Page 3 of Baxter's Right-Hand Man

My date practically launched herself onto my lap and threw her arms over my shoulders just as the photographers descended.

Current situation: I was riding the high of a lifetime in the spotlight, buzzed on quality champagne, surrounded by important people, with a gorgeous woman wrapped around me like a koala. Should I kiss her?

Sure, there’d be rumors to deal with in the morning, but the morning was hours away and I was only human. And yes…schnockered.

So, I kissed her.

And you know, it was a nice kiss. It wasn’t going to change my life or anything, but kissing was fun and she was sweet and single—I hoped.

I broke for air amid the barrage of clicking cameras and rested my forehead on hers.

“Everyone is looking at us,” she purred.

“Probably. Hey, what was your name again?”

I thought she answered, thought I told myself to remember, but the night got fuzzy fast in a haze of lights, music, applause, laughter, and mindless chatter.

Someone must have been managing me to some extent. I was aware of being coaxed to drink water and to not smile quite so much. I vaguely recalled thinking Seb looked pissed and wondering why. I mean, he knew Baxter didn’t stand a chance at winning best picture.

Shit.Did I say that out loud?

I might have, ’cause he’d glowered and said something about a meeting in the morning. Trent patted my shoulder like an indulgent parent and told me to find someone named Daphne. I had no idea who the fuck Daphne was. I hung out at the bar instead, flirting with a famous director who kept running her fingernails along the inside seam of my tux till my bladder protested.

I must have made my way to the restroom and—boom! There he was. Mr. Hottie.

I really wished I could remember what happened next. It had to have been good. We probably made out and maybe even got frisky in a bathroom stall before I suggested taking the action somewhere private. But I honestly had no memory.

Not to worry. Janet always had a minion on guard to steer me toward a chauffeured car.

I’d make it home unscathed.

I hoped.

* * *

I gingerly satup in bed, wincing at the eeriethompof my brain bouncing against my skull. It throbbed like a motherfucker. I shifted off the mattress, standing still with my eyes closed in deference to the spinning room. When I thought I could walk without stumbling over my feet, I licked my lips and opened my eyes, and—

Fuck.My phone was ringing.

Everything in me urged me to ignore it, but that wasn’t an ordinary ring. That was Rourke’s private line. I opened my eyes and rooted around for my cell in the pile of discarded clothes next to my bed. After wading through what seemed like a dozen pockets in a never-ending pile of tuxedo pants, I found it.

There had to be fifty new texts lighting up my screen. I scrolled by them and squinted at the recent terse seven-word message from Seb.

My office. Noon. DO NOT be late.

Shit, I must have done something. Now that he was a happily married man, Seb was relatively even-tempered, but he still had his hothead moments. He usually had reason to gripe. Not today, though.

I’dmostlybeen on my best behavior last night and had made it home in one piece.Yay me.Best of all, my bed was empty this morning.

I did a double take to make sure that was true.Phew!I sighed in relief and scratched my balls as I wandered into the adjoining bathroom suite to pee and find Advil. I stooped at the sink and cupped a handful of water to wash the pills down, leaning heavily on the marble countertop before blinking at my reflection.

Holy fuck.I looked like ten miles of bad road.

I rubbed my stubbled jaw and squinted at the crusty gunk on my abs, noting for the first time that I wasn’t wearing boxer briefs. That was weird. I didn’t wear pajama bottoms, but I always wore boxer briefs to bed, unless—

I hurried into my room, surveying the wreckage of rumpled sheets and scattered pillows. My designer navy-striped duvet cascaded onto the floor from the upholstered bench at the end of the bed as if it had been pushed aside and forgotten in the middle of the night.

That wasn’t normal. It was January, for fuck’s sake. We might not have arctic temperatures in LA, but it was still chilly. In fact, the room was cold right now and it smelled vaguely like…sex. A little stronger than the solo variety, too.