Brooklyn Flame (A Bridge & Tunnel Romance #1) by Mira Gibson Page B

nothing would stop her. It endeared him even more towards her than before, a feat he didn’t think possible. And yet she hadn’t followed through to schedule time. Had seeing him for five minutes, naked and erect, on her bed during those brief, teasing moments been enough for her to build a new sculpture from scratch? Ordinarily, he wouldn’t think so. No one had that good a memory. But maybe Greer did.
    He stopped himself from going there, rising off the couch and once again changing the lighting to see if a dimmer atmosphere would by chance illuminate trouble areas on his sculpture he hadn’t noticed.
    Killing the overhead lights and angling the tungsten bulb, which was set on a stand in the back of his studio, the truth of the matter reared its ugly head just as quickly as the light hit his sculpture. He didn’t need to model for her. This wasn’t about her art. That wasn’t the opportunity lost. He wanted to see her, to feel her soft, warm body pressing against his, to brush his lips across her mouth, her breasts, feeling her ass in his hands all the while. Correction: he didn’t just want it; he was aching for it.
    And she wasn’t.
    It had to be that guy.
    She hadn’t introduced them when he emerged from the bedroom, zipping his fly and pulling his tee shirt on, a lump of confusion tightening his throat at the sight of another man in her doorway. She also hadn’t covered up, but stood without a shred of self-consciousness in his rival’s presence despite the thin robe barely covering her privates and leaving little to the imagination.
    That’s who that guy was, right? Hunter’s rival?
    When he had expected her to send the guy on his way, explaining perhaps that she was in the middle of something, instead she had asked Hunter if he could come back another time, essentially getting rid of him in favor of whoever the fuck had shown up unannounced in the middle of the night.
    It had crushed him. And as he’d padded down the stairwell, hearing her invite the man inside, the likelihood that the guy hadn’t dropped in unannounced, but might have been asked to come was unshakable. So much so that Hunter had lain awake in bed, puzzling, until the dawning sun broke the cityscape horizon beyond his windows.
    What had transpired between them that night?
    And why the hell was Hunter drinking whiskey at two in the afternoon?
    Glancing down at the glass in his hand and the amber liquor it contained, he neared the couch, plopped heavily down, and tried not to think about whether or not Greer had quickly dressed the moment her guest had stepped in.
    Christ, this was agony.
    And it wasn’t helping matters that whenever he managed not to obsess over the one woman who very well might have gotten away, his thoughts locked onto Aidan and Troy and the rest of his twisted gang of friends, who had obviously broken into her studio and did everything in their power to ruin her life.
    Aidan had been muscling into his studio, dropping by and hanging out as if nothing had happened, but Hunter put a stop to it. He’d been avoiding his calls for the past few days then began going the extra mile, pretending he wasn’t even home when Aidan pounded on the door. He just couldn’t deal with him, but ignoring his so-called friend had only provoked him further.
    You do what we say and we’re cool.
    Hunter hadn’t done what Aidan said. They were supposed to trash Jennifer Okimoto’s studio, but Hunter hadn’t turned up on the street corner outside of the prolific painter’s apartment, and because of it the gang called it off. A day later, Greer had gotten hit instead.              
    Aidan was still pushing him.
    Hunter knew what he had to do.
    But he wasn’t sure he could.
    The only reason he was considering it was because destroying Greer Langley’s studio wasn’t the worst of Aidan’s capabilities and he couldn’t stomach the thought of what might happen next if he dodged another order.
    Slugging the whiskey back