Page 13 of A Vegas Crush Collection #2

It’s funny. When I take on a new client, I usually avoid most of the tabloid gossip.

And there is always tabloid gossip. Models, drugs, drinking, partying, violent behavior, car accidents…

whatever. There’s always something, and sometimes stuff turns out to be true.

Usually, it has zero effect on my work with the client, unless the true stuff ends up costing money that needs to be liquidated.

Still, I’m not the judge or jury, and my job is always to make the most of a client’s investments. That is all.

So imagine my surprise when I see nothing incriminating about Boris Dr?ghici.

Anywhere. There are profile articles about his training in Russia, about the fact he was chosen to play in the Sochi Games after only two years of full-time training.

He warmed the bench, but stayed in training and ended up starting in the Sochi games four years later.

The only child of divorced parents, he moved with his mother back to her native Russia when he was twelve.

He played Russian league throughout his career and then was picked up by Austin four years ago on one of the best rookie contracts in the league.

His deal with the Crush is based on several solid years of scoring domination, and it’s almost better than Crush golden boy, Evan Kazmeirowicz.

I keep hearing rumors Evan may retire soon.

He’s got a family now and he’s not as young as he used to be.

He’s still an ace on the ice and he’s a strong winger to Boris’s center position.

They’ll make a good pair, a strong pair, but there’s a lot of pressure on Boris, who is here for one sole reason: to bring the Crush another championship season.

The articles are all focused on his power, his speed, and his ability to avoid the spotlight.

He’s mostly described as shy, introverted, and low drama.

There are no photos of him with half-naked women, no pictures of him partying.

I even check the WAGs (Wives & Girlfriends) page for the Austin Comets to see if he was ever linked to anyone.

Nope. Boris Dr?ghici is listed as one of the few “single” guys on the team.

Which isn’t unheard of, really. There are always players who manage to keep their private life just that.

Or they’re gay, and solidly in the closet.

Pro sports makes it really hard to be out and proud, sadly.

Having social media accounts for the public to stalk is rule number one.

And Boris doesn’t have Facebook, Twitter, Snap, or Insta that I can find.

Lots of dead searches for information about him are out there though.

So, there is a curiosity about him, but with no picture evidence to speculate about, it doesn’t go anywhere.

Everything I could find is focused on him as an athlete or as a member of the Comets.

There’s a cute Weird Hockey clip of him being asked which celebrity he’s been told he looks like.

He replies innocently, “No one looks like me.” The adorable smile on his face as he sits perched atop a tall stool in his perfectly tailored suit has me captivated.

Boris either has excellent media management or he is legitimately a saint.

I do find a handful of marketing photos from his time with the Comets.

There are some “sexy” photos of the team out there, shirtless photos.

And Boris is…well, he’s kind of perfect.

I stare at the images for a long time, taking in the sparse dark hair on his perfectly sculpted pectorals.

His washboard abs lay a trail down into unbuttoned jeans in one shot.

His tattoo, a colorful dragon that curves from shoulder to wrist, only accentuates his bulging biceps.

And that face. Holy crap. Piercing eyes.

Perfect lips. Stubble that makes me want to—

Nope.

Stop it, Talia.

You cannot get naked with another client. Not after what happened in San Francisco.

I click out of my Google search and sit back, eyes closed, trying to will my hot-and-bothered body to calm down.

I went down the rabbit hole with those pictures of half-naked Boris, which I shouldn’t have done.

Wasn’t it a gross invasion of privacy? Negative.

He’s too gorgeous to be ignored completely.

How will I even be able to look him in the eye knowing I was like minutes away from needing a vibrator session with him in mind?

I take a deep breath. And then, just to remind myself of how a poorly made decision turned out for me in the past, I go to Facebook and look up Cameron Thompson.

Cameron Thompson, with his model looks and perfect, panty-melting smile.

Cameron Thompson, with a wife and three adorable children.

Cameron Thompson, who was married when I slept with him. Five times.

Cameron keeps his profile public, which is insane for a person as wealthy as he is. He’s thirty and a Silicon Valley tycoon already, married to his high school sweetheart.

The first time I met him at a client meeting, there was a chemical reaction.

I felt it and I was uncomfortable about it.

But weeks later, when he called me to confirm if I was feeling what he was feeling?

It was like two magnets pulling us together.

The next time we met for dinner to discuss his investments, we ended up screwing in his car.

Then there was the all-night software development crisis where he took me to a hotel. Hmmm.

Those overnights happened five times before his wife came to my office and called me out in front of Harold and one of our baseball superstar clients.

She called me a home-wrecker and a gold digger and several other names that don’t bear repeating.

I tried to explain I had no idea he was married.

We’d only ever talked about his investments, never about family, and he never wore a wedding band.

When she stormed out of the office, I was left red-faced with a sick pit in my stomach—I was not that woman who would ever sleep with a married man—and I was also sure Harold would fire me posthaste.

He didn’t, though. Instead, he told me “shit happens” and that I “made a rookie error in judgment.” And he then told me I was to go build Baseline’s Las Vegas client base.

As I take in the smiling photos of Cameron with his pretty wife and cute kids, his lavish life on boats and at charity events, I feel disgusted.

With myself. But also very angry at Cameron for not only what he did to me, but what he did to his undeserving family.

God, I hope I’m the only one he’s done this with.

I slam my laptop shut, angry I let myself be so dazzled by him.

I can’t do it again. I won’t do it again.

I’m going to stay focused on my work and my business.

If I can do that, everything will be just fine.

If only I’d done a Google search on Cameron…

why didn’t I? Why didn’t I look up these details?

He wasn’t shy of media attention, so why did I not know or check?

These are the questions I have asked myself ad nauseam.

Funnily enough, I never get past the answer of, You loved the unexpected and extremely stimulating attention and your reason went out the window.

Boris can be my imaginary lover tonight. My muse. I pull my trusty vibrator from the small wooden box I keep under the chaise and remind myself there are plenty of hot, fictional characters to imagine.

It’ll just have to be enough for me right now.