Turn Me On: A Forbidden Standalone

MM Sports Romance (Winner Takes All

Book 2) Lauren Blakely
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TURN ME ON
LAUREN BLAKELY
 CONTENTS

Also by Lauren Blakely

About

Turn Me On

The Sexy Suit

1. A Good Surprise
2. A Cocktail Bet
3. The Case of the Loophole
4. Out of the Zone
5. Hypothetical Fuck
6. Mixing Business and Pleasure

Turn Me On
1. Very Big Things
2. Dating Profile
3. Boss’s Orders
4. So Agent-y
5. Paint by Numbers
6. Criminally Sexy
7. Attention Seeker
8. Due Diligence
9. Bad Pitches
10. Indecent Verdicts
11. My Favorite Habit
12. The Real Story
13. Sex, Gardening, and Exercise
14. The Fly Machine
15. Mirror Games
16. Here and There
17. Man Stuff
18. Sexy Ergo
19. This Is How We Do It
20. Technically Naked
21. Playing Hooky
22. Wrinkled Shirts and Oily Salesmen
23. Margarita Kiss
24. Beware of Scallops
25. Just a Dip
26. MomVision
27. All of the Above
28. RSVPs
29. Late Night Texts
30. Say It
31. Cereal and Eggs
32. A Hitter’s Game
33. Super Boyfriend
 34. The Other Night
Epilogue
Epilogue

Acknowledgments
Also by Lauren Blakely
Contact
Copyright © 2022 by Lauren Blakely

Cover Design by TE Black, Photography by Michelle Lancaster

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or
introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or
otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This contemporary
romance is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination
or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this
work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or
sponsored by the trademark owners.
 ALSO BY LAUREN BLAKELY

Big Rock Series

Big Rock
Mister O
Well Hung
Full Package
Joy Ride
Hard Wood

Happy Endings Series

Come Again
Shut Up and Kiss Me
Kismet
My Single-Versary

Ballers And Babes

Most Valuable Playboy
Most Likely to Score
A Wild Card Kiss
Two A Day
Plays Well With Others

Rules of Love Series

The Virgin Rule Book
The Virgin Game Plan
The Virgin Replay
The Virgin Scorecard

Hopelessly Bromantic Duet (MM)

Hopelessly Bromantic
Here Comes My Man

Men of Summer Series (MM)

Scoring With Him
Winning With Him
All In With Him

The Guys Who Got Away Series

Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend
The What If Guy
Thanks for Last Night
The Dream Guy Next Door

The Gift Series

The Engagement Gift
The Virgin Gift
The Decadent Gift

The Extravagant Series

One Night Only
One Exquisite Touch
My One-Week Husband

MM Standalone Novels
A Guy Walks Into My Bar
One Time Only
The Bromance Zone
The Best Men (Co-written with Sarina Bowen)

The Heartbreakers Series

Once Upon a Real Good Time
Once Upon a Sure Thing
Once Upon a Wild Fling

Boyfriend Material
Asking For a Friend
Sex and Other Shiny Objects
One Night Stand-In

Lucky In Love Series

Best Laid Plans
The Feel Good Factor
Nobody Does It Better
Unzipped

Always Satisfied Series

Satisfaction Guaranteed
Instant Gratification
Overnight Service
Never Have I Ever
PS It’s Always Been You
Special Delivery

The Sexy Suit Series

Lucky Suit
Birthday Suit

From Paris With Love

Wanderlust
Part-Time Lover

One Love Series

The Sexy One
The Only One
The Hot One
The Knocked Up Plan
Come As You Are

Standalones
Stud Finder
The V Card
The Real Deal
Unbreak My Heart
The Break-Up Album

The Caught Up in Love Series

The Pretending Plot
The Dating Proposal
The Second Chance Plan
The Private Rehearsal

Seductive Nights Series

Night After Night
After This Night
One More Night
A Wildly Seductive Night
 ABOUT

The first rule of being an attorney is don’t sleep with your clients.

The second rule is–see the first rule.

Those guidelines don’t account for a man like Zane Archer though. The major leaguer is all
confidence and big D energy as he swaggers into my life one night at a hotel bar, determined to spend
the night with “the sexy suit,” as he calls me.

I’m so damn tempted to say yes, especially when my new client devastates me with a scorching kiss
that has me reconsidering all my life choices.

The catch? If I tear up the rule book, my reputation as a lawyer to the most bankable stars in pro
sports is on the line. Including my new goal of striking the deal of a lifetime for him -- one he
desperately needs to take care of his family.

Instead, I fight like hell to stay professional as I work closely with the man I can’t have.

But the more time we spend together, the more his irresistible charm threatens to break my resolve . . .
right along with my heart.

TURN ME ON is a red-hot, MM, forbidden sports romance between a sports agent and an
athlete…
 DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my friend and fellow author KD Casey. Thanks for that reminder that
ignited this story idea!
 TURN ME ON

By Lauren Blakely

Want to be the first to learn of sales, new releases, preorders and special freebies? Sign up for
my MM VIP mailing list here! You’ll also get free books from bestselling authors in a selection
curated just for you!

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go to your inbox!

Did you know this book is also available in audio and paperback on all major retailers? Go to my
website for links!
THE SEXY SUIT
 A TURN ME ON PREQUEL

Dear Reader,

Zane and Maddox’s romance begins with a prequel novella, THE SEXY SUIT. If you already read
the novella when it was released on its own, go ahead and start at TURN ME ON! If not, then start
right here and turn the page.
Xoxo
Lauren

Technically, he wasn’t my client the night I met him.

But that’s hardly an excuse for flirting with the sexy athlete at a hotel bar. Buying him a drink. Leading
him on that I’d say yes if he asked me to spend the night.

My only excuse? Some men are just irresistible.

Now I might lose him as a client, and I can’t afford the hit to my reputation. Time to scramble and
show the ballplayer why this sexy suit is the man to handle his business affairs. Not his bedroom
ones.

But it might be too late…

The Sexy Suit is a prequel novella to Turn Me On! You must read this first.
 1

A GOOD SURPRISE

Zane Archer

I love baseball almost as much as I love my dick.

And first base is the perfect position for me on the field— I’m a talker and it’s Grand Central
here.
Talking both keeps my visitors distracted and makes the time go faster. Like tonight, when I’ve
been counting the minutes until I meet with my agent after the game.
Home stretch now, top of the ninth in a May night game. The Chicago batter slams a single to
center and rolls up to first base.
“Hey, Santiago,” I say as he tags up. “Good to see you off the injured list.”
The opposing team’s shortstop gives me a baffled look as he pulls off his batting glove. “You’re
thinking of someone else, man.”
“Huh,” I say, my eyes glued to the next batter taking a practice swing in the box. “I figured that
was why I hadn’t seen you on base yet this series.”
He sighs, annoyed. “Fuck you, Archer.”
I grin, but I’ll have to picture the look on his face since the go-ahead run is up and I’m
concentrating on the game action.
There’s the wind-up and whoosh, our closer fires a fastball that paints the corner of the plate. The
batter lunges for it and sends a pop fly my way. I trot under the ball and let it drop home into my
glove. Come to Papa.
That’s the final out. I pump my fist—we just swept the series and I am out of here.
I jog down the baseline, where Santiago is trudging along, head hanging. I tap him with my glove.
“Hey, man. I was going to send you a get-well present. How about I make it a ‘thank you for helping
us win’ gift?”
“Fuck you harder.”
“You wish,” I say with a grin, shifting gears. “How’s Emily and Rosie? Did your kiddo get her
cast off?”
The Shark flashes a smile. “She did. Elbow is as good as new. Thanks for asking. You’re only a
half-hole now.”
“Goals,” I deadpan, leaving him in the dust as I jog to the dugout where I high-five my teammates,
finishing with my friend Gunnar.
 “Great series, Gun,” I say. He racked up four RBIs, a couple shy of my total for this series.
“Same to you, bro. Imagine how amazing your game would be if you had to, you know, defend
when you were in the field,” he says, straight-faced.
I grab my lucky water bottle from the bench. Other infielders are such assholes. “Good thing my
bat is better.”
“That’s not what he said,” Gunnar retorts.
“That’s what they all say,” I reply. As we turn toward the steps to the locker room, I glance at the
time on the giant scoreboard in the outfield. Seven-thirty.
The welcome distraction from my personal countdown ended with the game.
“Any movement on a new deal?” Gunnar asks.
“Nope.” I stretch my neck from side to side. During spring training, my agent was this close to
nabbing a sponsorship deal with a video game company, but it fell apart at the last minute when the
company reported lower revenue than expected. Now, the energy drink manufacturer he’s pursuing is
getting cold feet. It’s enough to make a guy wonder if he’s damaged goods.
I’ve been on edge since my agent texted me this morning. “I have dinner with Vance in forty-five
minutes,” I tell Gunnar. “He said he has news to share. An endorsement would be sweet.”
That’s an understatement. A good deal could set me up for a long time—and I need the money.
Badly.
“I hear you,” the third baseman says as we descend into the tunnel under the ballpark. Gunnar gets
my impatience. We’re both only a few years into our service time and hunting for partnerships that
will make a difference.
He has his reasons. I have mine.
And as soon as I grab a shower, I can get the hell out of here and deal with them.

