He lets out a ragged groan. “Fuck. Okay, I give up. Just please stop.”

When he reaches down to adjust himself, I can’t help my greedy eyes from following the movement. Damn, what I wouldn’t give for a ride on that love stick. My inner muscles tingle.

“I wasn’t kidding when I said it had been a while,” he adds, his tone frustrated.

“It’s not like I’ve been riding the bologna pony either, but you don’t see me getting turned on by a vegetable.” I look down at the object in question. Hmm . . . the girth is nice. Ew, wait. What am I doing?

“Tell me again why doing the nasty would be a bad idea?” Hayden asks.

I force myself to focus, setting the cucumber onto the wood chopping block and starting to cut it into neat slices. “Because. You’re a man-whore jerkoff. And I’m pretty sure my vagina fell off after my last disaster of a relationship.”

“That doesn’t sound good.” He turns to me with a look of concern. “Let me check things out for you down there. You know, just to make sure you’re healthy.”

I hold up my hand, the one with the chef’s knife, and he takes an uneasy step back. “I agreed to dinner, not a vagina inspection,” I remind him. I’m flushed and too warm, and hoping he doesn’t notice the heat crawling up my neck. One of us has to be the strong one here.

“Fine, have it your way.” He sounds genuinely disappointed, even though I thought our banter was just a little lighthearted fun.

Taking a deep breath, I continue my work as I remind myself of all the reasons Hayden and I can’t go fuck like rabbits in his bed right now. Because, holy hell . . . the sight of him adjusting his hardening cock? My panties are damp and sticking to me right now. It’s fucking distracting. I inhale deeply again, trying to clear my head like we do in yoga, but this time it fails to work. What have I gotten myself into?

“Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes. You can start studying if you want,” Hayden says, pulling me from my not-so-innocent thoughts.

“Sure.” I gather up my materials and plant myself at his dining room table. I’ve just opened my laptop when the sound of him humming snaps my concentration like a twig. I look at him, watching him move effortlessly around his kitchen. God, he’s adorable.

“Hey, Emery,” he calls out.

“Yeah?”

He glances over at me from where he’s positioned in front of the stove, stirring a pot of something. “So your mom never remarried?” Since he met my mom, we haven’t spoken much about her, other than the obligatory she was nice type of comment he provided after.

“Nope,” I say. “After my dad passed away, she had to work three jobs just to keep us in our house. That was very important to her, but left her little time for dating. She had a few boyfriends over the years, but nothing serious.”

He nods along, continuing to stir. “Damn. Three jobs. I can see where you get your work ethic.”

“Yes, but when I was in high school I started realizing what her sacrifices were doing to her, and I made her sell the house and cut down on her work schedule. Her body couldn’t handle it anymore. After fifteen years of burning the candle at both ends, she was starting to have health problems. We moved into an apartment, and she still lives there. Keeps my room exactly the same.”

When I look up from my laptop screen, he’s grinning at me. “That’s sweet. You have a very good mom.”

“Yes, I know.” Her warning rings in my head again. The one about Hayden. Don’t put stock into what’ll never be.

Taking a deep breath, I force my gaze back to my laptop screen, losing myself in the legal terms I’m studying, where things are either black or white, right or wrong, and I immediately feel at ease.

Chapter Thirteen

Hayden

I still can’t believe I’m in Omaha.

Through some mix-up at the front desk, Emery and I ended up sharing a hotel room. Her room is paid for by her company, and I have no problem footing the bill for my own, but I didn’t say a word; I just nodded and smiled when the clerk handed me the key card. I felt like I’d won the damn lottery. Like some tide had shifted, turning in my favor.

I’m not about to fuck with destiny. I’ve been jacking off to the thought of Emery for the past month. My damn hand is tired and my cock is almost raw. Maybe this time away will change things between us. I just have to decide if I want them to.

After we checked in to the hotel, Emery took off for a business meeting downstairs in one of the conference rooms while I stepped out and explored Omaha. There isn’t much to see, which is why I’m already back and seated at the hotel bar with a bottle of imported beer in front of me.

I glance down to check the time on my phone. I have another thirty minutes before I’m supposed to meet Emery for a business dinner in the hotel’s one restaurant—fittingly, a steakhouse. If there’s one thing they’ve got in Nebraska, it’s cows. I went over to check out the restaurant earlier, wanting to make sure they’ll have a vegetarian option for her.

Plus I was just bored. I have my laptop, and I logged on to check on some properties and reply to work e-mails, but I’m unaccustomed to being out of my own city and am too restless to concentrate on work.

I wonder if this is what Emery’s transition to LA has felt like? If so, I give her even more credit for how well she’s handled things. I glance at my phone again. Twenty-nine more minutes.

Fuck.

• • •

Thirty-five minutes later, I’m standing in the private dining room of the restaurant, talking to a junior associate named Donald Kemp and his wife, Tabitha or Tracey, I can’t remember. He’s about as exciting as a wet towel. My eyes keep wandering over to the set of French doors, hungry for the first sight of her. Where is she?

Finally Emery floats in on a pair of high heels that make her legs seem to go on forever. And my heart rate trips over itself in a race to catch up.

She’s in a cocktail dress. Classic. Black. Little spaghetti straps delicately resting on her shoulders. Her yoga-toned legs are something I’ve rarely gotten a glimpse of since she’s usually in jeans or a business suit, and they live up to the very high standard set in my many dirty fantasies.

I open my mouth to excuse myself from Donald when an older man with floppy gray hair and a bad set of veneers approaches Emery, placing his hand on her waist and leaning in to tell her something. She cringes.

Murderous rage boils inside me and I want to deck the son of a bitch. Clenching my fists at my sides, I excuse myself and stride over toward her. Thoughts of pissing on her leg, like a dog does with a hydrant, to mark my territory flash through my mind. Shit. I can’t do that to Emery. Stopping beside her, my eyes land on Mr. Pudgy, Gray, and Slimy.

“Hayden, this is Mr. Pratt, my boss at the firm,” Emery says pointedly, obviously sensing my murderous attitude and trying to calm me down. “And this is Hayden Oliver. He’s a real-estate developer.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” I bite out in a clipped tone.

Mr. Pratt nods, and I wonder if this is Larry The Creeper she’s told me about. Most likely she has a couple of bosses at the firm, but a gut feeling tells me this is the head honcho.

“Emery’s doing phenomenal work. It’s a pleasure having her, as I’m sure you know,” he says, giving me a sly wink that makes my stomach turn.

Doesn’t this guy realize he’s old enough to be Emery’s father? Ick. No wonder she’s sworn off men. Then again, now that I’ve met Emery’s mother, there’s no way she’d stand for a douche-nozzle like this guy. I’ve discovered where Emery gets her no-nonsense attitude.

“By the way, call me Larry,” The Creeper says, leaning in toward me. His breath is a mix of rancid mayonnaise and week-old bologna. Gag.