“Came to check out my office. It’s almost finished.”
“Right. And where’s Sammy?”
“With his dad. I was babysitting until Wagner returned early from his business trip. He’s probably forcing him to eat all sorts of grilled and oven-baked healthy foods to compensate for all the sugar I loaded the kid up with.”
I huff out a breath. “Uh-huh.”
“My turn to ask you a question.”
I rest against the fence. It’s getting dark, and I can’t make out details without better light. That was the first thing to go. The first of many more to come.
“Wasn’t aware we were having a conversation,” I say gruffly.
Maverick chuckles, low and deep, and the sound stirs something in my groin. “Where do you go for lunch?”
“Excuse me?”
“You never have lunch here. You always leave. Just curious where you go, that’s all.”
“How do you know I go anywhere? You haven’t been here all week.”
“I got security cameras installed at the front gate.”
“So you’ve been at home spying on your staff through CCTV cameras?”
“No, I?—”
“Let me guess, you lounge around in a robe, smoke a cigar, and drink whiskey while petting your hairless cat?”
One side of his lips quirks. “Do youwantto picture me wearing a robe?”
“What? I…no. I just…”
I shake my head and blink a few times, getting annoyed at myself that the more I trynotto think of him in a robe, the more my head fills with an image of him wearing one of those fluffy white robes. He tugs at the sash with theatrical flair, a roguish grin on his lips, before peeling the robe off one shoulder at a time, revealing a spectacular torso lined with nothing but muscles, more muscles, and then some abs for good measure. Ginuwine’s “Pony” starts randomly playing suddenly, the burpy intro part, and Maverick drops the robe. It pools at his feet as he starts gyrating seductively, running his hands all over his sexy body like he’s a Vegas stripper. His eyes never leave me, my hard cock pulsing in my briefs, and holy shit?—
What. Is. Wrong. With. Me?
“Jackson?”
His voice snaps me out of whatever fucked-up rabbit hole my mind dragged me down. He’s staring at me like he’s waiting for me to say something.
“M-my grandfather’s,” I stammer.
“Excuse me?”
“I have lunch with my grandfather every day. That’s where I go.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Maverick grins, almost a little sheepishly, and for a moment, I wonder if maybe I wasn’t the only one who got sidetracked.
Not that it makes an ounce of difference.
It doesn’t matter if Maverick is a rich, entitled asshole or the nicest guy in the world. It’s completely irrelevant if he actually is a semi-decent boss. Or a loving uncle. Or that my overanalytical, undersexed brain keeps conjuring up all sorts of X-rated scenarios featuring him in the starring role.
None of that counts for shit.
I already can’t drive at night, there’s a permanent migraine behind my eyes, and the muscles in my neck and shoulders are so strained it feels like I’m permanently carrying a bag of feed across them.