One shower later, I stand at my stall, buttoning a crisp purple shirt and tucking it into charcoal slacks.
Turning to Gunnar, I hold out my arms wide. “So, do I look good or holy-fuck good?” A man should
always look sharp for his agent—a sign of respect for the hard work they do.
My friend gives me a serious once-over, then shrugs. “Eh, I’ve seen better.”
I cup my ear. “What was that? Hotter than hell, you say? Thank you.”
Rolling his eyes, he laughs. “Get out of here. Go enjoy the news.”
I shudder. “News can be bad. It’s driving me crazy. I just want to know what it is.”
“Why do you play baseball if you hate surprises?” Gunnar asks.
“I like good surprises,” I say, stuffing my phone in my pocket. “Like when I homer off a tough
lefty, or when the next season of my favorite comedian’s podcast releases early.”
And when a guy likes to fuck the same way I do. That’s the most welcome surprise of all.
Gunnar offers a fist for knocking. “Then may all your dreams come true tonight, man.”
I knock back, then grab my water bottle, and head out for my meeting at the Luxe Hotel. I snag a
parking spot on the lower level and take the stairs to the black and white lobby.
Vance, the man who’s repped me well during my year in the minors and my first three years in the
majors, is easy to spot, parked on a ruby-red velvet couch, tapping away on his phone. Would it be
rude if I flopped down next to him and demanded he tell me everything now?
Probably.
 Better to ease into it. I don’t want to be a pushy jackass. Too many athletes are.
When I reach the pro football player turned sports agent, I clap him on the shoulder. “Let me
guess. You’re ready to make us rich tonight. Or, in your case, richer,” I say with a grin.
Vance’s logged more than a decade in the business and has made quite a name for himself at CTM.
I’m lucky to work with him, and especially lucky to work with the biggest agency in the world. CTM
reps everyone—actors, writers, athletes, rock stars. Hell, if God needed an agent, God would call
CTM.
Vance glances up, looking slick and polished in his sky-blue shirt, no tie. “That’s always my
goal.” He stands and hauls me in for one of his signature hugs. “Good game tonight,” he says when he
steps back.
I flick some nonexistent lint off my shoulder. “I try to knock in a few runs now and then.”
“Keep that up and we will get you a fat contract next year in addition to these deals,” he says.
“I’ll have to call you Santa Vance.” I laugh, trying to keep it light, maybe trying too hard not to let
on how I want to set myself up for the future. Baseball is merciless and gives no guarantees. One bad
break and my career could be over before it’s really begun.
“So, did the deal with Energize Drinks officially fall apart?” I aimed for nonchalance about the
energy drink sponsorship, but, yeah, that sounded pessimistic as fuck.
Vance tilts his head, curious. “Why would you think that, Zane?”
It’s what I do when it comes to work.
“Oh, you know,” I say. “Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.”
He smiles. “Let’s save that talk for dinner,” he says, all warm encouragement. My tension doesn’t
retreat. “But tonight, we’re going to have dinner with the rest of the team at CTM and make sure
everyone’s on the same page so we can hit these deals hard. How does that sound?”
Sounds like shorthand for Energize Drinks still has cold feet. Only, I don’t say that to Vance.
Doubting your agent isn’t a good look on a client. “Works for me if it works for you,” I say, gathering
the enthusiasm and support I should show as a team player.
“It does. I am an agent of good. And I told you I have good news—”
“Dude, you said news. Next time, include the adjective,” I tease, but I feel ten times lighter.
Vance laughs. “Here’s the deal,” he begins. But his phone interrupts with a Stone Zenith tune. He
waggles the device at me. “That’s Brea. Gotta say goodnight to the wife and kids. You go upstairs to
Sushi Ko, and I’ll be there shortly. Get a drink on me.”
I scoff. “As if it’d be anything but on you.”
But it’s a damn good idea—a drink and a couple of minutes to shake off this lingering tension and
put on my game face for dinner.
In the elevator, I punch the button for the restaurant in the sky. As I climb, I undo the cuffs on my
dress shirt, then roll them up once, twice. I’ve never met a night that wasn’t improved with a little
forearm reveal.
The elevator delivers me to the twentieth floor, and I make my way to the elegant sushi spot then
head straight for the bar, where I order a scotch.
“Coming right up,” the bartender says.
As he grabs a bottle, I check out the crowd and…hello.
The sexiest suit I’ve seen in ages sits next to me, wearing a silk burgundy tie. I have such a thing
for a sharp-dressed man, and nothing says see you later to work woes like flirting with a hot-ass guy.
Deals can take a timeout for a few more minutes. My dick’s at bat.
 2

A COCKTAIL BET

Zane

I don’t fuck around when assessing the potential of a smoke show. Best to know the score right away.
“Nice tie,” I say.
No, nice tie isn’t a secret gay handshake, but it’s an innocuous opening. If he’s straight, he’ll
mutter thanks and avoid eye contact.
But the guy next to me takes a beat, his deep whiskey eyes meeting mine, his lips curving in a
slight grin.
That’s a good start.
He runs a strong hand down the material, then fingers the end of the fabric. “Glad you like it,” he
says, in a smooth, silky voice.
“I do,” I say, and that answer is as promising as his body language.
“Good to know,” the man says as he drinks me in even deeper.
Ding, ding, ding. We have a team player. No straight dude is going to check me out like this man.
His gaze takes a scenic tour of my body. He’s shameless in his travels, covering my whole damn
frame before he returns to my face, lingering on my mouth.
I get in on the ogling and spend a moment cataloging him, from the wavy brown hair I want to
rope my fingers through, to the chiseled, clean-cut jaw I’d like to sweep my mouth across, and to the
fine white shirt that ripples just tightly enough along his biceps. Yep, I think I’ll rip it off him.
I return to those bedroom eyes, which are dark and dreamy and definitely dirty. Curious too—his
eyes pause at my forearm, studying the small tattoo on my right wrist.
I could wait for him to ask about my ink, but I’m a take-charge kind of guy. “It’s a cocktail. In case
you were wondering.”
He smirks. “Did you think I was? Wondering?”
“Yes,” I say, letting him know what he’s getting into if he wants to take this flirtation a little
further.
Or a lot further.
Endorsement deals might befuddle me, but hot men do not.
The man shrugs a strong shoulder. “You caught me, then.”
“Did I, now? Because I like the sound of that,” I say, a low rumble giving away more of my
intention.
 He takes a moment and blows out a breath, brows furrowed like he’s thinking things over. I get it.
Not every man knows what he wants as fast as I do. He can take his time.
A few seconds later, that crease disappears, and he says, “Good to know.” With a tease of a
smile, the stranger reaches for his drink. Bourbon or whiskey, from the looks of the amber liquid. He
runs a thumb along the edge of the glass. I spark and sizzle—the way he touches the goddamn tumbler
is like foreplay. It’s an erotic invitation, his thumb sliding along the rim as his gaze dips back to the
tattoo on my forearm.
“It’s a strawberry daiquiri,” I supply.
“I’m familiar with cocktails,” he says, voice dry, his eyes tracing the lines of the cartoon glass,
about an inch long, on the inside of my wrist, complete with a silly drink umbrella.
“You don’t like it? I’m wounded,” I say playfully.
“Did I say I disliked it?”
“You didn’t have to. I heard the disdain in your tone.”
“Ha. Well, let’s just say…it’s a choice,” he says, punctuating that last word like a sexy little jab.
“Choice,” I repeat, mulling over that word. “I wouldn’t put it exactly that way,” I say, but yes,
give me a hard time, hottie. I like it that way. A little push and pull.
The bartender returns with my scotch, setting the glass on the sleek black counter. “Here you go.”
Before I can put the drink on Vance’s tab, the hot suit raises a finger to catch the bartender’s
attention. “I’ll take care of that,” he says, smooth and polished.
And totally fucking hot.
The bartender looks for my approval. “That good for you?”
So damn good. That won’t exactly be how it works in the bedroom, with the suit setting the rules,
but there’ll be time to lay out how I want to have him later.
Laid out before me.
“That’ll work for me,” I tell the bartender. I turn to the stranger, lift my drink, and tip it toward
his.
He raises his glass, and as we clink, I graze my finger against his strong hand. A soft, barely-there
murmur falls from his lips.
He lifts a brow like he’s saying well played.
Then, as I knock back some of the liquor, he watches me, eyes on my lips touching the glass then
my throat as I swallow.
Something like frustration flickers in his gaze, but he quickly snuffs it out. Now he’s all heat,
staring at me, his fearless intensity turning me on. I hope Vance’s phone call lasts all night. The deal is
the furthest thing from my mind.
I set down my glass. “Thanks for that…choice,” I say, nodding to the drink.
“It’s my pleasure.” He lingers on that last word then lifts a hand, tracing the air near my tattoo.
“So, if you wouldn’t call this a choice, what would you call it?”
“It’s more like…the payoff.”
“Ah, let me guess,” he says.
I sweep out a hand, inviting him to proceed. “This should be fun. Go for it.”
He scrubs a hand across his jaw. “You went to Cabo with some friends. Drank too many
daiquiris. Bet them you could ride a wave. They egged you on, you hopped on a board, and face-
planted. Your buddies had a laugh, and you, being the kind of man who makes good on your bets…”
He stops talking, bringing his finger closer, maybe an inch from my skin, but no nearer. Such a tease.
He won’t touch me, and that drives me a little wild. Finally, he finishes, “You made that choice.”
 Damn. I dig that he can see me like that—can tell I’m the kind of guy who pays up. “Close. Very
close,” I say.
With a satisfied grin, he lowers his hand to his lap. “I’m good at reading people.”
“Are you, though? Because it’s close but not quite.”
“Then why don’t you just correct me?” He lifts his drink, tips some back, then when he’s done, he
licks those lush lips.
A groan escapes me.
He smiles, slow and easy. He heard me, and he likes the effect he has on me.
That makes two of us.
I lean the slightest bit closer to him, still a foot apart on these barstools. I take my time, imagining
ripping off his shirt and jerking his hands behind his back. “I’ve been to Cabo with my buddies.
We’ve had a few drinks. Laid a few wagers. But I got this ink in Miami.”
“Still tropical,” he points out.
“True, true. But the bet wasn’t about riding a wave.”
“Then, enlighten me. What was it about?”
I shake my head like Can you believe it? “Those fuckers bet that I couldn’t get a sexy, smoldering,
smart-mouthed man at the bar to go home with me…so I could have my way with him.”
His eyes pop at those last words, then he studies the black bar top and swallows roughly. He tugs
at the knot in his tie and shifts in the seat, as hot and bothered as I want him to be. “That’s what you
wanted? To have your way with him?”
“Yes. I don’t fuck around.”
Another pause. Another exhale. He returns his gaze to me, his eyes glimmering with desire.
“That’s very good to know,” he says, and adds a low hum that lets me know he’d play that way. I have
to seal the deal to see him tonight. It’s rare to meet a guy who likes bedroom games the way I do.
Hell, hitting for the cycle is easier. I’m not letting him slip away.
“But what I’m stuck on is…” he says, again in that low murmur. “Does that mean the sexy,
smoldering, smart-mouthed man actually turned you down?”
“Does that surprise you?” I ask.
“I suppose some men have enormous…discipline.” That last word rolls off his tongue, making my
balls sizzle.
“Oh, he didn’t have such an iron will.”
The suit squints in confusion. “But you got a tattoo anyway? You must really like daiquiris.”
I chuckle. “Oh, I do like them. I got the ink, though, because I always make good on my bets.”
He lifts a questioning brow.
I lead with a smug smile as I go in for the sweet, intoxicating kill. “The bet was that I couldn’t
take him home.” I shrug, like What can you do? “I didn’t take him home to have my way with him. I
took him to a hotel instead.”
The man dips his face, hiding a smile as he shakes his head. When he looks up, he raises his glass
to me. “You win.”
“We could both win.” I’ll give him what he wants and make him beg for more. He’ll give me the
kind of hot, mind-bending sex that’ll cure all my deal stresses. “So, I’ve got a dinner, but what do you
say after that I take you—”
The click of leather soles on the bar floor interrupts my question. Then Vance puts a hand on my
shoulder and breaks up the party. “Oh! Looks like you’ve met our newest agent.”
My dick and all its hopes deflate.
 3

