Fuck.

“She has a roommate. I didn’t see that on the original report, but she mentioned it tonight. I asked her if she was a member of the club. She said no, but the way she stiffened in my arms I’m not sure I believe that.”

“There’s no roommate on the lease,” Cole confirmed. “I’ll start there and check the parents, see if they’ve recently come into debt or illness, something that would tip Sloane into doing something out of the norm with the promise of helping her family out of a tight spot.”

Now that I could see Sloane doing.

That was the type of woman I believed her to be.

“Any word from Wilson?”

“Yeah, he called right before you walked in the door bitching about an accident on the four-oh-five.”

There was a lot to be said about California, but the bumper-to-bumper day-and-night traffic negated all the beautiful offerings of The Golden State.

“Then I have time to shower before he gets here.”

“You have time to shit, shower, and shave.”

I nabbed my beer before I stood to go wash away my shame.

Cole could say what he wanted to try to make me feel better. And he was right—I was explicit about my intentions, but I still pressed my advantage. I let my attraction to Sloane blur my principles.

I was not the type of man who needed to press advantages. I didn’t coax or lie my way into a woman’s bed.

Not fucking ever.

The woman didn’t know my real name.

And that shit was jacked.

8

I was sweating in all the wrong places.

Going to a man’s house who had been clear his face was going to be between your legs was akin to going to the gynecologist. Every woman knew it was morally imperative to shower before their appointment. Right before. Every woman had the timing of this shower down to a science. We knew exactly how long it took us to get ready after said shower, the drive to the office, the length of time it took from our car to the front door. We planned this event to the nth degree.

I had done exactly that. I’d planned down to the minute from the shower to Adam’s front door.

But now I was sweating. Boob sweat, fine. Armpit sweat, gross but they make deodorant for that. Sweat down there was an immediate stop to all activities.

I was less than three minutes from Adam’s driveway.

In three minutes, I would pull up and Adam would meet me at the door. I would not have to knock, he’d be waiting for me. I was certain about this, I didn’t know how I knew—I just did. And the insides of my thighs were like a Montana river after the snowmelt—okay, that was an overdramatized depiction of the sweat gathering under my skirt, but when a man promised a tongue lashing even a drop of sweat was too much.

I should turn around and go to work early.