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Page 58 of Tender Offer (Chance at Love #3)

I signal to the bartender for another Bellini. I’m at the end of the bar tucked between foliage and a wall of mirrors, the perfect spot to people watch and eat breakfast. If only I hadn’t lost my appetite because of this call and the person on the other end.

Carter is attractive, but I can’t stand him. My regard for him shifted over the years he’s worked for my father. No amount of fine can fix that awful of a heart.

“Does my father need something?” I push out the question to rush Carter off the phone.

“I need you,” he says, his husky tone licking my ear. “John has a fundraiser this weekend in Denver. His only daughter should make an appearance.”

“Is Blair not available to play poster child?” My cousin is everything the good senator wants in a daughter: obedient, vanilla. Throw in a ride on the private jet, and she’ll do a special cheer.

There’s a pause before Carter lowers his deep voice. “She’s not you.”

Silence dances between us with the intensity of a livewire, one I’ve reinforced since I met Carter when he interned for my father during his sophomore year of college.

He ignored my high school crush until I graduated from Bodie University.

I was no longer the same girl who made every excuse to stop by my father’s office, knowing one of Virginia’s senators was too busy to see his daughter.

I became a woman who grew into her own, wanting more and no longer willing to chase after anyone in order to be seen.

It pissed off my family that I chose a lesser-known institution in California over my father’s Ivy League alma mater.

They couldn’t control my desire to attend the same school as Justice, nor my decision to put the middle of the country between us.

No matter their efforts, the money they threw at me to come back home to the DMV, nor the threats to take away the trust fund I never used, I held my own—unbought or sold.

Carter took notice of my rebellion, and so began the decade-plus game of cat and mouse.

I became the unattainable trophy to acquire, driven by lust and his desire to please my father.

Carter evolved into another desperate-for-power suit on Capitol Hill.

He’s remained on my Do Not Fuck list, which is a testament to my willpower.

Low-cut fade.

Caramel skin.

Blue-green eyes.

Carter is Jesse Williams, a self-absorbed version doused in fine.

I love dick, but not everyone gets admission into this pussy.

“You are John’s daughter,” Carter declares as if I’m the one who needs the reminder. “You can afford a few hours to support the campaign.”

“I’m here to enjoy a trip with my best friend, not bend over backward for donors to make my father look good.”

“Saturday night. We’ll charter a plane to pick you up and take you back. As for how far you can bend”—Carter’s voice drops—“we’ll test your limits later.”

“I told you, I have plans.” I clear my throat after a long swallow. My boots rub to keep my knees from parting. The change in altitude is messing with my head because my Do Not Fuck list might make a liar out of me if he keeps this up. I’m strong, but shit, I’m human too.

“Cancel them.”

“Not happening.”

Growing up, Justice and her family welcomed me with open arms. I was the kid of an influential politician with access to privilege but without the one thing money can’t buy. Some fancy jet and a twenty-thousand-a-plate fundraiser aren’t enough to ditch my friend. Nothing is.

“Is that an invitation to come get you?”

I hang up without a second thought. It’s too early for all that. The devil is a lie, as Justice’s mother says.

“Someone’s testy,” a familiar voice says from behind, raising every hair on my neck.

Miles steps next to me, and I ask God what I did to deserve not one but two men tempting me to pose for a mugshot. “How in the hell are you here?”

“You want my flight number?” Miles rolls his thick lips between his teeth. I follow the wet path of his tongue and scoff at the grin forming.

My now-room-temperature parfait streaks my bowl as I take in the ripped figure in my private corner, the one with a smirk on his goatee-framed mouth and a gaze up to no good.

Of course, he came.

Miles is a threat in ways Carter will never be.

I’ll dodge the latter without issue if I limit my trips home to Alexandria, Virginia, which I do.

Miles is a different story. If Justice and I are a package deal, so are Terrence and Miles.

They’ve been friends since they were damn near babies, and that pushes us together for obvious reasons.

Our paths don’t always cross, but when they do, it’s this mix of sexual tension and contempt.

I’ve sidestepped Miles, those thick arms, and rich chocolate skin, for over a decade.

We’ve been doing this dance since college, when Justice and Terrence started dating.

He tosses a dig my way, and I toss it right back.

The problem is, we both love sex, which isn’t an issue until you almost do it during a trip to your respective best friends’ house.

We shouldn’t have come that close, which is why I’ve kept my distance and double-check before visiting to make sure he’s not there.

Test-driving the best friend of my best friend’s husband is out of the question. Miles hits too close to home, even if a juicy ass and solid chest deserve a look under the hood.

Miles assesses me from the corner of his eye before turning his full gaze on me. The soft arch in his brow lifts, and a smile ghosts his lips to show white teeth. He folds his arms crowded in thick muscles over his chest, pulling the black tee and outlining every muscle in his torso.

I tear my eyes away to look at anything other than the amusement flickering in his, and my gaze lands on the gray beanie covering the fade he keeps fresh.

Fuck him.

We cannot.

“It’s nice to see you, Em.”

“Wish I could say the same.”

“Is that how you feel after the last time we were together? What was it, two years ago?” His expression darkens, daring me to pretend the night in question didn’t sear itself into my mind.

Memories filter back to the long walk to my guest room, fresh from a cold shower to keep my vagina in check.

I passed Miles’s room as he came out in sweats, headed to the bathroom that I left to soap down every hard muscle on his body and what lies between his legs, which left an imprint against the gray cotton.

We stood inches apart, no best friends around to force us to retreat to our corners.

We argued as we always do. The source of our ire that evening?

Movie trivia. But at that moment, I couldn’t stop my eyes from raking over the shirtless torso before me.

It was at the perfect height with our size difference.

“Ready for a taste?” Miles teased. His words were playful but his tone was sharp. Hungry. The man matches energy, and his stare told me to run.

I locked my bedroom door behind me to keep from sleepwalking and sucking the skin off his dick. By morning, Miles left. Something about a work trip. I stopped visiting Austin at the same time he did since that night. The energy between us threatened to crush my lungs, and a bitch enjoys breathing.

Carter is a lot to handle at times, but Miles is a different force.

I unclench my hands and steady my glower. “Do us both a favor. Keep yourself and Terrence far away from me and Justice, or there will be hell to pay.”

If a single look could kill, Justice would choose my tombstone instead of an omelet from a room service menu.

Miles’s stare coasts down my neck to where my heart is drumming inside my chest. He considers me, the light from the bistro chandelier catching in his diamond stud.

The cloud lifts from his eyes, and he winks.

“Put your claws away, kitten. Junior must not have satisfied you if you’re still this wound up. Is he up yet for round two?”

“I am not wound up,” I say too quickly. “And stop watching me, stalker.”

Miles must’ve been at last night’s kickoff mixer. I saw Terrence, who made a beeline for Justice after a man in an Al Bundy outfit hit on her. Miles was nowhere to be found. But he clearly saw me. He always does.

His shoulder lifts to shrug off the accusation. “You’re hard to miss.” He nods to my phone on the counter. “When you’re ready for a grown man to take care of you, come find me.” Miles leaves with a casual strut, too unbothered to rush, and an ass that would make Calvin Klein billions.

The bartender returns with a folded paper bag he places next to my bowl. “Would you like another to-go box?” He motions to the untouched berries and granola sliding through low-fat Greek yogurt.

“Yes, thanks.” I frown at the bag. “Is this for someone else?”

“The gentleman settled your bill and asked us to rush an order.” He checks the taped receipt. “Pancake and eggs from our children’s menu. For Junior?”

A smile breaks.

Let the games begin.