts his hand in a simple wave and walks away like he’s leaving the field at the end of a game.

  And I watch him go.

  37

  DANGEROUS TEMPTATIONS

  Rafe

  A week later, I meet with Matthew, Theresa, and some of my other senior VPs in our conference room to review plans for the new campaign. This time, I’m focused and listen to every detail.

  “We want to launch the campaign in New York with a fantastic event. We’ll invite influencers, fashion bloggers, and the media,” Matthew says. He clicks a button on his laptop and spins the screen my way.

  I stifle a growl. It’s an image of Gunnar’s thirst trap, set against the new branding materials. Are they trying to kill me? “Why are you using that one?” I bite out.

  “We’ll have fresh shots. This is just a mockup. Gunnar’s busy with the baseball season, but we’ve secured time next week for promo photos.”

  I wince, imagining the photo shoot.

  I could see myself walking into that shoot, telling everyone to leave, closing the door, and stealing a few minutes alone with the model. Pressing him against the wall, grinding against him, kissing him until we’re both intoxicated.

  I shake those thoughts away. “That all sounds fantastic.”

  “We have some projections on how we think the campaign will grow the new line,” Matthew says.

  After he shares those, Theresa jumps in. “These trends align with the market research supporting the Bespoke acquisition.”

  Matthew hums, twirling a pen in his fingers. “If the deal goes through—”

  “When the deal goes through,” I correct.

  He smiles. “When it does, we’ll have everything in our portfolio for a man’s wardrobe. We can develop a marketing campaign around that.” Matthew’s eyes light up. “Everything a man needs,” he muses.

  Theresa smiles a little devilishly. “Or perhaps . . . We dress men all the way.”

  Matthew points at her with a smile. “That’s better.”

  I smile. “Yes. That’s a winner.”

  At last the meeting ends and I go to my office, slam the door, and lock it. Then, I flip open my laptop, feverishly call up the calendar, and check for details for the photo shoot next week.

  I stare at the calendar square. It’s a slice of chocolate cake. A glass of fine scotch. A pair of front-row tickets to my favorite concert.

  Gunnar will be at the warehouse studio a few miles from here, wearing Rafe Rodman underwear, smiling that sultry smile for the camera, looking all sexy and mine.

  I let out a tight breath. I could find an excuse. Hell, I’m the CEO. I don’t need an excuse. I could walk into the studio, say hello, drink in the sight of him.

  “Fuck,” I mutter, sinking into my chair and spinning to stare out the window.

  Would I seriously do any of those things?

  I grit my teeth and shove every scenario away. For the rest of the day, I bury myself in phone calls with business partners and investors. I don’t look at the calendar again until evening rolls around, and even then it’s only to check my schedule.

  I’m due in London in a few weeks to see my bankers, who will be overseeing the Bespoke acquisition. Christine needs to go to London soon too. I have promised her some introductions to business associates.

  With a harsh breath, I check the dates once more. I don’t have any meetings on the day of the proposed shoot. I’ll just be in the office, thinking of things to inspire me . . .

  I could pull it off. Just nip in, see him, then leave.

  My hungry heart clicks open the thirst trap image once more—the first one he sent. The invitation.

  Come and get me.

  Desire claws at me like it did the first time I saw it. But now, I feel so much more than red-hot physical desire for Gunnar. More than lust.

  That’s the problem. I care too deeply for him. And I don’t know what to do about it.

  38

  SURPRISE ME

  Gunnar

  A Week Later

  On a warm late-September night in San Francisco, the Dragons destroy the San Diego Devils, putting us one win away from a playoff spot. I trot off the field with my teammates, high on possibility as I strut into the clubhouse, high-fiving Zane at his stall.

  “Tomorrow,” I say to my buddy. “We’re going to bring it.”

  He fist-bumps back. “Let’s do it.”

  I strip out of my dirt-streaked uniform, toss it into the laundry bin, then make my way to the showers, washing off the game.

