Flirty: An Enemies to Lovers/ Single Dad Romantic Comedy (Unexpected Lovers Book 1) Read online

  Moments later, the elevator is in motion again, and I still haven’t answered Sadie’s question, but I do have one of my own. “If your name’s not Sadie, what is it?”

  She arches a brow at me. “Like you don’t already know, Stalky McStalkerpants.”

  I gape at her, then she steps out as the doors slide open, and she strides away without a backward glance.

  I am shook.

  There are no other words for what I’m feeling right now. How does Mr. Tall, Dark, and Brooding know that I’m Miss Sadie? My insides are swirling with panic, and it has nothing to do with the fact that I’m on my way to have breakfast with my uptight mother and perfect sister.

  Just as I exit the building, my Uber pulls up. I dive in, slamming the door closed behind me. Before the driver pulls away, the door I just climbed through swings open and none other than my elevator companion slides in alongside me. He forces me over as his big body takes up half the damn backseat.

  “Hey, this is my ride,” I say, glaring at the interloper.

  He rolls his eyes at me then turns his attention to the driver. “Take her where she needs to go first, then you can drop me at the Blaine, English, and Cline Law Group offices downtown.”

  “Are you okay with that, miss?” the driver asks, his eyes on me in the rearview mirror.

  Keeping my glare trained on my new stalker, I say, “I’m not paying for the whole trip. I’ll pay until my stop at Zenith, then he can pay his own way.”

  As the Uber pulls into the early morning traffic, I settle back in the seat and fasten my belt, keeping a careful eye on the man beside me.

  He places a briefcase in between us, and I feel a little better with the small divider—flimsy as it may be. Then he offers me his hand. “Atticus Blaine. I think you and I need to talk.”

  My brows lift, and I snort. “Ah, yeah, I don’t think so. I’ve never had a stalker before, but I’m pretty sure my best course of action here is to not engage.”

  Again, he rolls his eyes. “I’m not stalking you, Sadie. I’m attempting to get to the bottom of whatever you have going on with my son.”

  “Right,” I mutter and turn my focus to the window, gnawing on the inside of my cheek. How did a minor get access to my site, anyway?

  “For the love of God, woman. I. Am. Not. Stalking. You,” he grits out.

  Turning my head back, I examine him closely. He doesn’t look like the stalking type. But how would I know what one looks like? I’ve watched that show on Netflix; it’s not like creepers walk around with a neon sign above their heads, declaring them as such. Although, that would be super helpful.

  I can’t let his disgustingly good looks throw me off guard. I need to learn how he figured out about my alter ego; that should help me gain some insight into just how much of a creeper I’m dealing with.

  “Okay, if you’re not, explain to me how you know about Miss Sadie.”

  A dark shade of red tints his neck and cheeks as he licks his lips then clears his throat. “Like I told you, I walked in on my son watching you, umm, clean.” His eyes flick to the driver then back to me as he speaks.

  I nod. “Yep, covered that. But what you’re not telling me is how you figured out it was me. You can’t see my face.”

  He digs a finger in around the collar of his button-down shirt and tugs at it as he says, “Your tattoo. I recognized it. That, along with the color of your hair, and I put it together.”

  My hand automatically lifts to cradle the back of my neck and the ink in question. His eyes search mine. All I can do is blink at him.

  When I say nothing, he fills the silence hanging heavy between us. “We’ve ridden the elevator together many times before today. Sometimes, when your hair is up like today, I see the tattoo. I like it. It’s delicate and feminine.” He shrugs then swallows. “In the video, you turned around, your hair swept over your shoulder, and I saw it.”

  I narrow my eyes at him.

  “I wasn’t watching it. I swear, it wasn’t like that at all,” he says quickly. “I had just kicked Arlo out of my office and was about to shut down the browser window when I saw it.”

  Okay, so this is making a bit more sense now and sounding a little less creepy. I bite my bottom lip as I think over his explanation. Maybe I overreacted in my assumption that he was a stalker.

