“Last hand?” I rolled my neck, stretching the protesting muscles as one of my oldest friends, Weston Rutherford—the owner of the Raleigh Raptors NFL team—shuffled the deck of cards at the table beside me. Freshwater cave diving this morning had been invigorating. It was an epic experience, especially here on the Yucatan.

Crossland McFarland, another of my friends—and the owner of the pro hockey team in Calgary—had outdone himself with this one. Since he’d lost last month’s game, he’d been the one to put this month’s game and experience together. Given the way the last hand went, there was a genuine chance that I’d be on the hook for the next time if I didn’t watch my bets.

“I’m good with one more hand,” Ethan Berkeley, the owner of the Charleston Hurricanes, our local MLB team, said, leaning back in his seat in a perfectly pressed polo. Didn’t matter that we were thousands of miles from work, the guy always looked ready to take a Zoom call with his board if he had to. I wasn’t sure he actually knew how to relax, not that I was one to talk.

“One more,” Gareth Maxfield agreed, taking a long drink of his beer. No fruity cocktails for that guy. He overflowed his rattan chair, but considering he was six foot five, he almost never looked comfortable in whatever furniture we ended up in. Pretty sure everything at his house and in his office was custom made, because he wasn’t just tall—he was built like he could bench press an elephant while closing a deal.

 As he shifted his weight, the sleeves of his Hawaiian shirt stretched across his inked biceps, and I bit back a laugh. Gareth was as serious as they came, and if I was being honest, a pretty menacing motherfucker—which made him a strict, no bullshit owner when it came to the Charleston Cougars NFL franchise, but he’d lost a hand last month to Weston that had put him in bright pink and orange flowers, a startling contrast to the tattoos that covered him from his hands upward.

“I could go for two,” Crossland chimed in as he stroked the thigh of the woman in his lap and smiled at a brunette walking by on her way to the pool.

“You can always go for two,” I muttered, rubbing my hand over my hair. We all had our addictions. Crossland’s just happened to be women. My addiction was something a little more predictable: routine. I liked structure and rules everywhere but my bedroom, and then all bets were off, but lately I’d pulled back from the casual dating and hookup scene. Watching almost every hockey player on the team I owned—the Carolina Reapers—fall in love over the last few years was like going out to eat with a bunch of fuckers who were dining on filet mignon every night while I was feigning satisfaction with a fast food burger left on the grill too long. No one seemed to satisfy me anymore.

Maybe that’s why I’d started living for these poker games every month. They’d started off as a way for the five of us to blow off some steam and push ourselves to experience new things, but over the last few years, they’d become my safe haven, my flash of color in a monotonous world, and the only time I allowed myself to relax.

And the guys? Weston and I had been close since our early twenties, and the other three had quickly become the friends I hadn’t realized I was missing. We were all connected in some way, either by geography or prior friendship, and we were all the youngest franchise owners on the North American continent, all in our late twenties and, in my case, very early thirties. Our game was the worst-kept secret among the exclusive club that was professional sports franchise owners, and true to our reputation, we were pricks who didn’t let anyone else play in our sandbox.

I picked up my stack of chips and let them fall through my fingers. To an onlooker, they were nothing special, just generic, plain white poker chips. It was the Sharpies next to each of the five of us that got us into trouble. Betting money was boring. All five of us had more money than we’d be able to spend in this lifetime. We bet the stuff that kept life interesting—information, collectibles, and favors.

“What’s wrong, Silas?” Weston asked, smirking like the asshole he currently was. “That last hand a little too much for you?”

“Fuck off.” I glared at the chip in his pile that read Team with Rapt for new helmet line. My sister, Harper, the head of our sports technology division was going to be fucking furious when she found out I’d bet our own team’s exclusivity to her new technology, and even more pissed when she realized that meant she’d be flying to Raleigh to gather all the test data.

“You’re going to be in so much trouble when you get home.” Weston laughed, the sound echoing off the tall, glass windows that surrounded us on three sides, letting in the views of lush vegetation, and to Crossland’s delight, the pool where the exclusive resort’s other guests lounged, some topless. Brynn Allen, Weston’s assistant and best friend, looked up over her e-reader, but settled back in on the couch behind Weston, tucking her legs under her as she continued to read.