THE CASE OF THE LOOPHOLE

Maddox LeGrande

I know better than to flirt with a client, but I’ve always been good at finding loopholes. Like in my
senior year of high school, when my dad said I couldn’t go to that party at Carl Greenwald’s house.
So I only went as far as Carl’s yard.
Details matter, which is why I’m a damn good agent and lawyer. I pay attention to every single
detail.
Details like how Zane Archer strode into the bar five minutes ago with grit and self-possession,
and the way he stared at me with hungry eyes like he wanted to eat me alive.
Yes, please.
And I sure as hell paid attention to how he comes on to a man. What a thrill it was to be the object
of the athlete’s carnal intensity. The man hits on you like he steals second—he tangos off the plate,
just so. Just fucking so, then the moment you’re not looking, he slides right into you.
As you can see, your honor, in the matter of Maddox LeGrande’s integrity versus Zane Archer’s
determination to get me in bed, well, I’d like to plead temporarily too turned on to think straight.
Now though?
With my new boss, Vance, crashing the party—understandably since business is the purpose of
this meal—I’ve got to say goodnight to my after-dark desires and say hello to the man I want to rep.
Zane Archer.
If there’s still a chance he’ll have me that way.
I really shouldn’t have flirted with him.
But your honor, his magnetism, his charisma, his intensity…
I stand tall and extend a hand. Zane slides off the stool in one fluid move, rising to his full height
and breadth—six-three and two hundred twenty pounds of solid muscle. It’s hard to knock in more
than ninety runs a season without being a brick wall.
In seconds, he clears his expression. Mostly, that is. Almost all traces of heat in his bright green
eyes fade, but there’s a hint of I can’t fucking believe my luck in his irises.
Maybe annoyance too.
Oh, shit. I went too far. I should have called off the hormone dogs sooner.
Zane takes my hand, but his touch is entirely different from what it was when our fingers grazed as
we toasted. His grip is firm, strong, and all business.
 Then it’s over, and he lets go first.
I brace myself for any fallout. For Zane to say fuck it to working with me. For me to have to say
goodbye to my new gig. Why the hell didn’t I tell Zane who I was?
You know why. You were fucking enchanted.
Vance smiles, clapping the first baseman’s shoulder. “Zane, I’d like you to meet Maddox
LeGrande. He’s joined CTM at long last. I’ve been wooing him for ages, and I’m dying to have him
work with me on my clients’ deals.”
I give Vance a small, grateful smile, downplaying the compliment. Now’s not the time for me to
gloat.
“Seriously. Maddox is magic,” Vance continues, “fucking magic on Madison Avenue. I had to go
full court press to steal him and his junior partner, Adriana Martinez, away from Level Up.”
Zane lifts a brow, his interest piqued. “The boutique sports marketing firm?”
“Yes,” I say. “I worked there for nearly a decade, along with Adriana. We were a team repping a
select group of clients for brand deals.”
Until CTM made offers we couldn’t refuse. The kind of offers that damn near pay off mortgages.
“Like Nate Chandler,” Zane puts in.
Holy shit. This guy knows the biz. “He’s one of my guys. He’s coming with me to CTM,” I say.
Vance claps me on the back possessively. “And many others. We’re lucky to have him. Maddox’s
track record with endorsements is insane.” He turns to Zane. “We’re talking sports stars, actors, and
celebrities. Deals with automakers, music streaming services, high-end watchmakers, luxury cars,
athletic apparel. I could go on.”
There’s a hungry look in Zane’s eyes as he listens to Vance’s praise for my junior partner and me.
I read Zane like before. He’s eager for what I bring to the table. My business skills might save me
from my cock’s faux pas. “Good to officially meet you,” I say to Zane.
“Yeah, it looked like you two were already chatting, which is fantastic.” Thank fuck Vance didn’t
hear the tail end of that conversation.
“We were shooting the breeze about the Hawks versus the Renegades this season,” I improvise,
giving Zane a chance to do the same. He lives in San Francisco, so it’s reasonable he’ll have an
opinion about football allegiances. “Hawks all the way.”
The ballplayer is quiet for a moment, and I hold my breath. This is the moment. I’ll either lose the
job I just jumped ship for, or I have a shot to redeem myself.
At last, Zane says, “I’m a Renegades man. And it’s a pleasure to officially meet you too,” Zane
says.
Thank you, your honor, for the reprieve.
Zane’s tone is noticeably cool though, and he’s ice when he adds, “Maddox,” with a twist of his
lips.
Ah, hell.
He’s covering for me, but he sure as hell is pissed I let the flirtation go as far as it did. I should
have introduced myself sooner.
If I could just grab a minute with him before the meal, I can apologize.
“Vance, let me settle up here, and we’ll join you at the table. Zane and I just had a bet going about
who’s looking stronger going into training camp this summer,” I say.
Zane waves a dismissive hand. “We can settle up later,” he says, then walks away. I’ll have my
work cut out for me to make this right.
I swear, cocks are the biggest troublemakers in the universe.
 4

OUT OF THE ZONE

Maddox

As I close my bar tab, I clear my head of lustful thoughts. At dinner, I’ll focus on my credentials—
Adriana’s too—and impress Zane with those. I’ll be straightforward and businesslike.
The way I should have behaved at the bar.
After I tuck my platinum card back into my wallet, I weave through the dining room to the booth
reserved in the corner. Vance and Adriana are seated on one side, which leaves me to slide in next to
Zane. I get another hit of his scent—the hint of oak from his aftershave and soap from his post-game
shower. I try to ignore it; it’s already been near-fatal to my judgment.
Zane doesn’t even look at me as we peruse our menus.
After we order, Vance takes the lead, launching into the details of my new role at CTM. “So,
here’s the good news,” he tells Zane, gesturing to Adriana, then me. “Our sports management team has
been watching these two while we’ve been competing with them.”
My right-hand woman clears her throat. “Well, you made a good attempt to compete,” Adriana
says with a cheeky smile.
Vance holds up his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. Our philosophy is if you can’t beat ’em, hire
’em the hell away. Seriously though,” he says to his client. “I’ve got you covered when it comes to
negotiations with the Dragons, but we wanted more specialized expertise on the brand side because
it’s so vital to sports marketing.”
Now’s my turn to impress the man I should not have hit on. I rattle off the deals we’ve inked with
Fortune 100 brands for all our clients, like the Seductive Cologne deal for Carter Hendrix on the
Renegades, before I finish with, “And we also worked with Crosby Cash on the San Francisco
Cougars to develop a line of lucky socks.”
The third baseman is famous for his superstition regarding footwear, but I might have specifically
mentioned him because he’s another baseball player.
“Good to know,” Zane says evenly, then goes quiet again.
That sure as shit doesn’t sound like he’s warming back up. I’ve got a long way to go if I want to
win him over.
I rattle off more of our deals from the last several years. “And I personally handle Nate
Chandler’s endorsement deals, as you noted,” I say. Hiring a billboard to say I strike killer deals for
all my clients would be less obvious, but I’m determined to regain his respect. And, since Nate’s one
of the team captains for the San Francisco Hawks and a high-profile player in the NFL, who happens
to be gay, I add, “We make sure players of all backgrounds get the deals they deserve, matching them
with the right brands.”
Zane turns to me, his jaw set. “And what will that mean for me? And maybe, say, Energize
Drinks?”
Vance cuts in. “That’s why I asked Maddox and Adriana here. They know Energize Drinks well.”
He shifts his eyes away when he says it. I’m not surprised. He warned me before dinner I’d have
to deliver the bad news.
Zane perks up, sitting higher. “That so?”
Ah, hell.
But better to rip off the Band-Aid. “Listen, I don’t think Energize Drinks is going to happen,” I
say.
“It’s not?” Zane asks it like he’s fighting off the disappointment. Trying to hide it from the three of
us.
I don’t want to make Vance look bad, but Energize Drinks never should have been on the table.
It’s common knowledge to Dragons fans that Zane is a water or bust guy when it comes to quenching
his on-field thirst. He’s not the right athlete to endorse a sugary, jet-fueled, hyper-caffeinated drink.
“It’s not a good fit,” I say. “Maybe a water brand would be a better one to pursue. A water-bottle
maker, even, since you have that lucky—”
“Lucky water bottle,” Zane cuts in, and we finish at the same time. His lips curve up. “How did
you know?”
“You mentioned it in an interview last year. The game against the Barn Owls where you hit a
grand slam. The day you—”
“Got the bottle,” Zane supplies, grinning now.
Yes. Fucking yes. I am making inroads.
“That’s the type of partnership we need to find for you,” I say, tapping the table for emphasis.
“The most successful endorsements happen when there’s a natural alignment,” Adriana chimes in.
She has a great way with clients, keeping a good-news face on as she sticks to her guns. The woman
is disciplined and focused—a perfect partner for me.
Vance nods, smiling sagely. “My man Maddox has some meetings in New York, Los Angeles, and
London in the coming weeks to schmooze some brands. Maybe find a better fit for you, Z.”
I take nothing for granted. Just because I joined CTM doesn’t guarantee Zane will say yes to me
taking point on landing his first endorsement deal.
If Zane doesn’t want to be repped by us, it’s his prerogative to say no. But Vance isn’t going to ask
straight out if he’s all in on working with Adriana and me, and I doubt Zane would answer on the spot
if it meant saying no to our faces.
He might say yes on the spot, though, if he likes us.
Right now, he looks as if he’s working through possibilities in his head. Pros and cons maybe.
I wait on the edge of my seat. Then the server arrives with a silver tray of glistening nigiri, so I’ll
have to wait longer.
“Your sushi platter,” he says, then sets it down.
Zane stares ravenously at the fresh fish. “Let’s eat,” he says, like he wants to devour every
morsel. Kind of like he sounded when he propositioned me.
My head swims with inconvenient lust again, and I clench my fists under the table to clear the fog
of desire.
 I wish I could erase that encounter at the bar, rewind time so it never happened. Mostly, though, I
wish I could say yes to his offer to take me home.
But I’ve never touched a client or come on to a client before. I can’t start now. Mixing business
with pleasure isn’t merely foolish—it’s against the rules. If we work together, I’d be his agent; but
I’m also and always an attorney. And attorneys don’t sleep with clients, plain and simple.
During the meal, I shift the conversation far, far away from deals and ask about Vance’s kids. The
four of us shoot the breeze about kid antics, with Adriana and Vance trading tales of their little ones,
then we move on to Los Angeles versus New York versus San Francisco. Adriana lives in Brooklyn
and declares it the best borough, while Vance puts in a vote for his home of Manhattan.
“I have to give props to Los Angeles,” I say. I do love my home base. “Can’t beat sunshine, the
beach, or the biz.”
Zane, the San Franciscan among us, sighs and shakes his head. “You’re all wrong. Once you’ve
gone full fog, you can’t go back.”
I laugh, a little more relaxed—hopeful he can put our wildly hot meeting behind us.
When we’ve polished off every delicious piece of fish, Adriana excuses herself for the restroom
and Vance does the same.
Finally, an opening.
The second they’re out of earshot, I turn to Zane, and don’t mince words. “I owe you an apology. I
didn’t say who I was at the bar because I was having too much fun talking to you, and I’m sorry. I
truly hope I didn’t fuck things up for us when it comes to business. I would love to work with you, and
you have my word I don’t make it a practice to hit on clients. That was a first for me.”
The man remains entirely impassive, turning his glass of water round and round. Then he stops
fiddling and tilts his head to meet my eyes.
I still can’t read what’s behind his gorgeous greens, and it’s driving me crazy.
“First time you hit on a client, you say?”
I swallow roughly. “Yes.”
“And what made me your first, Maddox?” The way he says my name sounds like sex and heat.
Maybe that’s a sign I’m forgiven. “Do you really want me to go there?”
His stoic expression doesn’t shift, but his eyes darken with bedroom intensity. “Yes. Go there,
Maddox.”
He’s giving me a goddamn command? Gritting my teeth, I resist the shudder that whooshes down
my chest. But it is an order, delivered quietly and clearly, and I obey. “You’re just…” I pause,
collecting my thoughts, before I speak the truth. “Kind of irresistible.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Only kind of?”
I’m so damn close to exoneration, but now he’s tempting me. Maybe he wants to know I’m the
type of agent who’s unafraid of risk. “Fine. I suppose you’re all-the-way irresistible.”
Zane leans back in the booth, smiling, his big frame taking up ample space. “Relax,” he says, all
sultry, maybe like he’d say it in bed. “Of course I want to work with you.”
Thank fuck.
I breathe a huge sigh of relief then draw an excited breath. There’s so much opportunity for Zane
Archer, and I relish the chance to bring fantastic sponsorships to the rising star. “Good. Because I can
deliver for you,” I say. “I’m going to make you serious money.”
His green eyes look pleased. “I look forward to seeing what you can do.”
“I look forward to showing you.” At last, my shoulders relax, and I let go of most of the tension
I’ve felt since we left the bar. “I know I said I’m good at reading people, but you’ve been a hard man
to read through dinner. You’ve been like stone since we sat down.”
Laughing, his eyes drift to his lap. “You’re telling me.”
“I walked into that,” I admit, laughing too. I steal a glance toward the other side of the restaurant,
checking that Vance and Adriana are still out of sight.
He follows my gaze, then turns closer to me, then closer still. His smile disappears, and I stop
laughing.
“You want to know why I had to go all ice age on you?” he asks.
So fucking much. “Yes,” I say, sounding a little desperate. Feeling a lot desperate.
He drops a hand to my thigh and squeezes. My breath hitches.
I was not expecting him to touch me again, and I like it too much.
“Back at the bar, I was consumed with this desire to take you back to my home and fuck you
senseless,” he says, and I can’t fight off a shudder this time. “The only way I could get rid of those
images of you naked, spread out and tied up in my bed, was to get into the zone.”
He might be in the zone, but his confession knocks me right out of mine.
 5

HYPOTHETICAL FUCK

Zane

As dinner wraps up, I take a private vow.