  Oh. My. Lord. This stunningly gorgeous man has seen me in a super slutty maid’s outfit.

  I’m suddenly hot—like burning up inside. I just know I’m as red as a tomato right now, and sweet baby Jesus, this man has seen parts of me no other man I’ve come face to face with has.

  “Are you okay? You don’t look so good,” Atticus says, shifting a little farther away from me.

  I fan my face with my hands. “This is bad,” I tell him. “Like really, really bad.”

  His handsome face morphs into an infuriatingly still-handsome frown. “What’s bad?”

  Luckily for me, the car pulls up to the curb out front of Zenith at the very moment I’m about to word-vomit all over Atticus. I toss the door open then throw myself out of the car and onto the sidewalk, slamming the door closed, scurrying inside and out of view in record time.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m at my desk, staring at my blank computer screen. I can’t stop thinking about Sadie—who is apparently not Sadie.

  She seemed to have no idea who Arlo is, and she only cared about how I recognized her.

  Rubbing at the tense muscles along the side of my neck, I recline in my chair. Maybe Arlo was just talking sixteen-year-old shit when he said he’s been seeing her for three months. I mean, last night was the first I’d ever heard of her, and he’s generally not shy about sharing his sexual exploits with me.

  In fact, I’m pretty sure he mentioned another girl just last weekend. So, it stands to reason that I’m blowing this all out of proportion, and Arlo was simply jacking off to live-action porn and stirring me up about it to divert from the fact that I walked in on the act.

  But I can’t be completely sure of anything until I look into this some more. With that thought, I turn on my desktop and thank God that my home and office computers automatically sync.

  I pull up the saved bookmarks, click on the Miss Sadie link, and get to work learning as much about the site—and woman—as possible.

  A throat clears in front of me, and I just about jump out of my skin. My assistant, Tyson, is standing at the edge of my desk, a devious smirk on his face.

  Jesus, I didn’t even hear him come in. “What?” I snap, my eyes bouncing from the scantily clad maid on my screen, swaying her hips to a sultry tune, to his all-too-pleased expression, and back again then reach out and turn the monitor so he can’t see the display.

  He arches a brow. “You came in late this morning, and now you’re watching porn … had a rough night, boss?”

  I sputter. “I am not watching porn! I’m doing research for a case.” I detest lying, but this is kind of a case… It’s just a personal case.

  Tyson snorts then rolls his eyes. “Sure you are, boss man. Sure you are.”

  Planting my palms on the arms of my chair, I glare at the most annoying assistant in the history of assistants. If he wasn’t so damn good at his job, I’d have fired his ass long ago. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m looking into a woman who is quite possibly seducing wealthy teenagers in order to fleece them.”

  “Is that why you’re trying to hide your boner under the desk?” he asks, smirk back in place.

  “Out!” I demand. “Get. Out.”

  “Would if I could, but I can’t.” He sighs. “Your ten-thirty is here, and I told them I’d just pop in to check if you were ready for them. And seeing as I’m such an amazing assistant who doesn’t want his boss to get caught choking the chicken, I’m going to hang out here for a few minutes until your little problem deflates,” he says, twirling a finger in the direction of my crotch hidden beneath the desk. “Then I’ll go back out there and apologize for taking up your time before sending them in.
”

  All I do is blink at him. How does he even know I have a boner right now? Shaking the thought off, I close down the browser tab then return my attention to Tyson. He grins at me like a madman, and I shake my head. “Fine. I had a boner. Consider it a side effect of the job.”

  “If I were into women, I’d be into that one,” he says as he sits in an armchair opposite me and gestures to my computer screen with his chin. “So, who’s she trying to fleece?”

  “My son.”

  Tyson’s eyes widen, and he leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “Arlo is bagging that cute little number?”

  I shake my head as I run my hand through my hair. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  “I didn’t know the kid was into older women. He’s always got a new piece of arm candy hanging off him from that prep school you send him to.”

  “I know. But last night, I accidentally interrupted him whacking the weasel on a video chat or something with her,” I explain.