Weston’s addiction was twofold. First, the guy was an adrenaline junkie. Second, he was addicted to ignorance, because if anyone looked at me the way Brynn watched him, I would have had a ring on her finger years ago. The two were pretty much attached at the hip, as evidenced by the fact that she was no more than ten feet away from him at every game. Not that we weren’t all allowed to bring guests—we were. But even if Weston brought additional female companionship, Brynn was always on the flight manifest.

“Whatever. Just deal. One more.” I held up my finger to let him know I meant business. My flight was scheduled for three hours from now, and nothing irked me more than being late.

“Sore loser,” Weston sang as he dealt out two cards to each player.

Just like in business, we were methodical when it came to the game. We sat in the same positions every time and always remembered who’d dealt last so everyone was treated equally.

Ethan put in the small blind, one-dollar bet, and Gareth dropped the big blind, the strapping sum of two dollars.

I checked my cards discreetly, then put them face down on the table—ten of hearts and queen of spades.

The bets started, and I raised Crossland’s call. We had our own rules when it came to the game. The first round was always money and never more than ten bucks. The second round, now that’s where things got interesting.

“So tell me, Ash, you do anything about that little dare from the gala a few months back?” Weston burned the top card on the deck and then laid out three, face up on the table. Nine of clubs, ten of diamonds, and two of hearts. That gave me at least a pair.

“To which dare are you referring?” I yanked on the collar of my T-shirt, knowing damn well exactly what he was talking about.

Again, the minimum bets went in, but this time Next Month’s Game was written on each chip, just like they were every hand. At the end of the game, whomever had won the most tallied the chips, and boom, our loser was selected.

“Stop acting like you don’t remember the dare. We all know you have the devil’s memory. I bet you remember the name of the kid who borrowed your pencil in the third grade and never gave it back,” Gareth said with a scoff, leveling a stare at me as he dropped another chip into the pot. It read host next charity gala. “Raise.”

Shit, his hand must have been good, because he avoided public events like the plague. He never did anything that brought too much attention to his money, or how he’d made it. We never asked, but we all knew.

“First, her name was Claire, and it was my favorite pencil,” I started, scribbling the same bet on my own chip. “And second, it wasn’t even that she didn’t give it back as much as she handed it over to Tommy Bakersfelt. That pissed me off.”

“Call.” Crossland threw in his own chip that read host the next charity gala. “And I still can’t understand why a romance writer would want to shadow you for a month.” The blonde in his arms settled back against his chest.

“To make my life a living hell,” I muttered.

Fiona, the wife of one of my hockey players, had asked if her friend—said romance writer—could shadow me for an upcoming book about billionaires, and I’d begrudgingly agreed after these four assholes had gotten involved, making it a full-on dare.

“Raise.” Weston threw in his chips and another that said Jimmy Page guitar. “So I’m taking that as a no, you haven’t made good on the dare?”

“Damn, you’re throwing in the Page guitar?” Ethan said, his eyes widening. “I thought you loved that thing.”

“Maybe my hand is just that good,” Weston smirked.

Maybe it belonged to his father, and he was willing to burn it just like everything else his old man had touched.

“Seriously though,” Ethan continued, scribbling on his chip. “You said you needed a few months to get through that new tech deal, and last time I checked The Journal, it went through.” He lifted his brows over his gray eyes and tossed the chip into the pot. He’d put his Aerosmith-signed guitar as an equal bet. “Call.”

I shifted in my seat as Gareth studied his hand and the board. “It’s just that I don’t like people in my space.”

“Oh, we’re aware,” Crossland said with a chuckle. “That’s why it’s going to be so much fun to see how this goes down.”

“Fold.” Gareth pushed his cards to the center.

“Really?” Crossland glanced from the board to his own cards.

“I always know when to get out.” Gareth sat back in his chair with his beer. Knowing when to get out was one of the reasons he rarely lost.

After I’d called his bet, Weston burned another card from the top of the deck and flipped one to the board. Queen of diamonds.

Shit just got interesting. Now I had two pair.

