Everyone who works within the New York Warriors organization knows that star player August Fletcher refuses to talk to most people...and especially team reporters. All except Quinn Castle, that is.
Quinn doesn't know why the broody football player...
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THE WARRIORS HAD KNOWN what they were doing, sending Quinn Castle to my doorstep. Or bar, rather.
Not only was she the one reporter I didn't hate on staff, but she was also impossible to turn away. If Parker had shown up here, I would have had no problem leaving him high and dry to find his own place to stay. I would have had no problem telling Parker, or another of the other reporters, to fuck off.
But Quinn Castle?
She was too innocent.
I was pretty sure she had no idea what her boss had done to me, and I was also pretty sure she had no idea what it did to my dick every time she laughed.
God, this was a fucking nightmare. I came back to Evergreen Isle to try to recollect myself, to find a bit of peace in my life again. But I wasn't going to have any peace while Quinn was here.
Part of it was my fault.
Did I have to insist she stay with me?
No, of course not.
Did I have to ask if she packed a swimsuit?
Definitely not.
Did I have to put her in my bed last night?
Debatable.
It was either she slept in my bed or I slept in hers—just so I could keep an eye on her cute, but drunk, ass. Even if it was a bit torturous.
Actually, a bit was an understatement.
Fuck.
I clearly wasn't thinking with my head right now.
Hearing the door slide open behind me, I twisted to face the house and the woman coming out. I leaned against the side of my back deck, gripping the railing hard as I took in the sight of Quinn Castle in a goddamn bikini.
It was canary yellow, and it looked so fucking good against her lightly tanned skin. Hell, she glowed as she walked across the deck toward me with way too much pep in her step. Enough pep in her step that the tiny strips of fabric on her body were struggling to do their job.
And if that wasn't bad enough, Quinn walked straight past me to jump into the sand, and I nearly died on the spot when I realized her bikini bottoms weren't even close to covering her ass cheeks.
I should have known better than to invite even more torture into my life.
It had been torture enough sitting through countless interviews with Quinn over the last few seasons, and then she'd at least been fully clothed.
"Are you coming?" Quinn called over her shoulder, and I swallowed. Hard.
I was surprised she agreed to this arrangement. She'd always been careful around me, always carefully treading the line between professional discourse and flirting. We'd danced that dance on more than one occasion, mostly because I was such a fucking sucker for this woman's smile. The real one. Not the plastered, fake one she used at work.