  Tyson snickers. “Awkward much?”

  I shudder. “You have no idea.”

  The situation in my pants has sufficiently been dealt with after recalling last night’s events, so I flick my hand to the door. “All good here. You can send in Mrs. Johannsen now.”

  As efficient as ever, Tyson bounces to his feet. “What’s the site? I’ll do some digging while you’re in your meeting.”

  I give him the details then pull up the files for my next client. This is going to be a messy divorce. But I’ll make sure the future ex-Mrs. Johannsen gets everything she deserves from her lying, cheating, piece-of-shit husband.

  The moment Mrs. Johannsen leaves my office, Tyson barges in and closes the door behind him.

  “I take it you’ve found something?” I ask.

  He drops into the chair across from me and crosses one leg over the other. “So, it’s a live-feed site. The only saved recording is from the previous ...”—he stops, scrunching his brows and nose in his thinking face—“let’s call them ‘episodes.’ So, only the most recent episode is available to watch until she does her next live feed. The idea is you buy a subscription and have to log on when she’s ...” He pauses again, tilts his head, then clicks his fingers and points at me. “Performing.”

  “Okaaay.” I draw out the word. “And when you say ‘performing,’ you mean getting busy, right?”

  “Nope,” he says. “I went through the whole site, and there’s not any actual sexual content. Well, I mean, everyone has different kinks. And what she does is obviously sexy, but she doesn’t get freaky with a feather duster or anything like that. She just struts around in skimpy lingerie and heels while she literally cleans.”

  That can’t be right. My brows draw together as I eye Tyson. “Are you telling me people actually pay to watch someone clean? And they get off on it?”

  He nods. “Oh yeah. Apparently, it’s a pretty big thing in the kink community.”

  I blink at him. “The kink community?”

  With a shrug, he gets to his feet. “Different strokes for different folks, boss man. Who are you or I to tell another person what they should or shouldn’t get off to?”

  I frown again. I don’t understand this woman at all. She doesn’t come across as outwardly confident, let alone an attention seeker, which I assume is a personality trait of someone in that profession. I mean, isn’t that the whole reason you would do something like that? For attention?

  Tyson clicks his fingers in my face, and I scowl at him. He just rolls his eyes in return. “Anyway, my findings don’t point to her trying to scam anyone. She gets good money from this gig. I don’t think you have anything to worry about with Arlo. I’m confident he’s not being hustled by a hoochie mama. He’s still just the simple-minded horndog we know and love.”

  Closing my eyes, I let that sink in. She gets good money. She’s not after my son.

  A small smile tugs at the corner of my lips. If she’s not after my son, that means she’s fair game.

  “What’s that look about?” Tyson asks, swirling a finger in the direction of my face.

  I can’t contain my smirk, my eyes coming to meet my astute assistant’s narrowed ones. “Looks like I have an apology to make.”

  I poke at my half-eaten eggs benny while my mother looks down her entitled nose at my choice of wardrobe. “I don’t understand why you don’t even try to accentuate your good features, Kinsley. Your breasts are by far your best asset, and you’re hiding them under that hideous sweater. How do you expect to get a man’s attention like that?”

  Sighing heavily, I lift my gaze to hers. The fact that I’m met with genuine concern just goes to show how shallow my family is. This is what she’s worried about: why I’m not out flashing my tits in the hopes of landing a date. “If and when I want a man’s attention, Mother, I don’t want to gain it by pushing my boobs in his face.”

  “You don’t have to be so crude,” she chastises as she picks up her Bloody Mary and takes a delicate sip.

  Seriously? I’m the one being crude here? I go back to poking my food.

  You only have to hang around for another twenty minutes, Kins. You can do this.

  “What I don’t understand is why you keep trying to make her into something she’s never going to be, Mom.” Sophia, my perfect-in-every-way sister, enters the conversation. “Yes, she has a nice rack, but that’s really all she’s got going for her. She’s not going to snag a decent man with the power of boobs alone.”