I won’t whisper filthy nothings to Maddox anymore. I won’t touch my new agent again. And I
definitely won’t steal a private moment with him at the bar once this meal ends.
Because I could ask him for a nightcap. Two single guys grabbing a drink while the parents among
the crew hit the hotel hay. Parents always want extra shut-eye on the road.
But do I suggest a drink when Maddox signs the receipt at the table and snaps the leather folder
closed?
I do not.
I’m damn well-behaved as I give an earnest nod to my new trio of agents. “Thanks for dinner. I’m
stoked to work with all of you.”
Vance smiles from across the table. “I’m so glad to hear that. It’s going to be great.”
“It is.” Their faith helps shake the nerves that have been dogging me lately. The kind of
sponsorships that Maddox is suggesting felt out of reach my first few years in the majors. I don’t want
to risk this golden opportunity for the sake of one hot night with the guy who’s going to land the deal.
Nope. I’ve taken a vow to behave.
The four of us make our way out of the restaurant, and I don’t even check out Maddox on the way
to the hotel elevators. Instead, I catch Vance’s eye and slow my pace, letting Adriana and Maddox
walk ahead.
“Hey,” I whisper.
“What’s up, buddy?”
“Thanks again. For looking out for me,” I say, patting his shoulder. He plucked me from the lower
rounds of the draft, putting his faith in me when others didn’t. I don’t take that lightly. “Since the
beginning.”
“Always, kid.” He slugs me on the arm. “I’ve got your back. You feel good about these two? If
you don’t, I’ll keep you all to my lonesome.”
I smile, letting him know I’m good with it. Clearly, he thinks they can strike gold, and if I’m
anything, I’m a damn fine team player. “Like I said earlier, if this works for you, it works for me.”
“It’ll work for all of us,” he says. We catch up to the others as Adriana yawns, then Vance does
too.
 “I’m gonna crash in three, two, one. I’m so glad I’m staying here,” Vance says, eyes bleary, voice
slurry.
“Me too,” Adriana seconds, sounding ready to collapse. “But I’ll be up at six, working the
phones.”
“Of course you will,” Maddox says.
“You too,” she tells him with a knowing smile.
“You guys are too fun,” I say, teasing them as we reach the bank of elevators.
“We’re a barrel of sleep-deprived monkeys,” Vance says.
To keep the mood light, I turn to Maddox. “Is it past your bedtime too?”
Shaking his head, he stabs the down button. “I’ve got a little more stamina,” he says, pressing the
pedal lightly on the innuendo. But then he surprises me when he adds, “So, I’m going to see a friend
over in Hayes Valley.”
I straighten to attention.
Wait.
Friend? He’s seeing a fucking friend? And was he going to see this friend if he’d accepted my
come-home-with-me offer?
Then, I slam on the brakes.
Dude, did you really just mentally argue with yourself over whether your new agent was
hypothetically going to ditch his friend to hypothetically fuck?
I need to get it together.
I’m going home, anyway. I have a game tomorrow evening. A workout in the morning.
There. I breathe past the stupid burst of jealousy.
The elevator doors grind open. Soft blue lights illuminate a sleek car. We step inside, the four of
us. Maddox takes the back left corner. I move to the right. Vance and Adriana take the center.
This distance is necessary.
Ten seconds later, the tired parents step out on the eighteenth floor. “Take the stairwell next time,”
I tease Vance as Adriana heads the other way.
He waves me off as he trudges down the hall to his room. “I don’t see you taking it either.”
“Fair point,” Maddox says, shooting me a sly grin.
Are you so smart-mouthed with the friend you’re about to see?
But I bite my tongue as the doors start to close on the two of us. We’ll be all alone for eighteen
long floors down, down, down. What’s an elevator ride between two guys who want to fuck but
can’t?
Eons.
Especially since he’s seeing a friend. I clench my jaw, irritated he’s going to hit the town, tempted
to ask what the hell his story is.
Maybe I’ll ask right the fuck now. But as the doors start to whoosh closed, a brassy voice calls,
“Wait up!”
Maddox sticks out an arm and the elevator grunts, the doors jerking back open. A woman in heels
and a little black dress totters in, followed by another woman in a pink top and jeans. Two men
careen in after them, belting the chorus to “Livin’ on a Prayer.” The foursome reek of tequila and
karaoke.
Great. Now I’ll be stuck with my jealousy in a smaller space. I move closer to Maddox’s corner,
giving the crew some room.
“Thank you,” the woman coos to Maddox and squeezes his arm.
 “Of course,” he says, smoothly unflappable as she lets go of him. “Looks like you all had a good
night.”
Damn, he’s easygoing, and I am a tightly wound jack-in-the-box.
“The best. It’s my birthday,” the woman chirps, and the quartet launches into a round of “You Say
It’s Your Birthday” as if they’d rehearsed it.
As the car descends slowly, the women thrust their arms high, and the men bump hips with them.
We all jostle around, and after a few seconds of sardining, Maddox arranges himself right in front of
me.
So much for necessary distance. Now I’m almost as close to him as I want to be, which is the
motherfucking problem. Mere inches separate us, and I catch a faint whiff of his shampoo. He smells
like the ocean, and the scent lights up my mind. I want to make out on the beach with him until we’re
sweaty and hot and have to jump in the sea. I want to take him back to my bungalow and strip him to
nothing, pin him down on the chaise lounge and play with his body.
I lean in for another heady hit of his scent. He’s so close I could rope an arm around his waist,
jerk him flush to me, grind against his tight ass.
I close my eyes for a second. What did I just tell Vance? That this would all work out. But it
won’t if I’m getting a sex high from my new agent. We’re being serenaded by a drunken birthday girl,
and I’m perving on said agent’s luscious, toned ass.
“It’s my birthday too,” the brassy woman croons.
I redirect my errant thoughts, but they escape and now I picture running my hands across his
muscular back, over his neck, into his thick, wavy hair.
What if someone else will do that to him tonight?
As the quartet warbles off-key, my head battles with desire and jealousy. I’m dizzy and grab the
elevator bar to steady myself, but Maddox is gripping it already. My hand slides against his, our
fingers touching once again.
The feel of his skin ignites a fire in me. Before I think it through, I hiss in his ear, “Who’s your
friend?”
He flinches, but he doesn’t move his hand. “What?”
“The person you’re seeing tonight,” I say, pushing my finger against his. He pushes back. “Who is
he?”
The car jerks to a stop, and Maddox lets go of the bar. I want to groan in frustration. The foursome
pours out in a swirl of perfume and revelry, and I pray—and I am not a praying man—that no one else
gets on.
The doors close on just us two, and Maddox turns to me slowly, brow pinched. “What did you
just ask?”
It’s a challenge. I probably deserve the harsh tone.
When his eyes lock with mine, those beautiful browns are hard. Borderline angry. I should back
down. Instead, the dragon of jealousy roars inside me. “You’re seeing a friend tonight? Do you have a
boyfriend? A date?” I ask bitterly.
“No. I don’t,” he bites out, then turns to face the doors, crossing his arms. The message is clear.
He wouldn’t have hit on me if he was involved.
I jam a hand through my hair, trying to sort out my thoughts. “I just…”
He shakes his head. “Don’t mention it,” he says, absolving me, though I haven’t earned it.
I just acted like a jealous ass over a guy I met two hours ago. I move in front of him as the
elevator chugs slowly past the fourteenth floor. I meet his gaze and let myself be vulnerable, even
though being honest is stupidly risky. Too many guys don’t want it. Too many can’t handle it. And too
many just want me for the number on my back when I play ball.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into me,” I admit.
His expression softens. A small smile shifts his mouth. My god, he’s stunning with those plush
lips, those chiseled cheekbones. “I’m not seeing anyone.” Then he clarifies, “I’m not dating. I’m
seeing a friend. We go way back. I met him right after I graduated from college, and he’s probably
bringing along his husband.”
I choke out a humorless laugh at my own stupid jealousy. Then I get the bright idea to try to fix my
mistake. “Want a ride?”
“With you?” he asks, surprised.
I roll my eyes. “No, with the birthday girl. Yes, with me.”
“Sure. That doesn’t sound risky at all,” he deadpans.
“Not. One. Bit.” I laugh.
“Thanks. Seriously. I appreciate the offer, but I’ve got a rental.”
“Shame. I’m an excellent driver,” I quip, bummed he’s got his own wheels. Our solo time is
running out.
“No doubt you know exactly how to handle a car.”
“Ten out of ten you’d ride with me again,” I say.
Fuck it. I can’t linger in this land of innuendo when I haven’t truly apologized. I try again, more
serious this time. “Actually, I do know what’s gotten into me,” I say as the car slinks past the seventh
floor.
“What’s that?”
I blow out a breath, girding myself for a little real talk. Maybe being blunt will defuse the sexual
tension, making it easier to work with him. “It’s you. I met you a couple hours ago, and already I’m
feeling possessive,” I say, shaking my head.
When Maddox locks eyes with me, his anger is gone, replaced by heat. “You were sounding
possessive. But go figure—your jealousy pissed me off and turned me on at the same time.”
And that did not defuse anything.
Heat blazes in me as the floors slip by. We’re passing the sixth floor now.
Maddox steps backward, but it doesn’t feel like he’s moving away from me. Not when he reaches
back, his hands gripping the bar tightly behind him, so tightly it seems like he’s holding his own
wrists together. Like he’s offering himself to me.
My breath hitches. My chest catches fire.
He just bound himself.
For me.
I shake my head, trying to shake off my lust to no avail. “Now we’re back where we started.”
He tilts his chin like he’s saying game on. “Right where we shouldn’t be,” he says, reminding us
of the stakes and the score.
“We definitely shouldn’t,” I add.
Maddox bites the corner of his lips briefly. “Then we’ll definitely pretend it didn’t happen.”
“What I’m about to do…?” I supply.
“Yes. That.”
I craved his permission, and with it, I close the distance and slide a thumb along his clean-shaven
jaw. He leans into my touch, shuddering out a breath. “More…” His voice is stretched thin with
desire.
 I grab his tie, yank him closer to me. Our lips are inches apart. I’m vibrating with desire. “Since
you asked nicely,” I rasp out, then I dip my mouth to his throat and press a hot kiss there.
He trembles. I lick his neck, tasting him. He gasps roughly, then stretches his neck, letting me
indulge. My god, he’s the most sensual man I’ve ever touched.
I lift my face, then in a flash, I step between his thighs, kick one foot to the side, then the other,
spreading his legs.
Kick, kick, spread.
His pupils dilate. “Do it,” he breathes out, urging me on. “Do anything.”
I’m a fuse box. Circuits trip, sparking hot and electric.
I reach behind him, grab his wrists, and yank his strong arms above his head. I’ve got him pinned
just the way I like, just the way he likes, as the elevator descends.
I barely have any time to drive him wild, to kiss along his jaw, to lick his earlobe, to make him
beg. I need hours, entire nights, whole weeks to do the million things I want to do to him. So I seize
what I can and crush my lips to his in a hot and demanding kiss.
Maddox opens pliantly, his mouth an invitation for my tongue. Harder and rougher, I kiss him, his
ocean scent drifting through my mind. I tug his bottom lip between my teeth, biting as I kiss but
keeping my body at bay for a few more seconds.
Then I double down on danger. I slam against him, our cocks meeting through our clothes.
Holy fuck.
Maddox LeGrande is packing some serious heat. I rub my hips ruthlessly against his, our dicks
grinding together. It’s mind-bendingly good, and if I spend another risky second making out with him, I
will never want to stop.
I break away, breathing hard. I drag the back of my hand across my mouth as if I can erase the
power of that kiss.
The promise of it too.
Panting, he drops his hands to his sides. His lips are bruised. His eyes gleam. He looks
thoroughly fuckable, and I’ll have to find some self-control and find it fast. But it’s slipping through
my fingers as I stare at the smoldering man.
“Your lips are incredible,” I murmur as the elevator stops in the parking garage.
He’s quiet at first, one elegant hand sliding up to adjust his burgundy tie. As the doors open, he
steps out first, barely glancing my way, saying, “It was great meeting you. I’ll email you tomorrow
about the next steps.”
He strides into the garage, leaving me and my hard-on aching for him.
I slam a hand against the open doors, needing a moment or three to clear my head before I can put
one foot in front of the other.
Somehow, and I’m sure it’s a miracle, I remember how to walk.
I remember, too, that Maddox is about to become a big part of my life. I can’t fuck up this
relationship with him.
I don’t go to my own car. I walk straight to his side. I need to know something, and the question is
fueled by thoughts of both business and pleasure.
 6

