CHAPTER SIXTEEN

JAYLAH

I wish I loved cooking. I mean, seriously, I would die to be one of those women who are naturally skilled in the kitchen, whipping up gourmet dishes and earning themselves nicknames with “Crocker” on the end. Unfortunately for me, I didn’t inherit such a gift. No, I burn toast. I’ll give myself some credit, though; I can buy cookie dough, roll it out and put it in an oven.

That’s got to count for something.

The girls are coming over for poker tonight to ‘take my mind off everything that’s going down,’ so I’m trying to figure out what I can serve them that’s not going to taste like I dug it from the earth, washed it and presented it on a plate. I’m flicking through cookbooks for beginners when a knock sounds at the door. I turn, wondering whom it could be. Most of them don’t knock.

Mack is downstairs working out, so I figure I’ll answer it. I close the book and walk over, opening the door slowly. When I get an eyeful of the serious man candy standing there, my mouth drops open. Holy hotness. This man just about whacks you with sex—it’s just oozing off him, and he hasn’t even opened his mouth.

He’s the meaning of tall, dark and handsome. He’s got thick, black hair that is messy, parts of it falling over his forehead. A chiseled jaw is coated in two days’ growth, giving him somewhat of a professional, yet dangerous look. His eyes, oh man, are nearly black, and his lips . . . full, gorgeous. He’s, I’d guess around six-foot tall, and built. I mean, yum. Even under the white button-up shirt he’s wearing, I can tell he’s all muscle.

He’s dressed in a suit; well, half a suit. He’s got black slacks on that he’s pulled his shirt out of messily. The tie around his neck has been loosened, but it’s a dark red, and it’s as dangerous as him. He’s rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, and there’s not a jacket to be seen.

I stand there, gaping at the male beauty in front of me because if I wasn’t lusting—okay, I’m not entirely lusting, he’s still on my hit list—after my boss, I’d go for this bad boy.

“Ah, can I help you?” I squeak.

Smooth, Jaylah.

His lips quirk and he takes me in. “Lookin’ for Mack.”

Oh man, his voice.

“And you are . . .”

Another lip quirk. “Marcus Tandem.”

Marcus. What a name.

“He’s just downstairs, I’ll—”

“Marcus!”

Mack’s voice fills the space behind me and I turn to see him walking towards us, a grin on his face, his body covered in sweat. Oh man, I’m about to be in a hot man sandwich and I want to stay there, oh yes I do.

“Mack.” Marcus grins when I turn back.

Mack brushes past me, and I shudder as his skin grazes mine. He reaches out, taking Marcus’s hand and shaking it. “What the fuck are you doin’ here?”

“Travelling,” Marcus says, his smile wide. God, he’s beautiful. “Thought I’d check in, see how you’re goin’.”

“Fuck, it’s awesome to see you. Come in.”

I step back and let the two men walk in. As Mack passes me, his eyes meet mine, and my heart jumps. Marcus is hot—I mean, super, fucking hot—but Mack is the man for me. Oh boy, I’m screwed. I close the door when they’re both through, just as Diesel stirs in his bouncer. I go over, lifting him into my arms and hushing him.

“Somethin’ I missed?” Marcus asks.

Mack’s eyes flicker to Diesel, to me, then back to Marcus. “Long story for another day. What brings you to town?”

“Business, as always.”

Mack walks to the fridge, swinging it open. He pulls out two beers, handing Marcus one. I go about my business, getting Diesel a bottle, but I can’t help but overhear their conversation as I do.

“So, I got married,” Marcus says.

Mack’s head whips around, and he gives his friend a horrified look. “You’re shittin’ me?”

They stare at each other, and I can’t help but look between them.

“Nah.”

“You, the king of fuckin’ players, got hitched?”

“Long story for another day,” Marcus says, his voice dropping low.

They stare at each other, and I feel there’s something much bigger to that story. Oh yes, much, much bigger.

“She a good woman?” Mack asks.

“Again, long story.”

Hmmmm.

“What else has been happenin’?” Mack goes on, changing the subject.

I turn away, busying myself again.

“Didn’t catch your girlfriend’s name,” Marcus says and I spin around.

“I am not his girlfriend,” I cry.

Marcus looks confused. “Then what are you?”

“His nanny.”

He snorts. “Okay, precious, must have read it wrong, but I was sure I felt the sexual tension dripping off the two of you.”

My mouth drops open, but I quickly close it.

“I’m a lesbian!” I blurt. “I don’t like men. Especially broody ones.”

Mack stares at me, Marcus laughs, and I go red.

That was tactful. Truly.

“Honey,” Mack murmurs, “you ain’t a lesbian.”

“I might be,” I point out. “You wouldn’t know.”

“Lesbians announce to an entire club of bikers that they want to ride their boss?”