Cross checked, which let him hang for this round to see where the cards would lead.

“Bet,” I said.

In our game, the third round of bets always started with cash. It was easy and cheaper as a base bet. Besides, the more personal bets were just that…personal. We weren’t here to force people into giving shit up that they loved for the blind. Stuff you loved was only bet when you knew you could get it back.

I threw in my cash, then drummed my fingers on the table while I considered exactly what to sweeten my cash bet with.

“Oh, this has to be good,” Weston said, smiling as he watched me. “You’re contemplating what to bet, which tells me you have a hand, but how good of a hand, I wonder?”

“You know you’d be a way better poker player if you shut the fuck up and kept your secrets to yourself, right?” Gareth asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“What fun would that possibly be?” Weston retorted with a shit-eating grin.

Fuck it. Nothing ventured and all. I wrote Paris flat on a chip and tossed it in.

“Damn!” Weston’s grin grew impossibly big. “My man came to play! Raise.” He wrote London townhouse on the next chip and tossed it in, then grabbed another chip and started to scribble. Naming Rights Raleigh one year.

Ethan’s brows went up. “You just threw in the naming rights for your arena?”

“Yep.” Weston stared straight at me. “Guess I came to play, too.”

“You do realize that we could name it Erectile Dysfunction Arena or Incontinence Stadium, right?” Cross asked as the blonde moved her mouth to his neck.

“Oh, I’m sure he’s counting on it,” Brynn muttered, flipping the page of her e-book. “By the way, you should really let her shadow you. This book is scrumptious.”

We all turned to face the strawberry blonde on the couch.

“You’re reading one of her books?” I asked, my palms going sweaty.

“Daisy Lewis, right?” She leveled her green eyes on me.

“Yes.” Fiona had sent me her details right after I’d agreed.

“Well, I’m just saying that she’ll definitely put the research to good use. This book is about professional hockey and she’s pretty much nailed it.” A sly smile quirked her lips. “And nailed a lot of other good stuff, too. Not that she’d use you for any of that research. Seems like she’s got it handled, because this is hot.” She fanned herself with her hand.

Weston narrowed his eyes at her.

“Oh, you definitely need a little of whatever that is—” Crossland gestured at Brynn, “—going on in your life, Ash. Call that woman.”

Brynn hiked her eyebrow at Crossland.

He swallowed. “For purely literary purposes, of course. I highly doubt Ash has trouble getting a date. Sheesh, what do you think Brynn? We use women as commodities or playthings?”

The blonde in his lap giggled and sent her hand beneath the table.

“Why ever would I think that?” Brynn muttered, rolling her eyes. “If your sister ever knew—”

Crossland’s gaze snapped back to hers. “Leave Bristol out of it. This is Vegas and you know it, Brynn. What happens in this room stays in this room.”

Considering that his little sister was married to one of my players, Cormac Briggs, I was all about leaving her out of it. The less drama in my rink, the better.

“Right. Back to targeting Ash, then,” Ethan muttered. “Also, I’m folding. No one is touching my field’s naming rights.” He pushed his cards in.

“What, not willing to risk Asshole Park? Or No Sense of Humor Field?” Weston smirked.

“I think those firmly belong to Gareth,” Ethan countered, but the man was fully aware of his reputation as an ass on the playground.

Gareth ignored him, scrolling through his phone. That guy didn’t even bother to share the playground.

I called Weston’s raise with a personal favor chip, and we put in the next bet, back to cash.

Weston burned the top card and threw the next out. Ten of Spades.

Well, fuck me.

Crossland folded, leaving just Weston and me. “I feel like we need to demand photographic evidence that Ash here is following through on the dare with Ms. Lewis.”

“There’s no way I’m getting out of this, am I?” I was going to have to let a novelist follow me around, interrupt my schedule, and pry into my life for the sake of entertainment. I always kept my word, but just…damn. What a fucking inconvenience.

“Nope,” Weston and Crossland said at the same time.

Gareth didn’t bother to look up.

Weston’s lips pursed. It was quick, and I almost missed it, but it was there, his one tell.

The fucker was bluffing.

