After going for a run to try to shake off my anticipation, I took a cool shower to clear my head. I let the water sluice over my shoulders and closed my eyes as I hummed. While humming had always been something I did to soothe myself, to soothe Owen, when I realized I was humming Kylie Minogue’s Can’t Get You Out of My Head, my eyes sprang open.
Of course they landed on one of the half-dozen Parker products that now filled my shower and bathroom. I truly could not get the man out of my mind, as he was all around me—in my thoughts, at work, in my shower. The small purple canister of Divine Scrub peeked out from behind my shampoo, catching my eye. I thought it was possible there was some deeper meaning—Divine Scrub, scrub away dead skin, scrub away thoughts of the man.
I scrubbed my body for nearly fifteen minutes, trying to rid my mind of Chase. The new body scrub supposedly not only scraped away dead skin but also included some chemical compound that regenerated new skin. When I was done and drying off, I was pissed that my skin felt incredibly soft instead of raw and cleansed of what I was trying to get rid of.
I threw a short, silky robe over my naked body, left it untied, and went to my bedroom for some lotion to rub into my new baby-soft skin. My vibrator was tucked away in the back of my nightstand where I also kept my favorite skin oil. Putting my hand on it, I considered getting myself off. Could I do that? Would it work to get Chase out of my system? Maybe that was exactly what I needed. It had been a long time since I’d been with a man. Probably close to eight months now.
I was getting myself all worked up over a good-looking man because of my pent-up sexual frustrations. Yeah, that was probably it.
But why wasn’t I desperate to chase my orgasm with thoughts of Bryant in my head? Bryant was good looking. And sweet. And nice. And wanted me. And isn’t my damn boss. Letting my robe fall open, I slipped my battery-operated man from my drawer and laid back on my bed, shutting my eyes.
Bryant. Bryant. Think of Bryant.
A vision of Chase the day I ran into him at the gym popped into my head. God, he is gorgeous.
No. What are you doing? Bryant. Think of Bryant. Bryant. Bryant. Bryant. Bryant, who bought me flowers last week for no reason other than to make me smile. Bryant, who texts me sweet little messages. Thinking of you. Hope to see you soon. How is your pussy doing? Wait. No. That last one was Chase. Who texts that sentence to a woman, even if he was talking about a cat? And why the hell do I like it when he does?
Bryant.
Chase.
Bryant.
Chase.
The soft hum of my vibrator relaxed me as I closed my eyes.
Bryant.
Bryant. Think of Bryant.
Water dripping from Chase’s hard pec.
That V. That deep, carved V.
Pierced nipple.
Stop it. Bryant.
Chase.
Bryant.
Chase.
Chase.
Chase.
Argh. I groaned, frustrated with my mind, as I lowered my hand down my body.
I needed to stop thinking about the man, rid my system of dirty thoughts of my boss. I’d tried everything else—why not try to coax him from my system? After all, at least this method was more fun.
***
Chase’s building was a three-story brownstone. I had assumed he’d live in a sleek highrise with a doorman, maybe even a penthouse. But when I walked down his beautiful tree-lined street, the neighborhood somehow fit him better. Nothing with that man was what I’d expect.
Steep stairs climbed from the street level up to an almost second-story entry. The front door was massive. It had to be at least fifteen feet high with thick, leaded glass and dark mahogany wood. Three buzzers lined up next to each other inside the archway of the door, but only one was labeled—Parker. I took a deep breath, buzzed, and waited.
After a few minutes, I buzzed a second time. When no one came to the door, I looked at my watch. Three minutes to eleven. I was early, but only by a hair. More time went by, and it became clear no one was home. Retreating a few steps down the stairs, I checked the house number, which was set into the back of the third-from-the-top stair. Three twenty-nine—I was definitely at the right house.
Maybe I’m hitting the wrong buzzer. I pressed the one to the right of the one marked Parker and waited some more. Still nothing. Pulling my phone from my purse, I scrolled through my emails to find the one Josh’s secretary had sent so I could double-check the address, even though I was positive it was right. I remember thinking it was a pretty big coincidence that Chase’s house number was the same as my apartment number—three twenty-nine.