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Grab Wherever It Leads by Adriana Locke for 99 cents 4/21-4/25! Amazon: https://amzn.to/2Go62WC
Smooth. Sexy. Irresistible.
Those qualities equal only one thing.
Big. Freaking. Trouble.
Brynne Calloway knows that anything that seems too good to be true usually is. Fenton Abbott and his cashmere voice, Adonis body, and a magnetism like no other clearly falls into that category. But what’s life without a little risk?
It was supposed to be a rebound, an uncomplicated escape from reality. But nothing ever goes as planned. Fenton turns out to be so much more … in ways Brynne never sees coming.
"Sexy and hot with page sizzling romance. Fenton Abbott is the picturesque book boyfriend who will have you swooning and wishing you wore bikinis." - Heidi McLaughlin, NYT and USA Today Best Selling Author
"Wherever It Leads lead me exactly where my heart needed to be. Locke has developed complex characters, a story with depth, unexpected turns, and sexy twists. A ✮✮✮✮✮ read for me." - SL Scott, NYT and USA Today Best Selling Author
Fenton is standing in front of the windows that line this room too. One hand is pressed against the glass, the other holding a phone to his ear. He looks in complete control, dominating, and it makes my mouth water. His charcoal grey suit is stretched across his wide shoulders, his legs shoulder-width apart. It’s the sexiest thing I have ever seen. Lord help me when he turns around. The door closes softly behind me. As if in slow motion, Fenton turns. The setting sun is to his back, almost like the universe is showcasing his splendor in case there was any doubt of his perfection. He slips one hand in his pocket, a slow smile spreading across his face. “I’ll call you later,” he says into the phone and puts it in his pocket too. All I can do is take him in. He’s doing the same as his gaze caresses me from head to toe. Even from the other side of the room, I can feel him skirting my curves, skimming my jawline. It’s visual intercourse, if that’s even a thing, and I’m ready to climax. The top button of his shirt is undone, his tie gone. A dark belt wraps his narrow waist, giving him a look of sophistication. His jaw has a spattering of stubble and I wonder what it would feel like beneath my fingers. The energy in the room crackles as he draws near. My breathing is rapid-firing and I take a deep breath to try to sort it out before he reaches me. I fumble with what to say and what to do. I’m not the smoothest on dates anyway, but with this Adonis? God almighty. I don’t know him well enough to know how to even address him. Come to think of it, I know three things: his name, he’s gorgeous, and he currently holds all the power. And I’m ready to remove all of my clothing. So I guess that makes it four.
Presley, ever on her game, flips her hair before extending a hand. “You’re the man I’m looking for.” If I could react, I’d roll my eyes at her innuendo. Instead, I just stare like a cartoon character. There are probably little hearts extending from my pupils, exploding right above his head. “I might be,” he says, looking at Presley. “Do you want my name or something to confirm it?” she hints. “Well,” he drawls, his voice as luxurious as Presley made it out to be, “I believe you said it was your friend’s phone. So if that’s the case, I think it’s her name I should get.” Presley’s jaw drops at the same time as mine. They both look at me. “If you just show it to me, I can tell you if it’s mine,” I half stutter. His smirk deepens. “I’m pretty certain it’s yours. Your pictures are on the camera roll.” “You looked at my pictures?” I gasp, my cheeks heating. “You had no right to do that!” “How else could I be sure the right person came to pick it up?” He has a point, but I still don’t agree. Yet I don’t want to argue. Not at least until I have my phone. It feels like such an invasion of privacy and I should be offended, or at least, mock-offended, but I’m really not. Not even when I try to dig deep to find the feelings. “Thank you for finding it and tracking me down. Can I have it back now?” I ask. He digs a large hand into his pocket, too near his cock for my own good, and retrieves it. “Thank you,” I whisper. My fingertips brush his palm as I take it. The contact sends shivers down my spine. “It’s my pleasure.”
“Tell him I got his message yesterday and I don’t need him to blow me. But thank him for the offer.”
Grabbing the nearest shopping cart and sliding it in front of me, I toggle the phone against my shoulder. It nearly slides off my rigid muscles, a mix of workout fatigue and work stress setting up shop across my back.
Duke sighs through the phone, not even pretending to hide his frustration. “Fenton, that’s not true,” he says, exasperation thick in his voice. “He didn’t ask to blow you.”