I looked down at the pile of chips I’d amassed throughout all five games we’d played today. There was a tech deal I wanted, a signed baseball I didn’t, and more than a few favors. “Check.”

Weston’s eyes flared for a second before he smirked. “Guess I’m the one who’s going to take everything home, because I’m all in.” He pushed forward all of his chips, to include my exclusivity on the helmets.

“Gonna fold on me, Ash?” Weston asked, nothing but pure confidence in his eyes.

“Not in my nature.” I threw in the one thing I knew Weston wanted, and that would match his all-in bet. 1938 AC 1. “Call.”

“You have to be fucking kidding me,” Weston sputtered. “You’re betting the first appearance of Superman? I’ve been after that shit for years.”

“Then let’s see what you have.” I grinned.

His jaw flexed once. Twice.

“Three of a kind,” he said, laying out three jacks.

“Not bad.” I laid my cards down. “Full house.”

“Fucker.” He shook his head, but there was no anger in his eyes as I raked in the chips. “Listen, there’s one thing…” He winced.

“I’ll make an appointment with her as soon as I’m on the plane,” I promised, stacking my chips. Looked like I had a new townhouse in London…for now. Our attorneys were both thrilled with the hours and annoyed as fuck at how often our property changed hands.

“Not that. I did something fucking stupid.” Weston sighed, which caught all of our attention. Even Gareth put down his phone.

“What did you do?” Ethan leaned forward, his shrewd eyes narrowing.

“I may have lost a Ducati race,” Weston admitted.

“Oh, this should be good,” Brynn murmured, flipping the page on her e-reader. She knew, otherwise she would have been on the edge of her seat like we were.

“Okay?” My brow knit in concern. Weston was a reckless shit, but he never asked for help, so if that’s where this was leading, we were in for some trouble.

“And I may have lost the bet I placed on that race.” He swallowed.

“Which was?” Cross asked, lifting the woman off his lap.

“A seat at this table.” Weston gestured at the table. Our table.

“For our game?” Ethan snapped.

“Obviously.” I connected my palms and drummed my fingertips against each other.

“Who did you lose to?” Cross’s brow lowered.

“Doyle O’Brien,” Weston admitted quietly.

The room was silent for the span of three heartbeats and then exploded.

“That fucker from Bangor?” Ethan.

“That guy is a douche!” Crossland.

“You have to be fucking kidding me.” Me.

“Do you have any idea who the fuck you’re messing with?” Gareth growled.

Okay, that comment won, so we all pivoted.

Gareth’s dark brows lowered over his pale green eyes and I swore that beer glass he was currently trying to crush would have screamed if it had been able to. “Tell me you know how he financed that expansion team, Weston. Tell me you’re not that fucking reckless that you didn’t know who you were racing.”

“I know!” Weston snapped. “He’s an ass. He took Asher to the fucking cleaners to get Sterling’s contract back. I know he’s got…connections in Boston.”

“That make mine in Chicago look squeaky clean,” Gareth growled, shoving away from the table.

“You realize nothing we’ll say in here can be confidential anymore,” Ethan sat back, shaking his head.

“We’ll have him sign the same NDA,” Weston argued. “Look, I get it. I fucked up, but he’s been after us for an invitation for the last two years. The novelty of getting through the door will wear off, and he’ll drop out.”

“And until then, we’ll just make the best of it.” I forced a quick, polite smile because I owed it to Weston to have his back.

Cross and Ethan stood, walking out the door with Gareth.

“Guess the game is over,” Weston said, half-jokingly.

“Guess so.”

“Asher?” Mrs. Donaldson said through the intercom of my office as I stared out of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Charleston skyline. Maybe it was childish to run my entire business from Reaper Arena, but fuck it, it was a simple pleasure to be close to the one aspect of my company that I took absolute joy in—the Carolina Reapers.

“Irene?” I called back, working a set of Baoding balls in my hand as I worked through the complexities of my latest soon-to-be acquisition in my head.

“She’s here.” In our six years of working together, I’d never dreaded those words like I did now.

“Send her in.”