MIXING BUSINESS AND PLEASURE

Maddox

I’ve never been so grateful I rented a car—or so annoyed. I’d have jumped at the chance to spend
another fifteen minutes with that charismatic charmer.
But as I near my Lexus, I fight free from the stranglehold lust has on me. No more elevator kisses,
no more innuendo, no more flirting. Tonight was a one-time slip. My mantra from here on out is
business, and only business.
With my head clear at last, I’m ready to see friends and relax. Tomorrow, I can figure out how the
hell to work closely with someone I want so intensely.
But Zane follows me out, his footsteps loud on the concrete as he strides right up to me.
“Maddox,” he says, his tone intensely serious.
I straighten my spine. “Yes?”
“When will I see you again?” he demands. “And what’s next exactly?”
Normally, I’d spend a day with the client, learning who they are so I could nail the best deal for
them. But Zane and I hanging out together for a day? In a town car? Just us?
That would be a huge mistake.
I’m tempted to conduct this relationship from a safe distance over phone, text, and video calls.
Hey, let’s spend a day zooming.
But my business acumen tells me to treat him the same as any other client. Stars like a personal
touch. They like attention. They deserve it. Zane might not yet be one of the best-known ballplayers,
but in time, with my guidance and with his bat, I’ve no doubt he’ll be tops. All I need is a day to learn
what makes him tick.
I flip through my mental calendar. I’ve memorized his schedule. At the beginning of next month,
he’ll be in my town, on my turf. I can be in control as I get to know him better. We can spend some
time together during the day before his game that night. We can’t get into any trouble while the sun is
up.
“Two weeks from now, you’ve got a series against the Los Angeles Bandits. What are you doing
on that Tuesday before your game?” I ask.
The look in his eyes says he’ll be taking me apart in my bed.
But the words that come out of his mouth are, “Doing everything I can to resist kissing the fuck out
of you again.”
Zane and Maddox’s sexy-as-sin love story continues in TURN ME ON. Turn the page to enjoy!
TURN ME ON
A STANDALONE ROMANCE
 1

VERY BIG THINGS

Maddox

It’s been two weeks since I broke every rule and, for the first time in my career, kissed a client.
The first and the last time.
I repeat that reminder as I shower on Tuesday morning, then again as I turn off the scalding-hot
shower, dry myself, and wrap a towel around my waist.
I’m all focus, too, as I shave, the door open to cool the sauna of a room. While I slide the blade
along my jaw, I review the day’s plan. I’ll head to the main drag in Venice Beach, claim a table at
Edge & Plow, and wait for Zane’s town car to arrive.
“Ugh, Edge & Plow is so faux trendy,” I mutter as I flick stubble and shaving cream into the sink.
I’ll come up with a better spot. Text him a new location.
Wait. Nope. That looks noncommittal.
Trendy it is.
Besides, today’s agenda is to learn more about the client. Whether he likes faux trendy or not will
be useful intel.
As I finish shaving, footsteps pad down the hallway and stop at the door. Bryan stands outside the
bathroom, barefoot, as per my house rules, eating a banana. “Question—why the fuck do you shave
after you shower?”
I roll my eyes. “Question—why do you care when I shave?”
“Someone has to look out for you, man. Keep you mildly dateable,” he says, then takes another
bite of fruit.
“And you’ve volunteered?” I splash hot water on my face and pat it dry.
“I’m your best bet. So, I ask again, why shave post-shower instead of, oh, say, during the fucking
shower itself? That just makes sense, man. Are you aware of the existence of mirrors for showers?”
I reach for my aftershave from the medicine cabinet. “Yes. Are you aware of the existence of other
houses to live in?” I ask my guest.
“Ouch. Stab me in my free-loading heart.”
I laugh. Bryan knows he’s welcome to stay here until he closes on his new home. “Anyway,” I say,
as I slap on some aftershave, “now you know my dirty little secret. Besides, I have my reasons. It’s
good practice.”
My buddy arches a brow. “Fine. I’ll bite. Practice for what?”
 A smirk curves my lips as I set the bottle back in the cabinet. “Some men find it fuck hot—a guy
with a towel slung low on his waist, concentrating intensely as he uses a steady hand to shave
precisely. Carefully. Patiently,” I say, painting a favorite picture. “And one day, some guy will wake
up here in the morning—not you—and he’ll stroll across the bedroom then stop short, unable to look
away as I shave.”
Bryan nods thoughtfully as he finishes the banana. “Fair enough. You get an exemption from the
Guy Code on account of a damn fine answer. Also, nice fantasy you have going there in your dirty
little mind, Maddox,” he says, turning down the hall toward the kitchen.
Please. That’s tame as far as my fantasies go. My head’s an adult amusement park some nights.
Some days too.
But not today.
Today, it must be a kiddy park up here.
As I head into my bedroom, I check the time. It’s ten-fifteen, and I’ve been working here at home
since six. Now it’s time to look the part for the client. I get dressed quickly, putting on crisp slacks
and a tailored, charcoal-gray shirt, then consider my tie rack. I run my finger across the silk of the
purple one, the emerald one, the sapphire one…
Then finally, the burgundy tie. I linger on it, grazing my fingers down the fabric.
I wore this two weeks ago, the night I met Zane at a hotel bar in San Francisco. His first words to
me were nice tie.
Sparks crackled down my spine, and instantly, I knew what he wanted to do with this damn piece
of fabric, and with me. Knew, too, how compatible we were. Our attraction flared hot and fast, and
we both desperately wanted the same thing—to leave the bar together.
That was before my boss, Vance, introduced me to Zane as one of the athlete’s new agents. Before
we sat together for an awkward but important business dinner. Before we kissed clandestinely in an
elevator.
As I revisit that night, a flash of heat rushes down my chest, going straight to my dick.
I shake my head. Best to go tie-less today.
With that decided, I grab some shoes and set them by the door, then I shut the closet, walk to my
bureau, and grab my watch. Once I snap on the swank Victoire timepiece, I adjust the cuffs on my shirt
and check my reflection in the closet mirror.
Professional. Smart. Savvy.
And in control.
That’s the image I want to project for Zane Archer. He needs to see me as his newest agent, a vital
team member for his career, and a business partner he can trust implicitly.
Not as the guy he wants to fuck.
But professional me really likes ties and the power they bring to a man’s look. They’re a finishing
touch for the kind of job I’m lucky to have—a job as a dealmaker. With a sigh, I give in to my own
fashion tastes, returning to my closet for the sapphire one.
Blue is for trust. I want him to trust me.
After I loop the silk material around my neck, I grab my shoes, then head through the kitchen
where Bryan’s pacing as he talks on the phone. Something about beams and permits. He stops, tells
the caller to hold, then looks me up and down.
“You have a date at ten-forty?”
I scoff, pointing to my clothes. “This is how I dress for work.”
He shoots me a doubtful look. “You always shave before a date with a guy you really like,” he
says, pointing to my face.
Ah, fuck. I should never have told him the story of my last heartache. But who do you tell your sad
stories if not your friends? Still, he’s dead wrong.
“It’s a work meeting,” I reply. And that’s all it can ever be with Zane.
“Whatever you say,” Bryan says, then winks as I put on my shoes.
“What I say is…goodbye.” I head to my garage and hop into my Audi. Ten minutes of surprisingly
light neighborhood traffic later, I park in a lot in Venice, take a deep breath, and head to Edge &
Plow.
I check my watch. Twenty-five minutes early. Practically a lifetime in Los Angeles.
I grab a table outside and answer emails as I tick off the minutes till my client arrives.
Zane’s just a client.
He’s not the guy I’ve spent the last two weeks fighting off fantasies of. He’s not the man who
visits me in my dreams after dark.
I fiddle with my watch clasp, trying to stay present in the moment.
At eleven-fifteen on the dot, a sleek, black town car pulls to the curb. The one I sent to Zane’s
hotel to pick up my client.
I adjust my cuffs once more. Then, the back door opens, and the major leaguer steps out of the car
and onto the sidewalk under the Los Angeles sun.
My pulse quickens. My throat goes dry.
He looks unfairly good in the bright morning light, the blazing orb in the sky shining behind him.
Zane’s wearing aviator shades, trim jeans, and a snug button-down in a deep, rich shade of red with a
tiny design on it.
If a movie were being shot here today, everyone would know he was playing the hot young
athlete.
He’s all muscles and power, presence and charisma. A little thrill rushes through me as a couple
of heads turn his way. In Los Angeles, celebrity-spotting is a game everyone plays, and a few coffee-
drinkers whisper as they try to figure out who he is.
They probably won’t guess. For starters, he plays for San Francisco. Second, he’s not known
widely yet.
But that’ll change soon if I have any say in the matter, and I intend to.
I square my shoulders, already pleased at the prospect of what’s to come for Zane Archer.
Very big things.
The man scans the sidewalk café for me, but when a McLaren zooms by, his gaze follows the
powerful performance car as if he’d do anything to get his hands on one. When the vehicle’s gone, he
returns to scanning for me, whipping off his shades. My neck goes hot. That’s such a power move.
I stand and walk to him, my pulse kicking faster with each step.
I squint at his shirt.
Are those…?
I can’t help but smile. The design on his shirt is made up of tiny cocktails zigzagging down his
torso. Possibly Zane Archer’s way of delivering a clever reminder of the night we met and the story
of his daiquiri tattoo?
Yeah, I’m pretty sure that shirt is for me.
So is the smile that spreads slowly across his face when he spots me nearing him.
Good thing I prepped for this. Rehearsed it in my mind and practiced keeping a handle on my lust.
We’ll shake hands like business associates, then I’ll let go first. That’ll set the mood for today.
 I reach him and follow my script, sticking out my arm. “Zane, good to see you again.”
He smirks, his lips curving into a crooked grin as he stares at my offered hand. “Good to see you
too,” he says, taking my hand.
Shaking it.
Then, in one swift move I don’t see coming, he yanks me in for a hug.
Oh fuck.
This was not in my prep book. Not one bit.
He wraps his arms around me, and I’m inhaling that oak-y, showered scent of him.
Just like that, my mind scampers out of the kiddie park and marches straight into Adult Naughty
Land.
 2