  As I’m getting dressed Zane wanders over to my stall, buttoning his shirt. “You want to grab a bite to eat? Holden and Declan are in too,” he says as he finishes the last button.

  I do love hanging out with my teammates, but it’s eleven o’clock. I have my first photo shoot for Rafe Rodman tomorrow before the game. We’ll be taking shots that will be in the pre-production materials. Teasers for the big campaign.

  “Nah, I need my beauty sleep,” I tell him. “I’ve got the shoot tomorrow.”

  Zane’s eyes flicker with curiosity. “You think he’s going to be there?”

  “You never know.” I wish I could strip the hope out of my voice, but I can’t because I’m dying for him to show up tomorrow. “I shouldn’t want to see him,” I confess.

  Zane knows all the details. When I walked away from Rafe at the San Francisco Ferry Building two weeks ago, I grabbed lunch with my friend and told him what went down. I asked him to be my accountability partner. To help me stay strong. He said yes, but that it would be damn hard for him because, in his words, he’s a love supporter, not a break-up supporter.

  But he’s been nothing but helpful, especially when I was tempted to text Rafe. Instead, I’d turn to Zane, and he’d say something funny or amuse me with a stat about baseball I didn’t even realize existed, or he’d find a fun new restaurant for us to try on the road, courtesy of Maddox’s foodie knowledge.

  But I’m not sure what to do about tomorrow, and I need his help. As I pull on my polo shirt, I ask, “I don’t want him there, right? I definitely don’t want to see him, right?”

  Zane sighs then claps me on the shoulder. “But you do.”

  I roll my eyes. “Dude! Aren’t you supposed to tell me to be strong?”

  He laughs. “Be strong, man. But I want him to be there so you two can figure this shit out. Hell, I figured it out with Maddox, and he was my damn agent.”

  Fair point. A player-and-agent romance is the definition of off-limits, but Zane and Maddox found a way to navigate that speed bump. Now they are goals.

  Maybe Rafe and I just have too many obstacles.

  “I don’t think there’s anything to figure out. I should be totally good with this.” I’m going to pep talk myself if he won’t.

  “Well, you’ve been playing baseball like a god. You should be good with that.” Zane thumps his chest. “How’s that for an amazing accountability partner?”

  That’s true. I have been on a hell of a tear. My stats, RBIs, and on-base percentage are through the roof. I’ve put everything into this postseason run, and it’s paying off, knock on wood.

  “Thanks for reminding me—no, thanks for everything, Zane. I couldn’t get through this without you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I say goodnight and head home. Because . . . what if Rafe is there in the morning? I need my beauty sleep and a little time to manscape.

  I shave before bed so I’ll have the perfect morning scruff, then I pick just the right outfit to wear when I walk in the door. If he’s there, I both want him to miss me and pounce on me. I’m selfish like that and greedy too.

  I’m antsy as I leave my place the next morning and drive to the Dog Patch District, where I expend some of that nervous energy bounding up the steps to the studio warehouse. I considered texting Rafe to see if he’s here, or will be here, but I’ve resisted contact so far, and he has too. I want the man to succeed in his business plans as much as I succeed on the diamond.

  Still, it’d be a classic Rafe move for him to show up. My heart skitters in anticipation. I bet he’s in the studio waiting for me, sitting like a king in a black leather chair, all smooth and casual, licking his lips when he sees me, his eyes traveling up and down my body.

  Powered by adrenaline and hope, I head inside and give my name to the receptionist, who waves me in. I turn down the hall, yank open the door to studio five, cranked up and ready.

  But as I scan the white room outfitted with changing rooms, a few chaise lounges, and many bright lights, only disappointment waits for me.

  Well, no. There’s also a statuesque woman with a friendly, warm smile. She was at Edge with Rafe the night I met him. She approaches me and sticks out her hand. “Hi, Gunnar. I’m Theresa, the Executive VP at Rafe Rodman. I’ll introduce you to the photographer when she arrives in a minute, and we have all the designs for you, as well as a changing room.”