The door to my office opened, and I took a deep breath, preparing myself for the absolute chaos that was bound to be my life for the next few days. For as long as she wants. Those had been Weston’s terms, thinking I wouldn’t be able to hack it, having someone fuck with my schedule. There was nothing on the line but pride, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t about to win this little dare.

But the more I thought about it, the easier I figured it had to be. She was an author. They were the quiet types, right? The sit in the back of the cafe and observe types. How much of a nuisance could she really be?

“Oh my happy little heart, it’s just how I pictured it! Even you standing there at the window, like the lord of the manor, surveying his domain.” Her voice had the sweet southern drawl I’d become accustomed to in Charleston.

“How you pictured?” My eyebrows hit the ceiling, and I turned to face the invading force…and almost dropped my balls.

If this was Daisy Lewis, I was absolutely fucked.

This woman was distractingly, mouth-wateringly, inconveniently fuckable. She had a beautiful, heart-shaped face, flawless skin, and wide brown eyes framed by thick lashes. Her hair was pinned up, but a single tendril of a corkscrew curl had been left alongside her cheek, which made me look at what could only be described as a kissable mouth. And God bless the early August heat, she was dressed in my absolute kryptonite—a pink sundress that skimmed just above her knees, then hugged the generous curve of her hip and dipped at the indent of her waist before framing two of the most incredible breasts I’d ever seen. She wore retro, forties-style pumps that made me instantly question if I had a foot fetish, and a tiny cardigan she’d pushed up to her elbows that had zero chance of closing over her breasts.

She was a forties pin-up shoved into modern clothing, all curves and cherry red lips.

So. Fucking. Inconvenient.

“You know,” she said, setting her messenger bag down on my conference table. “Looking out over your territory.” She smiled, and I instantly wanted her lips around my dick.

Get a fucking grip.

I squeezed my eyes shut and forced air in through my nose and out through my mouth. She was here to shadow me, not be objectified the second she walked in the door. Every woman I worked with would have smacked me upside the back of the head for that thought.

“Tell me you’re not Daisy Lewis,” I managed to say.

Confusion put two lines between her brows. “Who else would I be?”

“Right. Who else?” Anyone else would have been preferable.

“You’re Asher Silas, right?” She glanced around my office like it was possible that she was in the wrong room.

“Yep.” I nodded, crossing the polished floor to my desk and putting the balls back in their box. Hopefully, the inappropriate and out-of-character attraction I felt would stay there with them. “That’s me. Asher Silas. The man who agreed to let you shadow him.” The man who was now going to focus his brain back on business and off her mouth.

“Cool.” She rocked back on her heels and clasped her hands in front of her. “Did this just get awkward?”

“Nope.” I cracked a smile and leaned back against my desk. She called it as she saw it. I could work with that.

She stared at me for a second, her gaze roaming over my features thoroughly before she walked forward and extended her hand. “Good, because awkward would really make this tough for the next month, don’t you think?”

I shook her hand, my mind whirling. “A month?” Shit, her hands were soft, too. Weren’t they supposed to be hard and callused from typing all the time? This isn’t the eighteen hundreds and she doesn’t use a typewriter.

“That’s how long I figured we’d need.” She dropped my hand and walked back to her messenger bag, taking out a spiral notebook and pen.

“You need a month?” A month of her watching me, altering my schedule, walking around with that ass—scratch that. Fuck, I was about to become a sexual harassment lawsuit if I didn’t watch it. Maybe I should not watch her. Yeah, that was a good plan. I walked around my desk and sat behind my computer, unbuttoning the bottom of my suit coat.

“Well…yeah.” She came toward me, pen poised above the notebook. “Is that okay?”

“Uh-huh. We’ll make it work.” I didn’t exactly have another choice with Weston holding the other end of the dare. Was it hot in here? It felt hot. Maybe something was wrong with the AC.

“Oh good!” She flashed me a smile and plopped into the seat in front of my desk, crossing her legs to balance the notebook.

I didn’t look at the exposed length of her outer thigh. Nope. Not even in my peripheral vision. I shrugged out of my coat, leaving me in two pieces of the three-piece suit as I tossed the jacket at the coat rack to the left and magically hit my target.