DATING PROFILE

Zane

Every time I step into the batter’s box, I have a plan. Crowd the plate, get ahead in the count, foul off
everything that looks remotely tasty.
For three years in the majors, the strategy has worked. My batting average climbed to more than
three hundred last year, and it’s parked there nicely through early June.
I have a strategy for today too—treat Maddox like one of the guys. If I come on strong like I did
the night we met, I’ll be thinking of him as hookup material, and that’s a recipe for trouble.
He’s a business partner. I have too much on the line to risk mixing business with pleasure.
The be-a-bud approach is how I played things when we texted about this trip to Los Angeles,
making plans to meet before game one of my four-game series against the Bandits.
Admit it: you’ve got a spa day planned for us, I’d teased a few days ago.
Yes. Been meaning to ask—Swedish or sports massage?
Was hot stone not an option?
Ah, *particular about his massage services.* This is good intel, he’d replied.
Fine, don’t tell me. Just know this—I hate surprises, I’d said.
Zane, I promise I’m not surprising you. This is me literally telling you—we’re going to walk
around Venice Beach, check out some shops, get a bite to eat, and chat. The better I know you,
the better the deal I can make. It’s really that simple.
Now, as we wait in line at Edge & Plow, I survey the café. It’s cool and trendy, like the guy
standing next to me. I survey him too—that whole I-get-shit-done look Maddox has going on with his
tailored shirt, his expensive tie, and his fit-as-fuck slacks works for me big time.
Thanks a lot, temptation.
I get back in my mental batting stance. “So, this is the movie montage scene,” I muse as we wait
for a couple of tourists—the white sneakers and khaki shorts are the giveaway—to order. “You know,
where we wander around town and drink coffee and say witty things.”
“Do you have witty things prepared to say?” he counters.
“Hello? Back up five seconds—that was wit,” I say with a smile that covers some of my nerves
about this meeting. Don’t want Maddox to know I’ve got any jitters whatsoever—about business,
about baseball, or about my future in the game.
 That’s the other reason I need to keep today on the level. I want to impress the fuck out of him so
he’ll go to bat for me.
“Sure. You could call it a movie scene, then,” Maddox says. “But there won’t be a dressing room
montage.”
I snap my fingers. “Damn. I was hoping for one.”
He gestures to the menu, diverting my attention. “What can I get for you? Coffee? Tea? Latte?”
I shudder. “I don’t drink hot beverages.”
He knits his brow in inquiry. “At all? As in, ever?”
“Nope. Never. Used to love black tea in the morning, but one time I burned my tongue when I got
a tea from Starbucks. It was surface-of-the-sun hot.”
“That’s no fun,” he says, then tips his forehead to the black and white menu hanging above the
counter. “But they do have cold drinks.”
I feign surprise. “They do? Is that a new thing?”
“Iced lattes, Zane. They’re all the rage,” he deadpans. Then he lowers his voice. “They even have
iced coffee and iced tea.”
“Mind blown.”
When Maddox reaches the barista, he orders a coffee for himself and an iced tea for me. As the
barista flies through making them, I nod in approval. “Good guess.”
He smiles, then we grab our cups and snag a table outside on the sidewalk that’s bustling with
mid-morning crowds—women in trendy hats and flowy dresses, men in beards and skinny pants, an
eclectic artsy crew.
“Question. If you like hot tea, why let one bad incident stop you from drinking it again?” Maddox
asks, sounding genuinely curious.
“Fool me once,” I say. “That’s sort of my adage. I’m a big believer in learning your lessons, stat.”
My dad drilled that into my brother and me. But I don’t need to elaborate on family shit with my
new agent.
Instead, I knock back some of the iced tea and focus on Maddox as he drinks his coffee. “What
about you? Is that your third cup of the day? I bet you were up at five, working a conference call,
brewing your morning cup as you barked orders at some underling. Floyd, get me the CEO of Hot
Athletes Wear My Clothes, Incorporated, on the line right now.”
Maddox chuckles, shaking his head. “That’s the best you can do on the fly? Hot Athletes Wear My
Clothes, Incorporated for a fictional athletic wear company?”
I bristle as if greatly offended. “I thought the incorporated was a nice touch. How fast are you at
making up fake names?” I challenge.
But Maddox LeGrande wastes no time. “Toned—a hotshot athletic-wear company. Entice—
cologne that intoxicates the senses. Kingsley and Steele—they make the trendiest, must-have clothes.
XZO—sports cars with a price tag so high the acronym stands for nothing.” He sips some coffee then
sets down the cup with a certain confidence. “Should I go on?”
Holy shit. That was fuck hot. This man’s brain might be as big as his dick, and I am here for both
of those. “Did you really just come up with those names on the spot?”
His expression is deadly serious. “Do you suppose my clients regularly challenge me to devise
fictional business names on the fly?” He takes a beat, leaving space for the next thing he says, “You’re
the first, Zane.” He licks his lips, leans back in his chair, and hits repeat. “You’re the first.”
Traitorous heat flares in my chest. That’s what he said the night I met him, when he told me I was
the first client he’d ever flirted with.
 I tamp down the growing fire as best I can. “Well, let me say this. You win.”
Maddox smiles warmly, accepting the compliment. “In any case, this is my first cup of coffee. I
saved myself for you. And you’re wrong about the assistant. I don’t bark at my admin. But you’re
close on the other points. I’ve been up since five. I took calls from the East Coast, went for a run,
worked out, and finished a contract.”
Shaved, I want to add. That clean-cut jawline is Greek-statue-level goodness. Thank fuck he
doesn’t hide it behind a beard.
But I do need to hide these lusty feelings that didn’t dissipate over the last two weeks. I’m still
ridiculously attracted to this man who wants to strike me a deal. “Want to walk?” I ask.
I need a change of scenery. Can’t sit here at a sidewalk café with Maddox like this is a date.
Makes me want the second half of the date far too much—the part when I’d take him home.
“Sure,” he says, and I fight valiantly not to stare as he moves past me to the sidewalk.
But I fail hard.