“Obviously it’s not fucking true. I just want to hear him have to deny it.”
“You know what? Just forget I called. I’ll come up with a response myself.”
“That’s probably the best idea you’ve had yet.”
Duke sighs again, louder this time. I’m sure I’ve been an asshole to deal with since I hired him, but I gave him plenty of warning what he was getting into. This entire situation, the one he was hired to deal with, has been a complete clusterfuck from the start. There’s nothing more vexing than being able to fix a problem and having your hands tied behind your back while being needled that the problem exists. I know it exists. I’m keenly aware and no one wants it fixed more than me.
“I’ll just tell them the status hasn’t changed.”
“I could’ve taken care of this,” I bite out.
“I know. I know.”
“And they wouldn’t let me.”
“I know you know. Try to impart some of that knowledge to them. I’m playing by their rules right now, but I’m starting to lose patience with their—”
“Fenton, you have to play by their rules. Otherwise—”
“I’m heading into the store,” I interrupt. “The service is going to get shitty.”
“Talk soon,” Duke says, ready to end the conversation anyway, and the line clicks off. I shove my phone into the pocket of my black athletic pants. My jaw pulses, the buzz from this morning’s workout now vanished.
Ignoring the eyes of an uptight man perusing the apples, I skirt my cart left to avoid interaction. I have no idea why I chose today of all days to do my own grocery shopping. I could’ve waited three damn days until my housekeeper gets back from vacation.
Steering clear of the apples and the negative energy rolling off the shopper, I head towards the bananas. I need to find the optimism I had five minutes ago before Duke called from the office and ruined my Saturday morning.
The bananas are organic and perfectly ripe, so I pluck a bunch off the podium. I start to push away, but the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. A ruffle of unease scatters through my subconscious. I pause mid-step and glance around the store. People mill about, minding their own business, nothing out of the ordinary. I start to push away again when I spy the offender. A black piece of plastic peeks out from behind a bundle of bananas, the overhead light ricocheting off it and catching my eye.
I reach behind the produce and pull out a black cell phone. Turning it over in my hand, it looks no worse for wear. I press the round button on the bottom and the screen lights up.
Staring back at me are two gorgeous girls, probably a couple of years younger than me. Mid-twenties, I’d say. The dark-headed one is flashing a peace sign in a barely there white bikini. She’s hot as fuck. But it’s the blonde that draws my attention. She sits crossed-legged in shorts and a tank top on the beach, her hair falling around her narrow shoulders. Her body is covered, her stance demure, but there’s something striking about her that I can’t pinpoint. I almost can’t look away. Her blue-green eyes taunt me, tease me with a look that’s downright beguiling. The touches of vulnerability hidden behind her confidence intrigue me, make me want to hear her voice and know what she’s thinking.
Laughing at my ridiculousness despite the heat rolling in my blood, I skim the store again. No one seems to be searching for the phone.
I glance back down and my gaze goes immediately to the blonde. The curve of her hip has my thumb gliding over the screen.
I should turn the phone in to management. It’s the logical, responsible thing to do.
My feet don’t move.
Losing your phone in the bananas doesn’t exactly shout responsibility.
Taking a deep breath, I ponder my options. I can turn it in to Lost and Found and hope that they actually give it to her if she comes looking. Or . . . I could try to get in touch with her myself.
Keep telling yourself you’re playing the Good Samaritan.
Leaning against the produce display, I do a quick analysis. The odds of her finding it at the Help Desk aren’t great. Maybe fifty-fifty. Some bagger boy will probably see the lock screen and take it to the bathroom and jerk off. The odds of that are phenomenal. The odds of me breaking the passcode aren’t great either, but if possible, would greatly increase her chances of getting it back.
And the chance for me to see those eyes in person.
I type in 0000.
“Try again” flashes on the screen.
Steering the cart with my elbows towards the customer service desk, I run through possible passwords before I commit to my final try. I have one more chance before it locks me out for good and I have no choice but to turn it over to Bagger Boy and his bathroom break.
I go for 1111, another overused password.
It makes a clicking sound and the lock screen opens. The phone toggles in my hands, my jaw dropping in disbelief. It worked. The home screen is filled with apps over shiny gold wallpaper, waiting to be explored.
Should I or shouldn’t I?
My thumb glances over the photo album and I see the first photo.
I definitely should.
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