“Of course not.” She pats my arm. “I’ve got you covered here. Still . . . you could help me help you.”

I halt and meet her gaze head-on. “What are you saying?”

“Stop frowning.” Her eyes travel down and up my body. “Just make some changes on your end. You know . . . little things.”

I grip her forearm. “Be brutal and pretend we aren’t friends. Tell me what to do to stay in front of the camera.”

Releasing a deep sigh, she crosses her arms. “Okay . . . but I’m only saying this because I care. You need to drop at least five pounds—at least. High-def shows everything.”

Looking down, I see the seams straining on the sides of my skirt, and I tighten my lips. It’s true. I’ve let things go a little bit. When my best friend Nancy had lived with me, she’d always been able to whip up my favorite Tex-Mex recipes with half the fat and calories. It had been her specialty—favorite foods with a healthy twist. Now she’s at the Culinary Institute in New York chasing her dream of being on the Food Network, and I’m left with Doritos Locos Tacos from Taco Bell . . . and an additional fifteen pounds.

Of course, there’s also the other thing.

“I guess I’ve been in a funk since James and I broke up . . .” I hope for a little sympathy. “It’s hard to care what you look like naked when the chances of anyone seeing you naked are less than zero.”

“You can increase those chances if you pay attention to your makeup.”

I throw up my hands. “We busted our asses to file that pageant story on time. It was hot as hell in the expo center, and when I realized I’d left my blotting papers in the van, it was too late . . .”

Her expression changes, and my voice trails off. I know what she’s going to say before she even begins.

“This is a competitive, appearance-driven field, Becks.” She gives my arm a squeeze. “You can’t slack off, even for a month, and expect to move up in the ranks. I’ll buy you a few weeks, but you have got to show that you’re making changes.”

“I know.” I rub my forehead. “You’re right. I know you’re right!”

“Get started tomorrow.” She leaves me at the door and heads back to the control room to prep for the ten o’clock broadcast.

I throw my blazer over my arm and start for the door. A unisex restroom is just at the back exit, and I decide to make a pit stop before heading to my car and getting stuck in late-evening Houston traffic needing to pee.

Flinging the door open, my eyes land on the glorious backside of none other than Captain Sexy himself. He steps away from the toilet, and not only do I get an eyeful of that sexy tush in all its toned and lined greatness, he turns before his slacks are completely over his hips, and I’m treated to a view of his long, thick . . . member. If that’s at ease, what must it look like at attention?

My jaw goes slack, and the horrible meeting is forgotten as my purse plops to the floor. Never in my life have I ever wanted to increase my chances of being seen naked again. Forget being seen—I simply want to be naked all over that . . .

It. Is. Amazing.

Cade

“DON’T YOU KNOW how to knock, Stone?” I finish buckling my belt, hiding my surprise at seeing the sexy blonde bursting in the door like a wild woman.

Her mouth opens, closes, and then opens again. “Your pants were down! I saw . . .” She swallows, her face cardinal red. “I can’t believe you go commando in Armani!”

My lips twitch as I wash my hands and dry them. “It’s called taking a piss, and I usually do it alone. Do you mind giving me some privacy?”

I turn to adjust my tie in the mirror, secretly pleased we have something to distract us from that bullshit meeting Marv pulled me into just now. He’d been dead wrong thinking I’d side with his sorry ass over Stone. I’ve had my eye on her since day one, with her laser focus and her utter disinterest in me. Part of me finds it intriguing—a woman not falling at my feet—while the other side of me is annoyed. I want to get to the bottom of it.

She huffs. “Well, you should have locked the damn door—and stop calling me Stone! It’s ridiculous. Killer.”

My jaw tightens at her reference to my old football nickname. “I see you’ve done your homework. Do you prefer Becks?”

“That’s for close friends only.”

“Rebecca?” I ask silkily, liking how the three syllables roll off my tongue. Our eyes meet in the mirror.

“No.” She crosses her arms.

“Why don’t you like me, Stone?” I arch a brow as I turn around to face her. “What have I ever done to you?”

“For starters, you should not have been in that meeting just now.”

“Agreed.”

I can tell she’s stunned by how fast I answer. Her face shutters, and she pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. While her eyes are fixed on the floor, I take a minute to study her uninterrupted. Her rumpled hair is a deep honey color and perfectly complements her pale, creamy skin. She mutters something to herself.

“What was that?”

Clearing her throat, she says, “I said you also remind me of someone. My ex, James. He had the beard thing too.” She waves her fingers toward my face, still not making eye contact.

“It didn’t end well?”

“He was a douche.” Her hair slides over one shoulder as she shrugs. “He left me three months ago for the coffee barista who used to wait on us every morning on the way to work. Now I can’t even go to my favorite coffee place. Did I mention she’s twenty-one? Right up your Killer alley.”

“Are you saying he’s my doppelganger?” That bothers me, imagining Stone in a relationship with my twin, not twin.

She sighs. “The beard and hair is the same, but you’re—”

“Hotter?” I grin.

Her lips purse and she starts to say something but seems to think better of it.

I study her. “The truth is you’ve been mad at me since I started here. Why?”

A flash of determination glints in her irises. “You want to know?”

“I wouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s annoying—no, maddening—that you breeze into the best station in Houston without a journalism degree and suddenly become the sports guy, all because you were a decent quarterback and your dad happens to own half the city.”

I smirk. She’s trying to get under my skin, and I like it, but I can’t let the football slight pass.

“Decent quarterbacks don’t score Super Bowl wins. I’m one of the best.”

She thinks for a moment and nods. “Fair enough. But you insist on having that . . . that hair on your face when everyone else on camera is clean-shaven. Heck, your beard even gets fan mail!” A long exhale comes from her mouth. “Everyone loves you, and you didn’t earn it.”

“That’s it?” I tuck my hands in my pockets.

“Mostly.”

I shrug. “Cool. I can live with that.”

She cocks her head and gives me a quizzical look. “It doesn’t piss you off when I say you’re skating by on your ridiculous beard, past talent, and family name?”

“How do you skate by, Stone? What’s special about you?”

Her lip trembles, and I immediately want to yank the words back. Shit. Usually she’s up for the snarky banter, but after that brutal meeting . . .