A little later, we wander through the independent bookstore a few blocks from the café, and my feet
take me where they always do—the sports shelves.
I thumb through the newest releases.
“You read a lot of sports books?” Maddox asks.
I smirk. “I feel like this is a dating profile question.”
“It is. I’m trying to understand you so I can work best for you,” he says.
I scratch my jaw, a little doubtful. Is this really the way to nail an endorsement deal, with this kind
of get-to-know-you sesh? I mean, I’m not complaining about spending time with Maddox. He’s
sarcastic and sharp and takes no shit. But Vance never asked these questions. Maybe it’s because he’d
been my agent since he snagged me in the draft, or maybe he just learned them over time.
“I like sports history,” I say. “I try to read athlete bios. It’s good to know who came before us.
What they were like.” I tap a hardback on the shelf, the bio of a closing pitcher who escaped a
dangerous country to play in the US. “I’ve read this one.” Then a football player who was dyslexic.
“This too.” Next, I show him a basketball player who was raised by a foster mom working three jobs.
“Another winner.”
“All good books. Good guys too,” he says. “And it looks like you grab them when they come out.
They’re all recent releases.”
“Yes, but—” I glance around like I’m checking for eavesdroppers, then I lean in to whisper, “I
read them on my phone.”
That was a tactical mistake. So close to his ear, I catch a tempting whiff of his ocean scent. Is that
his shampoo? His aftershave? I could find out if I got into a car with him and kissed his neck before
he turned on the engine. If I took him back to my hotel later, put him on his hands and knees, and
buried my face in his hair. I could ask him as I seduced him. As I touched him everywhere and got to
know how every inch of his skin tastes.
Fuck my naughty brain.
Desperately, I shake off those thoughts sneaking out from the dirty side of my mind. “But I mostly
listen to podcasts. Comedians. Did you know pretty much every comedian has a podcast?”
There. Maddox can get to know me more, like he wants, and I can tap into the sweeter side of me.
 “I did not know that.”
“They do. I’ll watch a stand-up special on Webflix then look up the comic, and they’ll usually
have some funny but sad podcast.” I whip out my phone and show him my podcast app, like I need to
prove I’m a man of my word.
A satisfied grin takes over his face. “Love the evidence,” he says. “And your need to show it to
me.”
I sigh, shaking my head. “Man, this is not fair. You know all these things about me and I know jack
about you.” I wouldn’t mind a little tidbit. “Where do you live? I bet you’re in Santa Monica, some
sweet high-rise overlooking the ocean. Or Beverly Hills, maybe.”
He scoffs. “I don’t live in Beverly Hills.”
“Santa Monica, then. I’m brilliant.”
He smirks. “I live ten minutes away, here in Venice. But not on the beach. In the neighborhoods.”
I’m getting all kinds of ideas. We could go back to his house in a flash. I could bend him over his
couch, the kitchen table, the bathroom counter. “So you picked Venice because it’s close,” I say, a
little flirty.
Maybe a lot flirty.
“I picked it because it’s the best place in Los Angeles,” he corrects. “It’s vibrant and lively and
embraces everyone. And the food is great.”
More, I want more. I beckon for details with a wiggle of my fingers. “This is good. Serve up
some more Maddox facts.”
He tips his forehead to the mystery section then heads that way. I follow. He picks up a paperback
where, on the cover, a woman rides a horse and holsters a gun. “For my aunt. She loves mysteries set
in the Old West. She plays in a pickleball league. Lives with her wife in Sedona. She came out at
forty-nine. Now you know more about me.”
Rolling my eyes, I scoff. “Dude, that’s your family, not you.”
“But at least you know where I live,” Maddox says with a smile.
As we leave the store, a canary-yellow Ferrari Spider streaks by. I stare at it longingly as it
cruises the main drag, humming low in my throat.
“Want to play?” Maddox asks.
I blink. Does he mean something about the car? Then I follow his arm. Oh. He’s pointing to a retro
arcade one shop away.
“Nah. Not my thing. I like games I play with my body,” I say.
He snickers.
“Who has the dirty mind now?” I tease as we walk.
He shoots me a look that I sure hope says both of us. But his words are all business. “What kind
of games do you like?”
Okay, fine. Maybe I’m the only one still thinking with his dick.
“Golf, basketball, badminton, volleyball. As a kid, I never stopped moving until I collapsed at the
end of the day. That’s probably why I never got into console games. Even when I listen to podcasts or
music, I’m usually running or working out.”
Maddox nods thoughtfully, and I swear the dude is taking notes.
We walk some more, and when my stomach rumbles, Maddox suggests a taco shop, then a sushi joint,
then a rotisserie chicken food truck. None of those float my boat. But when I spot a salad and bowl
shop, I’ve hit pay dirt. “Green food or die. Pretty much my favorite.” I shrug a little sheepishly. “I try
to eat clean.”
He just smiles, and I know that’s going in his mental notebook too.
We eat at the picnic tables outside and shoot the breeze about baseball, which helps me stay
anchored on the sweet side of my head. When we finish, I check the time on my phone.
Damn. I only have thirty minutes before I have to take off for the ballpark. “I have to jet at two-
thirty,” I say.
“I know. I have a meeting at three-thirty. I’ll make sure you’re out of here on time,” he says.
“Maybe even early.”
Too bad.
Maddox heads the other direction down Abbot Kinney Boulevard, past fit moms pushing
expensive strollers and tanned dudes carting surfboards and smoothies. When we near a men’s
clothing shop, Maddox points at my shirt. “By the way, nice daiquiris.”
Finally. Fucking finally, he’s noticed the shirt I wore. For him. I stop outside the store and tug
carelessly at the shirt covered in cartoon cocktails. “Oh, is that what these are? I hadn’t realized.”
That earns me a small smile. “Yeah, right.”
But two can play the remember-when game. I gesture to his tie, a rich shade of sapphire. “Nice
tie. Is that Bespoke?”
Maddox grins deliciously. “You know the clothing brand Bespoke?”
Oh, hottie. You have no idea. “I’m good with ties. All kinds of ties,” I say, breaking my promise
and not caring for a fucking second.
Especially when desire flares in his deep brown eyes. This man. Maddox wants what I have to
give, no doubt. I reach for the silk, running my fingers down the material. My fingertips graze his
chest, just barely, but enough to make him haul in a breath. I reach the end of the tie, let it slide across
my palm, then drop it against his stomach. “And you look so fucking good in them,” I say.
His lips part. His breath comes fast. “Well, good thing they’re what I like to wear,” he murmurs,
his voice a fucking invitation, his words more so, and my temperature shoots impossibly higher.
But Maddox douses the flames when he says, “Zane, can I be straight with you?”
My lips quirk up. Can’t help myself. “I mean, I don’t know. Can you be straight?”
He laughs, dragging a hand down his face. But when he drops it, he clears his expression. “Here’s
some real talk,” he says, all business, no bullshit on the streets of Venice. “The video game deal
didn’t fall apart because of the company’s earnings.”
What is he talking about? “But that’s what they said,” I point out.
“Yes, that’s what they said. But then they went and hired Chris Garnett,” he says gently,
mentioning the New York Gothams infielder. “He loves Rocket League and a ton of other video
games. You don’t.”
Well, that’s a direct hit, but I try to take it on the chin. “Okay, got it.”
“The Energize Drinks deal didn’t come together either.”
I cross my arms. “I’m aware. You told me over dinner. Remember?”
“I do. And this isn’t bad, Zane.”
But it sure as shit sounds that way, with how he’s naming all the companies that didn’t want me to
endorse their products. “Doesn’t entirely sound good, Maddox.”
He sets his hand on my arm. A reassuring gesture, but it both irritates me and excites me. “Those
companies weren’t a good fit for you, and you weren’t a good fit for them. I’m being blunt with you
because that’s my job. I’m not going to stand here and tell you that you’re right for every single brand.
You’re not. No one is. And guess what? You’d be wrong for a coffee drink when you don’t drink
coffee.”
“Feel free to pile on some more,” I mutter.
He squeezes my arm harder. “Listen to me.”
I huff. “Fine. I’m listening.”
“You’d probably love to endorse Ferraris or McLarens. I saw the way you stared at those cars
with lust in your eyes.”
Now we’re getting somewhere. “You gonna get me a deal for one of those babies? Hell yes.”
He smiles kindly but shakes his head. “No.”
I groan, then drag a hand through my hair. “You’re killing me.”
Another squeeze of my biceps, and I look at him again, waiting for him to put me out of my misery.
“You’re too new for a big brand like that,” he says. “When you break out with three seasons in a
row of one hundred-RBI stats and become the face of the franchise, that’s when you can land a luxury
sports car deal. I’d be a terrible agent if I said I would even try for one now. But what I am going to
do is find you a partnership that makes sense. That fits you. Brands and fans can ferret out a lie like
that.” He snaps his fingers. “That’s why I’m glad Energize Drinks fell apart. I’m glad the video game
company picked someone else. Someone, a fan probably, would have figured out you don’t even play
video games, or you don’t drink energy drinks. Hell, I knew you don’t drink energy drinks.”
He has a damn good point there. “True, true.”
“My job is to find you a deal that’ll make you and the brand so very happy. A healthy quick-serve
restaurant, a streaming music service, a podcast network, a water-bottle company. Make your own
lucky bottle, or some such. Maybe a scotch distiller. Or,” he says, his eyes traveling up and down my
body, “better yet, a men’s fashion company.”
I smile. I feel good again. “Now you’re talking.”
He reaches for the collar of my shirt, fingers it, then lets go. “This whole look you’ve got going
on?”
“Yeah?” I ask.
“You have style. You dress well, but you have this sexy playful vibe too. You don’t dress like
you’re going to an office, but you don’t slum it in sweats either. You have exactly the style for an
upmarket menswear brand trying to reach young men who want to look good but don’t want to look
like their fathers. That’s what I want to find for you.”
Holy shit. This guy does his motherfucking homework. I am sold. “Do it, Maddox. Fucking do it.”
“That’s my goal.” He glances at his watch. “And now it’s time to get your car and get you onto the
field.”
Twenty minutes later, I slide into the town car, wishing this day weren’t ending. But I executed my
strategy today and nailed this at-bat. What’s the harm in taking another swing?
“You do know we have a four-game series?” I ask from inside the car.
“I do.”
“You should come to one of the games.” Then I pull closed the door and tell the driver to take me
to the ballpark.
I sure hope Maddox shows up.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Edwin, the
young rabbit fancier, and other stories
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
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laws of the country where you are located before using this
eBook.

Title: Edwin, the young rabbit fancier, and other stories

Author: Anonymous

Release date: September 18, 2023 [eBook #71676]

Language: English

Original publication: Boston: Crosby and Ainsworth, 1866

Credits: Bob Taylor, Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file
was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EDWIN, THE

YOUNG RABBIT FANCIER, AND OTHER STORIES ***
THE RABBIT
 EDWIN,
THE
YOUNG RABBIT
FANCIER,
AND
OTHER STORIES.

BOSTON:
CROSBY & AINSWORTH.
NEW YORK: OLIVER S. FELT.
1866.
 STORIES.

EDWIN, THE YOUNG RABBIT FANCIER.

DWIN was a very tender-hearted boy, and very eager
about a thing when he took it into his head; but his
enthusiasm very often left him just at the time it ought to
have remained with him. Thus he never pursued any
study or amusement for any length of time with profit to
himself, and often fell into very grievous errors.
 “Oh! dear mama,” said he one day to his mother. “I do so much
wish that I had something for a pet; there is Charles Jones has a
sweet little bird, and cousin James has a squirrel. I should so like
something for a pet. Do, mama, buy me something—a Guinea pig,
or a couple of pigeons, or a rabbit. Oh! I saw such a beautiful white
rabbit yesterday.
“Ay, my dear,” said his mama, “I am afraid you would soon grow
tired of your rabbit, as you did of your gun, and bow and arrow, and
ship, and rocking-horse.”
“Oh! but a rabbit is quite different, mama; you can love a rabbit,
you know, and coax it, and feed it, and make it happy. I should go
out early in the morning, and pick some nice clover for it, and some
thistle, and dandelion, and marsh mallows. I know how to feed
rabbits—I have learned all about it. I must not give them too much
green stuff, but some nice bran and oats; and then I could make a
little trough for it to eat from, you know; and—and—”
“I am sure, my dear, it would be too much trouble to you; rabbits
require a great deal of care and attention, and you so soon get tired
of any thing you take up, that I fear it would soon suffer from
neglect.”
“I am sure I should never neglect it, mama; and if you will give me
a shilling, I can buy a beauty—a real white French rabbit, with red
eyes, and a coat like swansdown. Do, mama, give me a shilling.”
“No, my dear,” said she, “I really must refuse you.”
Now, although Edwin was a little boy, he said to himself, “I know it
is only because mama wished to save her money; ’tis not because
she really thinks I shall neglect the rabbit, but because she does not
like to part with her money.” He thought himself very cunning? did he
not?
So Edwin began to pout and whine, and to tease his mama, being
determined to let her have no peace. “You know, mama,” said he, “I
shall be so fond of it; I will make it a house, and then I could cut
down some grass, and dry it, and make hay for it to lie upon; and I
could sow some oats for it in my garden; I should not want any thing
else to amuse me all the year round.”
Whether to humor Edwin or to teach him a lesson, I will not say,
but his mama gave him a shilling, and off he ran, and purchased the
milk-white, red-eyed rabbit he had so longed for.
Joyful enough was he when he brought it home; he paraded it
round the house, showed it to every member of the family,
housemaid, laundrymaid, footman, and cook, and every body
praised the rabbit, as the most beautiful creature they had ever seen.
The next morning Edwin rose by times, and began to look for
wood to build his rabbit house. He procured saw, nails, and hammer;
and at last found some old planks, and began to saw them, and cut
them, and chisel and plane, till his little arms ached again.
He had soon cut two or three pieces of board up, but to no
purpose; one was too short, another too long, a third had a knot in it,
and a fourth was spoiled in splitting. Vexed with his want of success,
Edwin said, “I shall not make him a house to-night—he must be
contented with being fastened in the coal-hole to-night, where he will
have room plenty.”
So bunny was put into the coal-hole, with a handful of cabbage-
leaves, and told to make himself happy till morning, and as it
happened to be election night, Edward went to amuse himself by
making bonfires.
In the morning Edwin went to the coal-hole to look after bunny.
There it was sure enough, but, instead of its being a beautiful white
rabbit—by hopping about among the coals—it had become almost
as black as the coals themselves.
“Well, I never!” said the little boy—“what a dirty little thing it is”, and
so he tried to catch it; but bunny not liking to be caught, led the
youngster a fine dance in the coal-hole, and at last he fell over a
large lump of coal, and dirtied his clean frill and white pinafore.
It was difficult to say which was the dirtiest of the two, Edwin or the
rabbit. The little boy, however, being quite out of patience, made no
further effort, but shut the coal-hole door, and in great terror ran to
the nursery-maid to put him into cleaner trim. He did not go again
into the place where the rabbit was that day, and so the poor thing
was kept without food, for Edward totally forgot that he had not fed
his pet.
However, the next day he again repaired to the place, and having
caught bunny, took it into the stable-yard, and put it into an
unoccupied pig-sty. The first intention of making a house was quite
given up, and Edwin began to think his rabbit was a great plague;
he, however, gave it some more cabbage leaves, and left it.