  My heart sinks. But then, the shoot hasn’t even started. Rafe would come at the end.

  That’s his style—to surprise me and devastate me, then leave me wanting more.

  39

  GETAWAY JET

  Rafe

  I sink into the cushy leather chair in the first row of the British Airways jet. Christine makes a production of settling in next to me, setting down her book, then her tablet, then her mobile. Her sharp eyes don’t leave me the entire time while she arranges herself.

  The flight attendant stops by and asks if we want coffee or tea or champagne.

  “I’ll take an English breakfast, please,” I tell her.

  “Same for me,” Christine says. “Thank you so much.”

  “I’ll be back in a jiff, then.” The cheery woman wheels around and heads to the galley, and Christine returns to staring at me with pursed lips and eyes brimming with curiosity.

  Finally, I turn to her and ask, “What is it, woman? You’re staring at me like my hair is sticking up or I’ve got something on my face.”

  She laughs, swiping her dark hair off her shoulder. “I was just wondering when you were going to start scrolling through Instagram.”

  I close my eyes and push my head back against the seat. “Why would you think I’d do that?”

  “Oh gee, I don’t know. Maybe because the photo shoot is this morning.”

  “I’m not even thinking about it,” I say tightly.

  It’s all I’m thinking about.

  “Oh, please. Lie to somebody else,” she says.

  “What?” I ask, my eyes flying open. “It’s not a lie.”

  She pulls a don’t be daft face. “You think I don’t know why you wanted to move our trip to London forward? Or that I bought the song and dance about arranging meetings and introducing me to people?”

  “I’ve been meaning to introduce you to some of my contacts for months,” I insist. “This will help with your global expansion. You’ve supported me so much over the years. It just made sense. So we could have the meetings.”

  “Meetings sch-meetings,” she says with a scoff, crossing her long, lean legs. “It didn’t have to be the day of the photo shoot.” Then she reaches for my hand and squeezes it, her voice softening. “Rafe, I’ve been trying to reach out to you. But every time I do, you’re busy. You’re negotiating a deal. You’re working late. You’re studying a contract. We haven’t had a chance to talk.”

  Yet another reason I can’t remain so caught up in Gunnar. I lose sight of other things and people that matter. Which, apparently, I already did. I sigh. “Forgive me. I’ve been crazed. I should be a better friend.”

  “Oh, please. I don’t expect you to jump every time I check in. This is not about me. It’s about you. After Lucas left, you buried yourself in work like work will never hurt you. So, are you going to tell me what happened with your man?”

  Am I? I worry that if I talk about Gunnar, I’ll just miss him more. Although that doesn’t seem possible, really, and we’re trapped in this steel tube for the next ten and a half hours, so I might as well.

  The flight attendant brings us our drinks and we thank her as she sets them down. I sip my tea and scald myself. I’m sure I deserve that.

  I put the cup down carefully. “I sensed I was losing my focus. I’ve wanted an acquisition like Bespoke for a long time, and I can’t risk being distracted.” I lower my voice, guilt weighing it down. “I won’t do that to my employees. I won’t let down the people I work with.”

  She frowns at my confession. “Was that happening?”

  I nod, a little embarrassed.

  “The more you got involved with Gunnar?”

  I nod again. “I can’t afford that. You know how important this is to me.”

  “I do,” she says sympathetically.

  “I can’t mess it up. And it seems I have a propensity for obsession,” I say, wryly, as if I can make light of my all-consuming feelings for the man.

  “No,” she corrects. “You have a big capacity for caring. Don’t confuse the two.”

  Christine’s words are not quite an indictment. But they’re close.

  “It’s for the best,” I say. “I’ve been down this path before. I just . . .” I lack the energy for more denial. Meeting her gaze, I shrug helplessly. “I don’t want to get hurt again, Christine,” I say in a voice too close to breaking.

  She slides an arm around my shoulders and squeezes tightly. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Is that the true reason you broke things off?”