“Can I?” he asks, his fingertips smoothly running up my thighs before gripping them firmly while he takes a quick nip at my breast.
The answer is yes. Obviously. I open my mouth to tell him, but across the room, on top of my luggage, my phone dings once, twice, three and, no, four, five times in a row.
There’s only a handful of numbers that are set to break through my do not disturb features.
I push up to my elbows and, in the process, brush against the front of his jeans, eliciting a choked groan.
“I need to . . .” I trail off, just as the phone starts to ring.
Yeah, I definitely need to get that.
“I got it,” he says, stepping away, running a hand through hishair, and the view is almost as good from the back as he goes to grab my phone.
I slide off the countertop, adjusting my bra so I’m covered at least a little and grab my shorts, pulling them on with shaking hands, trying and failing to tie the string again.
“It’s Stew,” Charlie says, as he walks back to me with my phone held out for me.
Stew? Why the hell is he calling right now? Or at all. He’s supposed to be on leave.
“Hello?” I gasp into the phone, knowing I sound like I just finished a dozen wind sprints. I try to take a deep, even breath, but it’s not easy.
“Frankie?” Stew’s voice is on the other end of the line, clear as a bell.
“What’s . . . what’s up? What time is it there? Aren’t you still in the hospital?”
Charlie steps into my line of sight, holding my shirt out for me and I try to grin at him as I take it, as there’s no way to put it on with the phone to my ear.
“They discharged me this morning. Good behavior.”
“Is that a thing?”
“No, Frankie, it means I could walk around the room a couple of laps and I took a shit to the doctor’s satisfaction.”
“Lovely.”
“You asked.”
I didn’t, actually, but I move on. “What’s up?”
“You and Avery, I need you back in New YorkASAP.”
“Stew, you can’t go back to work yet.”
“I’m not, but just because I’m on leave doesn’t mean I can’t take a couple of phone calls and, if my source is right, Ethan Quicke just used whatever the fuck he agreed to in Montana as leverage to sign with the Dodgers.”
“We look like we don’t know what we’re doing.”
“We really do,” Stew agrees. “I gotta go. Rita thinks I’m getting a glass of water and she’s gonna come in here soon and start yelling, but get your ass back here. You gotta fix this shit before . . .”
“Before?”
“Before my source publishes.”
Damn it.
A reporter and one Stew clearly has a relationship with, giving him a heads up instead of just leaking it.
“But that’s not the worst part.”