  Abandoning my eggs, I wrap my hands around my steaming mug of coffee and tune out their chatter.

  Sophia and I stopped being sisters about the time she stole my senior-year boyfriend right out of my bed. Literally. I was gearing up to tell him I was finally ready to do it, then she strutted in, wearing a white, barely there bikini and, I quote, said, ‘Why are you wasting your time with Kinsley? If you really want to have some fun, you better come with me.’ The asshole tripped over his own feet chasing after her.

  Ever since it started to look like I might be growing out of my ugly-duckling phase, she’s been rabid. The seventeen years leading up to that point had been good between us. I accepted my role as the smart but plain child in the family, and she excelled at being the supermodel in the making.

  Now, we only tolerate each other at the monthly brunch date our mother insists we both attend—and tolerate is a strong word.

  Looking at my watch, I’m relieved the one-hour time slot I allot to this particularly torturous exercise is over. I chug the remainder of my coffee, order an Uber on my phone, then place my cutlery atop my plate, signaling I’m done.

  Mom and Sophia pause their conversation to glance at me after I push to my feet. “This was lovely, as always,” I say, trying to keep the sarcasm from my tone, and I’m, like, ninety-nine percent sure I fail. Oh well. I forge on with my excuses. “There’ve been some issues with the online shopping carts, so I’m going to head into the office and see if I can help the team figure it out.”

  “Okay, sweetheart, but don’t work too hard—you’ve got bags under your eyes. I worry the strain of looking at those computer screens so much is going to cause you permanent damage,” Mom says, again with genuine concern—not for me as a person, but for my physical appearance.

  Sophia smirks. “Yes, Kinsley. You wouldn’t want to do anything to further lower your chances of finding someone who thinks you’re attractive.”

  I wait until Mom’s focus is diverted to flip off the cow in the stark-white pantsuit from our family’s spring line. I wish she didn’t look so good in it. But that’s my sister: hideously ugly on the inside, stunningly beautiful on the outside. She could wear a potato sack and still be a solid ten.

  As I’m waiting on the windy sidewalk for my ride, a few loose strands of my mulberry-colored hair stick to the remains of my lip gloss. Tucking them behind my ear with one hand, I shoot my sister a text with nothing but the middle finger emoji. I’m real mature like that.

  Sophia never misses an o
pportunity to make me feel like shit. And my mother, with her well-meaning yet brutal opinions, always manages to remind me just how plain I am. I know it’s foolish to let their words get to me. Logically, I know they’re just words, but my brain can’t let go of the hurt they always cause. And that tiny voice in the back of my head keeps telling me I’ll never be as pretty as Sophia.

  My phone chimes with the alert from my Uber driver. I scan the cars lined up along the curb until I see my ride, then I scurry over and slide in the backseat just as rain begins to fall.

  It’s after four by the time the problem with the shopping cart feature on the Fiora website is fixed. Thousands of transactions today have gone through without adding tax. Dad will be pissed. But I can’t bring myself to really care; it’s not like he can’t take the financial hit.

  Technically, I don’t have to do the work. I’ve got more money than I’ll ever need. Perks of being one of the Fiora heiresses, I suppose. But I enjoy using my tech skills to contribute in some way. My grandparents founded the Fiora fashion empire. My father now runs the show, and my sister does her part on the catwalk.

  I used to wish I had Sophia’s looks and her ability to walk in a straight line while wearing skyscraper heels. Sometimes I still do. But if the price of beauty is a black soul, I’ll keep my average looks, thank you very much.

  When I get home, Arlo is sitting at the dining room table, his homework spread in front of him, but he’s tapping away on his phone. After I place my briefcase by the kitchen bench, I grab a beer from the fridge then drag out the chair opposite my son and take a seat.

  His brown eyes flit up to meet mine, and he grins. “’Sup, old man?”

  I take a hearty swig of beer then ask, “You haven’t actually met that woman you were stroking it to last night, have you?”

  His grin morphs into a full-blown smile. “What’s it to you?”

  “Answer the question, Arlo.”