Page 8 of Match Me if You Can

I hit the gas, zip away from the curb, away from her, away from whatever barrier she’ll throw up next.

I leave the sleek, modern office complex behind me.

Leave the ice princess standing there, staring after me.

I’m confident until I turn the corner.

Then I start wondering if I just fucked up by pissing her off.

She can say no.

Easily.

And I need this woman or I’m going to lose everything.

* * *

My phone rings just as I’m pulling into my garage.

It’s my accountant.

And he’s wondering why in the hell someone named Violet Lamour has just sent me an invoice for two million dollars.

Game fucking on.

FOUR

Ace

I grunt as I force the weight up to hook over the top of my shoulder, quads and hamstrings burning, abs over it, biceps pissed as fuck.

But I’m not done with my workout.

I’m not done punishing myself.

The dumbbell settles with a familiar weight, and taking a beat to make sure my ankle is properly hooked in the resistance band behind me, I start my next set of squats.

Fucking torture.

But, again, I’m not done punishing myself.

Which is probably why, when my phone rings with a video call, I pause my set, lean forward and swipe across the screen.

“Sweet baby Jesus,” Allison says as I start squatting again. “And that”—she waves a hand in front of her face—“is why you’re about to be the face of a giant fragrance company. In fact”—she reaches forward, and I grunt as I hear the shutter noise of a screenshot being taken—“I’m just going to send that off to a few other potential sponsors.” I lose her for a few seconds, presumably as she looks at the photo because she comes back on saying, “Sweet baby Jesus. All of that glistening skin. The hard muscles. The gym shorts hanging oh so low.” She brings her fingers to her lips. “Fucking chef’s kiss.”

I grunt again as I glance down.

I’d lost my shirt a couple of hours ago.

Not that it matters. The gym is empty at this hour, and since it’s hot as shit in here, it’s the one thing I could take off without getting arrested.

Okay, that’s not why I’d tossed it toward the side of the room a while back.

I work hard for my body, and I look good, and I don’t give a fuck about showing that off.

Maybe that makes me a cocky bastard. But I don’t give a fuck that someone might see, don’t give a fuck that my agent is drooling and planning on sending a picture she took without my consent off to some random ass strangers who’ll hopefully ogle it—hopefully because I’m happy to sell my body for the right price.

Mostly because I’ve already sold my body for a price.