Page 92 of Boss of the Year

Unfortunately, as soon as I closed my eyes, the same vision popped up in front of my mind’, whether I was awake or asleep.

Lucas.

Pinning me against the rock wall of the spring, his body slick with steam and nothing between us.

His mouth trails down my neck, over the spot beneath my ear where he kissed me before. I arch into him, aching, breathless. He presses me harder against the stone, water lapping around our hips as his mouth moves lower, skimming my collarbone, then lower still.

He hovers over my breast, lips so close I can feel the tickle of them on my nipple.

And then his cock slides between my thighs, thick and hard, teasing the place that aches only for him.

His foot nudges mine apart, one at a time.

“Is this what you want, sweet Marie?”

My eyes popped open, and I gasped.

Wrong. It waswrongto be thinking of him this way, and yet, I couldn’t stop.

There was only one answer for it. Remind myself of what—and who—was important. Whohadbeen important to me for ten solid years before this little trip?

I pulled out my phone and dialed Daniel’s contact. Two rings later, it went straight to voicemail.

“Hey, it’s Daniel. You know what to do.”

I frowned at my phone and ended the call. It was late afternoon in New York, so I’d expect him to be able to pick up.

My thumb hovered over the Google icon.

I shouldn’t. Daniel wasn’t some phantom love interest anymore or even the grown-up equivalent of a name scribbled in my social studies notebook. He was a legitimate person, a man who had asked me on a date—twice. Someone who had kissed me, told me I was pretty, and called me his girl.

He deserved trust.

I hadn’t done it in months either. Not since Louis caught me doom-scrolling while he toured me through the Jardins des Tuileries and threatened to toss my phone into the Seine if he heard the name “Daniel” one more time.

Something in my gut pinched, like a twisted bra strap that needed to be set free.

I opened a browser tab and typed his name.

Daniel Lyons.

The search results loaded instantly. And there, at the top, was a news article accompanying a photo: Daniel at a party, wearing all white shorts and an open button-down that showed off a flat, if slightly softer than his brother’s, stomach. With a drink in hand and a wide, easy grin, he had his arms around two women in barely-there bikinis.

Playboy heir Daniel Lyons celebrates Labor Day weekend in style

My stomach twisted again. He looked tan, relaxed, and like he hadn’t thought about me in days, if not weeks.

Anger flared in my chest, hot and unexpected. While I’d been feeling guilty about sharing a soak and having unconscious sex dreams about his brother, Daniel was very consciously living it up with models in the Hamptons.

Calm down.You have no claim on this man. You shared one dance, a moonlight walk, a whiskey-soaked kiss, and one short phone call.

He owes you nothing.

But the truth was, I thought he did. Or maybe it was that I thoughtIowedhim, and that made it even worse.

Who was I really mad at? Him or me?

There’s my girl, he’d said on the phone.