“So let’s be honest.” Her foot kicked slightly as she studied me, her soft eyes narrowing slightly. “How impractical is it for you to run an entire empire out of a hockey arena?”

“I’m sorry?” My gaze snapped back to hers. She was all business now.

“Well, I mean, I get it, you have enough money that you don’t have to work work, but really…a hockey arena?” She tilted her head to the side. “Not that I don’t love the Reapers, because I do. I’m absolutely wild for them. Good job of getting the expansion and building the team and all that.”

“Uh. Thanks?” What the hell just happened? “I’m sorry, but it sounds like you’re under the impression that I don’t…work work?”

“Well…not exactly.” She shook her head. “I don’t mean that you don’t work for a living. Obviously you do.” She gestured to the office. “I just figure it’s more of golf course work and less at your desk by nine, if you know what I mean.” She started writing something in the notebook.

“Right. I’m at my desk by seven-thirty most days, and I hate to destroy your expectations, but I hate golf. I’d rather talk business over beer and a hockey game. If I’m going to whack something with a stick, it feels like there should be more of a challenge to it, like other guys trying to steal said ball before I can hit it.” What the hell did she think I did all day?

“Doesn’t like golf,” she said, scribbling in the notebook. “Noted.” She looked up, and I noticed the smattering of freckles on her nose, which somehow only made her even more appealing. “So, what I’m looking for here is the day-to-day life of my hero—”

“Your hero?” My eyes flew wide. “I would never call myself heroic.”

“It’s a publishing term.” She shrugged. “I just want to make sure that I don’t write anything unrealistic, or over the top, you know? I figured I would spend my days with you, live according to your schedule so I won’t be intrusive or anything, and keep notes while you keep living the billionaire lifestyle.” She waved the notebook. “I can even just sit at that table while you do…whatever it is you do.” Her smile was so damned bright.

I’d never wanted to lose a dare so much in my entire life, but Weston would never let me live it down.

“Whatever it is I do,” I said slowly.

“Exactly.” She nodded. “So why don’t we run through your schedule? If you don’t mind me starting now. Is the rest of your afternoon open?”

My mouth opened, but nothing came out. For the first time, I was at a loss for words.

“Asher?” Mrs. Donaldson said through the intercom.

“Uh-huh.” I said, blinking back into the reality where I didn’t have a romance novelist implying that I would randomly have free time on a Monday afternoon.

“Your three-thirty is on the phone. Line three.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Donaldson, I’ve got it.”

Daisy’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, you have appointments?”

“Just the head of one of my operations in Brazil,” I explained. “And after that, I have seven more calls scheduled.”

“Oh.” She leaned back in her seat.

“Oh,” I agreed, taking another fortifying breath. “Okay, Daisy Lewis. If you want to shadow me for the month, I’m yours. Why don’t you walk out to Mrs. Donaldson while I’m on this call? She’ll get you set up with an NDA so you can sit in on my less confidential meetings.” I pushed the little black button on my desk and the wall behind me separated, revealing a wall of monitors tuned to national news and financial headlines for quick reference.

“I see,” she said, slowly rising from the seat, her gaze taking in the wall of information.

I picked up line three. “Mr. Pereira, thank you so much for taking the time to call,” I said in Portuguese. “I was wondering if you could give me the details of this morning’s incident.”

“Absolutely,” he replied. “We had an issue in the lab that resulted in about sixty thousand dollars in damage.”

I cursed. “Anyone hurt?”

“No, sir.”

Daisy was standing, but staring at me like I was an alien. “Can you hold on for one second, Mr. Pereira?”

“Yes.”

I clicked hold and looked up at Daisy. “Her desk is just outside on the right. And feel free to start this afternoon, but the paperwork might take an hour. It might be best to start at my house tomorrow morning.”

Daisy nodded. “Seven a.m.? I’m guessing if you’re at your desk by seven-thirty?”

“Five,” I answered with a nod. “If you want me for a month, you’ve got me, Ms. Lewis. But you’re going to have to keep up.”

“I can see that.” She nodded again and headed out to Mrs. Donaldson.

I clicked line three. “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting. Tell me what happened.”