The fact was, Edwin was getting tired of his rabbit; he, however,
bought it a few oats, and gave it a little hay. He went out for a few
mornings and gathered a little clover, but in less than a week this
was thought to be a great deal of trouble; besides which, the rabbit
seemed lame, and did not look so pretty as it did at first.
At last Edwin quite forgot his rabbit for two days, and when he
went to look at it he was quite surprised to find it lying on its side. He
called, bunny, bunny. The poor thing looked at him, and seemed
pleased to see him, for its long ears moved as if it was.
Edwin took it up; it seemed to have lost the use of its hind legs; it
squeaked when it was touched; and so the little boy laid it down
again. He felt it all over—it was very thin, and seemed half starved.
Edwin now ran and got a saucer full of oats, and placed it beside
the poor thing; he also ran to the next field, and plucked some nice
sow thistle, and gave it to eat. Bunny looked grateful, and tried to
eat, but could not.
Edwin, in placing his hand down by its side, felt the beatings of its
heart; it went beat, beat, beat—throb, throb, throb, quicker than a
watch; and every now and then its head twitched, and the skin of its
jaw drew up, as if it were in great pain.
And yet the poor animal seemed glad to have some one by its
side, and rubbed its nose against Edwin’s hand; and then it panted
again, and its eyes grew dim; it was dying; Edwin now began to cry.
“Oh! my poor dear, dear, dear, bunny,” said he, “what shall I do to
make you well?—oh! what would I give? Oh! I have killed you, for I
know I have. Oh! my poor, dear bunny—let me kiss you, dear
bunny”—Here the little fellow stooped down to kiss the rabbit. Just at
that moment it gave a struggle—in the next it was dead.
Edwin’s eyes were full of tears, and when he could see through
them, and found out what had happened, he broke out into loud sobs
and cries, till he roused the whole house. “Oh! my dear rabbit—oh! I
have killed my rabbit—oh! what shall I do?” he uttered, in deepest
grief.
“Ay,” said his mama, who was called to the spot by his outcries, “I
feared it would be thus:—who would think a house-bred rabbit could
live in a damp pig-sty? The poor thing has been destroyed by
neglect.”
“Oh, yes, dear mama, do not scold me; I know I have been very
naughty. Oh, I do love my dear rabbit; I love it more now it is dead
than I did when it was alive; but is it really dead, mama! no, is it? it is
quite warm, and may get well again,—say it will, there’s a dear, dear
mother,” and then he cried again.
The rabbit was, however, dead; and had caught its death in the
way Edwin’s mama supposed, by being ill fed and kept in a damp
place, by thoughtless, if not cruel, neglect.
Edwin was overcome with grief,—but it was now too late, sad was
that night to him, for something told him that he had been cruel to
that he had promised to love. He got no sleep; and early in the
morning he arose, and went to the place where his pet was laid.
He wept all the next day; and, in the evening, he dug a grave in his
own little garden, close by the side of a young rose tree. Then he
wrapped the body in some nice hay, and laid it in its narrow cell, and
placed rose leaves upon it, and covered it gently with the earth; and
his heart was like to burst when he heaped the mound upon it,—and
he was forced to pause in his task by the full gushing of his tears.
“My child,” said his mama, who watched him at his sorrowful task,
“if you had taken half the trouble for bunny, when alive, as you do
now he is dead, he would have been alive now.”
“Yes, yes, dear mama,—I know—I know; but do tell me, pray do—
will not rabbits go to heaven? Is there not some place where they
can be happy? I hope my poor bunny may!” and here the little fellow
sobbed again.
“Give me a kiss, my dear boy,” said his mama; come leave this
spot: and so she gently led him away from the rabbit’s grave.
 JULIA MARTIN.
N many of the little coves and bays on the coast of
Cornwall, small villages may be found—the dwellings of
fishermen, their wives, and families. Here, perhaps, they
have lived from the time they were born, without a
thought or a wish, as far as the land is concerned,
beyond the narrow place in which they dwell. The sea is the great
object of their cares, for it contains the means by which they live. By
the fish which they catch in it, they are provided with meat, drink, and
lodging: and too often is the sea their grave. The poor men lead a
hard and anxious life in their fishing pursuits; and are often tempted
to risk their lives, rather than give up a chance, when a favorable
shoal of fish may be expected. The women mostly spend their time
in making and mending nets, and drying and salting the fish. Even
the children may be always found employed about fish in some way
or other. The very young make playthings of the bones; those about
ten or eleven assist their mothers in curing fish; and all, both old and
young, feed, with a relish never lost, on the finny tribe. It is a pretty
sight, on a fine sunny day, to see the seine, or net, drawn in on the
white pebbly beach: it contains, perhaps, many hundreds of fishes,
tinted with all the colors of the rainbow. The various families to whom
the net belongs crowd down to the shore for their share of the fish;
for, as the net costs a great deal of money, the price is divided,
perhaps, between half a dozen owners. During the winter season,
should there have been any failure in the fishing, great hardships are
sometimes felt by these poor people. The stock of salt fish is done;
potatoes are dear, and money to buy bread is but scarce. The
patience and self-denial shown under such privations is truly to be
admired, and might furnish a useful lesson to those whom it had
pleased God to provide, at all seasons, with every thing that can
make life pleasant; and who are too apt to complain if some of the
lesser means of their enjoyment are cut off by a hard winter season.
 THE FISHERMEN.
Rosecreay, one of the fishing villages we have been describing,
was fortunate, during a very severe winter, in having near it a very
charitable lady, who had taken a house which for many years had
been without an inmate.
Why she remained in a cold and bleak spot, so far from London,
from whence she came, her friends often wondered; and her
daughter Julia, when she heard the wind coming in great gusts up
the valley, or the rain beating against the windows, as if it insisted on
coming in, would wish she was back again in the pretty house at
Kensington. Mrs. Martin was not poor, but she was not rich, and she
had taken the old house for three years, because the rent was very
low; her own house in town she had let, and the change was made
that her only son, Frederic, might study as a painter. How many
mothers thus deny themselves comforts, that they may save money
for those dearer to them than their own lives! How few meet with any
reward for their self-denial! Mrs. Martin was constant in her visits to
the families of the fishermen; gave them tracts to read; made clothes
for the poor children; and was always ready, in time of illness, with
medicine for the sick, and soup for those getting better. She also
tried to teach them cleaner habits; but in this she failed. Julia soon
got tired of going with her mother to see people who persisted in
having such bad smells in and about their houses, wondering, at the
same time, that, with water so near, the village was not kept cleaner;
to which an old woman would sometimes reply, that fish never smell
ill to them. One stormy day in January, Mrs. Martin and Julia sat at
the window watching the huge waves that came tumbling in, with, as
Julia said, “great white caps on their heads.” The fine weather of
yesterday, said Mrs. Martin, I hear, has tempted poor John Penman
to go out fishing, in spite of his having hardly got rid of the fever he
has so long had. I am afraid that as he knew that Frederic is coming
we should like some fish to-day. The weather changed so suddenly
in the night, that I feel quite anxious lest he should have been lost.
Mrs. Martin’s fears were too well founded, for John Penman, his
eldest son, and another lad, never saw their homes again: the boat
had been lost during the heavy gale, and all on board had perished.
How dreadful! said Julia. I wish we did not live where we were
always hearing and seeing such disagreeable things. We must not,
my dear Julia, said her mother, indulge in such selfish feelings; let us
rather think what we can do for the poor widow and her orphans,
whether it is disagreeable or not. The next morning, though it was
still stormy, Mrs. Martin set out for the cottage of Mrs. Penman; and
as Julia thought it was too cold to venture out, she was spared the
sad scene that was seen by Mrs. Martin. The children were crying
round the bed of their poor mother, where she lay in too much grief
to attend to the kindness of the neighbors, who crowded round trying
to comfort her.
The room was small and dirty, with but little furniture in it; but
strange to say, on one side of it hung an old circular painting, and
though it was nearly black with smoke, Mrs. Martin could see it was
no common picture. With the hope that it might prove of some use to
the poor woman, she got the eldest boy to carry it to her house,
sending back by him a basket laden with food for his desolate home.
Frederic had arrived in due time the night before, and his mother
now begged him to look at the old painting. Although he had not long
been an artist, he at once saw that it had been painted by a skilful
hand. While cleaning it from the smoke and dirt, they found the name
of the painter and of the lady on the canvas. On inquiry, they also
found that John Penman’s father had saved the picture from a great
house, which had been burnt to the ground many years ago. Mrs.
Martin wrote to the family to whom the painting had once belonged,
and they were glad to pay the poor woman, to her great surprise and
joy, a handsome sum of money for it. She was then able to buy a
share in a net, which her husband had always been too poor to do,
and by it was enabled to bring up her family in the humble way to
which they had always been accustomed.
Ah! mother, said Julia, what good you have been able to do from
always thinking of other people rather than yourself. I will never
grumble again at the smells of the fishing village, but try, if I can, to
be as useful there as you have been; and Julia, in spite of the cold
and bleak winter, well kept her promise.
SUMMER
 THE HAYMAKERS.
HE haymakers are working blithely, tossing about the
grass, and talking and laughing right merrily. This is a
holiday, both for old and young. Many who are
employed in manufactures, with their wives and
children, obtain leave to work in the fields when hands
are scarce; and doing so seems like a new life to them. You may see
at the further end, hillocks of grass thrown up in long rows; the
haymakers call them wind-cocks; they are piled light and high, that
the wind may blow through them; but in this part of the field people
are tossing the hay about. Gray-headed old men are here, aged
women, and children, seemingly without number. Their parents are
hard at work and very glad are they to put the “wee things” in safe
keeping among the old folks, who yet can help a little. Look at those
girls and boys at play—see how they pelt one another with the hay,
and roll each other over upon the grass—these are happy days. See
those youngsters, scarcely able to totter, how they tumble on the
sweet, fresh grass; while those who have strength to handle the rake
mimic the labors of their parents, and draw tiny loads along the
greensward. Meanwhile the hay is thrown about, and with each
returning day comes the same pleasant labor, till the creaking of a
wagon, lumbering up the hollow-road from the old farm-house, half
way down the hill, gives the signal, which tells that the haymaking
season is about to close. A short time elapses, and the creak of the
heavy laden wagon is heard ringing over the stones. It comes up
again for another load, then lumbers back to the old farm, where
laborers are busily employed in placing the hay upon a strong
foundation of wattled boughs. Some tread down the hay; others
throw it up from out the wagon; till at length loud huzzas, that wake
up all the neighboring echoes, announce that all the hay-stacks are
completed.