Page 8 of Sins of a King

I sputtered, but he paid no attention as he continued talking.

“Terms are as follows: you work for me for a year or until you find out. Whatever comes first.”

“A year! How am I supposed to pay rent, bills?”

Flynn leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Do you know how much my cocktail waitresses make on any given night?”

I shook my head.

“On average, they pull in five hundred dollars.”

My head spun. “Five hundred dollars?”

“Aye.” He leaned forward. “I need someone undercover more than I need a bed partner, but I intend to make back the money I lost, Barrett. It’s your choice how I get it.”

“You got me drunk,” I murmured, my eyes drooping closed. I tried to keep them open, but they were adamant about shutting.

“Aye,” he said, sounding amused.

“Why?”

“Because you looked like you needed it.”

“Oh,” I breathed, falling onto my side on the expensive, plush, very comfortable couch. “Are my shoes still on my feet?” He laughed softly, and I felt my heels being pulled off.

“I should go home,” I said even as I snuggled into the couch pillow.

Flynn tossed a blanket over me, and then his hand stroked my hair. “We’re not done talking, Barrett.”

“Not tonight, honey. I have a headache,” I said and then passed out.

I woke up when light crept through the drapes of the living room windows, my face pressed into a couch pillow, and just a tad hungover. The night before came flooding back, and I remembered I wasn’t in my own apartment. My eyes were gritty which meant I had fallen asleep with my contacts in. I had a feeling that last night’s makeup was smudged and smeared all over my face and—yep—all over Flynn Campbell’s gray couch pillow.

I grimaced, throwing off the blanket and looking around. Flynn was nowhere to be seen, and I wondered if I could sneak out without him knowing. I knew it was childish, but I needed time to think. I’d passed out in my boss’s penthouse suite. I shook my head, trying to clear all the confusion—and anger. He wasn’t my boss. Was he?

Damn scotch-head.

I stood up and picked up my heels, not even attempting to shove my feet into the tight leather. Before I could make the decision to leave, the bedroom door opened, and Flynn strolled out, his dark hair damp from a shower. He looked perfect and sexy in a pair of black slacks and a blue button-down—and he didn’t look hungover at all.

“Good morning,” he greeted, his voice low and raspy. Alert.

“Morning,” I muttered, suddenly aware that I didn’t look my best.

“How are you feeling?”

“Parched,” I admitted.

He smiled, and it did something to me. Maybe it was the scotch hangover. I hoped.

Flynn went to the refrigerator, pulled out a bottle of water, and brought it to me. “Breakfast is on the way.”

“Oh, thanks but I—”

“We’ll have some breakfast.” His tone left no room for an argument.

“Okay,” I answered weakly. “Mind if I freshen up?”

“Sure. There’s a spare toothbrush by the sink.”