Then I noticed he was still in his jeans—the ones he called his “town jeans.” And I realized what had gone wrong. Why he was so upset.
My anguished noise must have been loud because Mike whipped his head around.
“I’m so sorry, Mike.”
He turned back to the bag, resuming hammering it with his fists.
“Tell me what happened at the meeting.”
“Mike’s Place is done,” he said between punches.
My eyes squeezed shut. I couldn’t cry, because he’d end up comforting me and that wouldn’t be fair. “Why?”
His idea was excellent, and his plan was thorough. Plus, there were limitless content angles that would bolster the town’s brand. After he’d mentioned the fund that night at the pub, I’d online stalked their previous investments, and Mike’s Place could have easily become one of their most successful ventures.
“They voted no. Because Oz is a cunt.” Punch. “And Martin’s a cunt.” Punch. “So’s Monica. Caroline always said she was, and I should have listened.” Punch, punch, punch.
Poor, heartbroken Mike. So that was why he was in his garage, beating the crap out of his sausage bag—so he didn’t do that to Oz’s face.
I was a pacifist, but at that moment, I wanted to punch all of them too. How dare the Association turn Mike down like this? How dare they not see him for everything he is: a kind, tolerant, and brilliant entrepreneur who’s awesome with animals and kids and people in general.
Anger flooded me, the white-hot kind that I’d never expected to feel on anyone’s behalf other than my own.
“Maybe we can appeal,” I said. “Hodges—you said Hodges seemed to be rooting for you. What if we went to him?—?”
“It’s done, Lyssa. Dead in the water. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“They’re”—I searched my brain for something Shakespearean and found nothing—“huge anus boils. All of them.”
Mike grabbed the swinging bag to steady it. Breathing heavily, he studied me, eyes raking over my body.
Taken aback to suddenly be the center of his focus, I tugged at my hem. The silk dress hadn’t felt too short when I’d been at Cilla’s or even in Levitate when it was hidden under my sweatshirt. It had looked perfect on camera as I’d frolicked among Cilla’s roses. Here? Now? It was too short. I was too exposed.
Or it wasn’t short enough and I was way too covered.
My breath quickened.
“You win some, you lose some.” Mike shrugged, a demonstration of casualness that I wasn’t buying, but it was hard to stay focused when he looked at me like that. “Why are ya standing there eyeball fucking me, Princess?”
“We should talk about the pitch.”
The corners of his mouth turned down. “No thanks.”
It wasn’t the right time, but my nipples were stiff as hell, and the silk did nothing to hide them.
Mike’s eyes zeroed in on the twin swells. “You wanna go?”
“Go? Go where?”
He stripped off his gloves and discarded them. Then he beckoned me with two hands, palms up.
Oh.
I looked at his thick torso, arms capable of hauling me about, and the slick of sweat glistening over him, like he’d been shrink-wrapped in the most gorgeous sheer satin. Heat unfurled deep in my belly, and I couldn’t lie.
I nodded.
Mike’s long stride devoured the concrete between us, and then he was lifting me. I threw my legs around his waist, my arms around his neck, and kissed him with all the neediness in my heart. Mike devoured my mouth like I was his favorite flavor of ice cream and he’d been denied for years, and still it wasn’t enough.
