Dangerous Exes (Page 8)

She slammed it out of my hand so fast that it clanged against the floor.

She blushed and then gulped. “Sorry, old habits. Here.” A pair of chopsticks was placed in my hand. “Eat it right or don’t eat at all.”

Good thing I actually knew how to use the bastards.

I dug in with fervor, too exhausted to ask her why she was stalking me and eating my food, and too oddly content having someone to share a meal with to shatter the moment with my voice.

“So.” She wiped her mouth. “What do you think about red?”

“Red,” I said dumbly. “Red what?”

“Walls.”

I choked on a piece of rice. “I don’t do color.”

“Right, but if you have any chance of selling you’ll need to make the walls more interesting, maybe add in a few throw pillows.”

“Not selling, don’t need paint, don’t need pillows. Sell your crazy elsewhere, Isla.”

“Oh.” She looked crestfallen. “I guess I assumed wrong then.”

With that, she got up, grabbed her purse, and slowly made her way to the door.

Curiosity had me following her. “Are you drunk?”

A bright smile spread across her face. I sucked in a breath, hating the way it made my body ache for things it had no business even thinking about wanting. “No, why?”

“You’re acting crazier than normal.”

“First off, never call a woman crazy, at least to her face, and is that all you have to say after I paid for your dinner?”

“Why exactly would you do that again? We aren’t friends.” At least not anymore.

She leaned up and kissed me on the cheek, the scent of her citrus perfume filled my nostrils. “Just trying to be neighborly.”

It didn’t click until I watched her walk out of my house and take a hard right. Directly into the guesthouse I’d agreed to rent out on a separate part of the property.

The one I told my real estate agent to handle without me.

The one that my ex used to live in.

She turned on her heel and blew me a kiss, then let herself inside.

“What the actual fuck.” I breathed out another curse for good measure and then lifted my head and smiled in her direction. “Well played, Isla, well played.”

Chapter Eight

ISLA

My victory was short-lived when I realized that in all my hastiness I hadn’t thought to bring sheets or a pillow. I hadn’t even really planned on moving, but when I’d used my powers—my PI powers, that is—for evil . . .

I’d discovered that this little beauty was on the market as a rental.

It was like finding the holy grail.

I’d made an offer the agent couldn’t refuse, thanks to the money I’d stockpiled over the years, and picked up the keys that afternoon.

I hadn’t even moved out of my own apartment.

Or given notice.

Being this rash wasn’t like me—not even a little bit—but if I was going to win, I was going to have to drive him just as crazy as he was driving me.

And that started with infiltrating his inner circle. Thankfully, I had all the dirt on him because of our investigation.

He liked white.

Alphabetized cereals and never ate them.

Didn’t even like whiskey.

Secretly co-owned a gym with his best friend.

Liked roses in his garden, but only white ones—shocker!

And volunteered as much as possible, only to come home to a solitary white yet modern house to watch Netflix, then wake up and do it all over again.

He. Was. Predictable.

He said red gave him hives.

And the last time someone asked him what music he liked, he said he was confused by the question.

Either his ex zapped all the interesting things out of his body in order to use him as her boring sex slave, or he really was just . . . average.

In my mind, Jessie was a muted beige in a world full of magenta.

And if that wasn’t tragic, what was?

The only thing he had going for him was that he was the most attractive ex-football-player alive.

I almost yawned just going over the data I’d grabbed from my office.

I set up shop in the kitchen, thankful that he’d at least furnished the place with pots, pans, couch, flat-screen, and a coffee table that looked shiny enough to eat off.

By the time midnight came, I had my battle plan ready.

But still no pillow.

The couch would probably be comfortable enough.

But.

I smiled.

And then very hastily dressed in a pair of silk shorts, pulled off my bra, added my silk tank top, then made the trek back to Jessie’s house.

I knocked.

The lights were all off.

I knocked again, this time harder.

Jessie jerked the door open wearing nothing but low-slung Nike joggers and a smile made for sin.

I gaped.

His half-lidded gaze raked over me like I was a feast and he hadn’t eaten in days.

I licked my lips and took a step forward, his chest rose and fell slowly.

“Pillow,” I whispered.

“Pillow,” he repeated. “One word. How the hell am I supposed to know what that means? You want to smother me with a pillow? Have pillow talk? Your pillow’s too flat? Help me out, Isla, because I have a meeting in six hours.”

“Seven,” I corrected.

He glared. “Got my schedule too, did you?”

I just smiled. “May I please borrow a pillow, I forgot mine.”

He groaned and opened the door wide, then stomped into a room I could only assume was his. I followed close on his heels as he grabbed a pillow from a large bed and chucked it at my face.

I caught it with one hand, then squeezed with both arms as my breasts spilled over it.

His eyes immediately lowered.

It was all part of the plan.

Why not drive him crazy in every way possible?

I was passably attractive, with smooth skin, dark features, and good bone structure, according to Goo-Poh.

I used to model.

And I knew how to use my body to my advantage—any good PI knew how to.

I could have sworn he muttered fuck under his breath when I looked down and shrugged. “Everything . . . on the up and up?” I dropped my gaze to his waist and then lowered as I bit my lip.

He gripped me by the shoulders and turned me toward the door, then whispered gruffly against my neck, “This is a dangerous little game you’re playing, pumpkin.”

For some reason I was okay with the nickname this time.

“I think I can handle myself,” I said in a clear voice.

He jerked me back against his rock-hard body, his rock-hard everything. Blood pounded between my ears as my body slacked against his. “You just keep telling yourself that.”

I walked on wobbly legs all the way to the guesthouse and shut the door.

Point, Jessie.

Chapter Nine

ISLA

“You’re more high-strung than normal.” Blaire handed me a cup of coffee and waited for me to respond. My mind was reeling. I’d slept like crap again.

Thanks to Jessie.

And his body.

And his . . . other, the other parts of his body. Damn it!

“I’ve never seen that look on your face before,” Blaire said in wonder. “It’s like you want to take over the world but don’t know how. Who foiled your plans?”

She was teasing.

But there was truth to it. All of it.

“I’m going to kill Jessie Beckett,” I announced to Blaire and our receptionist, Abby. I was still pissed that Abby hadn’t put two and two together and realized that Jessie wasn’t just another paying customer but a client scorned. Then again, he probably sweet-talked her. Abby was easy to please, all you had to say was “thank you” and she was putty in your hands. I glared at Penny, the other traitor by association. Didn’t cats hiss? Was that not a thing? Could she give a bit of a warning next time? Geez!