Double Team: A Menage Romance Read online

  So the fact that this guy doesn't seem to have a clue who I am is, oddly enough, liberating – even if he's crude.

  "Sightseeing," Bongo Guy says.

  "Pardon?"

  "The reason I'm riding the lawnmower. I'm sightseeing."

  "Sightseeing what? Old houses?”

  "Nah. I'm partial to another view."

  I'm grateful for the fact that I'm running and already flushed right now, because otherwise I think my face would have just turned bright red. "Do you usually drive around in a lawnmower following women?"

  "Actually, it’s the first time I've used a lawn mower for this purpose."

  "But it's not the first time driving around and following a woman?"

  "I used a tractor the other time."

  I can't help but laugh. "Classy."

  "It’s a long story."

  "I assume it's one that involves beer?" I ask.

  "Perceptive girl." His eyes crinkle at the edges as he grins. Even when I turn back to look at the road, I'm acutely aware of his gaze still on me.

  "So following me around is your idea of a good time?" I'm running slightly faster now, wondering if his lawnmower can keep up. How fast does a lawnmower even go?

  "Well, it's certainly better than following around Mrs. Johnson."

  "Who's Mrs. Johnson?"

  "The woman who lives across the street. You don't know your neighbors?"

  "I know my neighbors," I protest, feeling slightly defensive. "I mean, I don’t ‘know them’, know them. I wave hello. I'm a nice person. I don't need to know their names."

  "How long have you lived here?"

  "A couple of years." Okay, now I'm totally defensive. "You're obviously friendlier than I am. With your nudity and riding lawnmowers and…whatever it is you spend your time doing."

  "You don't know what I do?" He asks the question like he's pleased with himself.

  "Something that gives you enough time to play the bongos naked and ride around the neighborhood, clearly." He grunts his response. I continue to run, my steps pounding a steady rhythm on the pavement. "Are you waiting for me to ask you what you do?”

  “Most women want to know these kinds of things.”

  I choke back a laugh. "You're full of yourself. And I’m not most women.”

  “Clearly.”

  I run in silence for a few more minutes before exhaling heavily. "Fine. What do you do?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “You can’t tell me?”

  “It's top secret." He takes another sip from his beer and grins.

  “Wait, don’t tell me. You’re a secret agent living undercover as an obnoxious frat guy.”

  “Frat guy? You think I’m a frat guy?”

  I shrug. "You’re the one with the bongos and canned beer and –”

  “What kind of secret agent frat guy lives in a house like that?”

  “One named Dick Balsac?”

  He laughs. "It’s actually Aiden.”

  “Aiden,” I repeat. "Huh. Dick suits you better.”

  “Funny. Do I just keep calling you sugar or do you have a name?”

  “You can stop calling me sugar,” I say. "It’s Grace." I deliberately leave off my last name, although I’m not entirely certain that Aiden would recognize me as the President’s daughter even if I told him.

  “Grace with the bodyguards.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So you’re someone important,” Aiden says as I keep running.

  I laugh. "That’s definitely debatable.”

  “Or someone who needs bodyguards. So you're someone people want dead.”

  “Is this your version of I Spy or something? You’re going to try to guess my identity?”

  “You got something better to do in the next… how many miles are you going?”

  “Five.”

  “Shit, I don’t know if the lawn mower can go five miles.”

  “That’s a real shame. Looks like I’ll have to run these five miles on my own. In silence.”

  “Don’t worry. I've still got plenty of juice left in this baby.” He’s talking about the lawnmower, yet his words definitely sound sexual.

  I try to put that thought out of my head, focusing my attention on my cadence and the sound of my feet on the pavement. One-two. One-two.

  Hot bare-chested guy a few feet away.

  Focusing isn't my strong suit right now.

  Aiden's words break through my thoughts. “So you’re someone people want dead.”

  Do people want me dead? Not right this minute; at least I don't think so. “I didn’t say that.”

  “Are you going to tell me if I guess right?”

  “Are you going to tell me who you are?” I counter.

  “Nah. I like it this way. So… have you ever hooked up with someone whose last name you didn’t know?”

  I choke back a laugh. "Is that your lame version of a pick-up line?"

  "I'm just trying to get to know my neighbor, Grace No-Last-Name. It's a reasonable question."

  "It's not a reasonable question."

  He ignores me. "You don't look like a pop star or a model, so that’s out.”

  "Hey! What's that supposed to mean? Are you following me just so you can heckle me?"

  This time when I glance over at him, I see his cheeks redden. Is Mr. No Shame embarrassed? “I meant that you’re not all, like, super skinny and shit.”

  “That's not helping."

  “If you want me to tell you exactly how hot your ass looks in that running gear, I can. I was just trying to class it up a bit.”

  I laugh. "That’s appreciated.”

  “So you’re not a rock star or a model and you’re not super famous -”

  “How do you know I’m not super famous?”

  “You don’t have any fans following you.”

  “This is a gated neighborhood.”

  “Good point. But you don’t look super famous, which clearly means that you're in witness protection.”

  “You’re suggesting that I’m being followed by bodyguards because I’m trying to not call attention to my brand new government-provided identity?”

  “Well, when you say it that way, it just sounds ridiculous.”

  We’re rounding the corner, and when Aiden slows down, I find myself slowing down and then stopping instead of running ahead. "Had enough of guessing?”

  He looks at his watch. “I have to be somewhere.”

  I raise my eyebrows. "Hot date?”

  I don’t even know this guy’s last name, but the thought of him with another woman sets me on edge.

  “Jealous?"

  “Definitely not jealous,” I lie, giving a casual shrug. "Have fun on your date, Bongos.”

  "It's trainin—uh, work," he says. He starts to back up his lawnmower and spin around as I turn to jog away. Then he pauses, looking back at me to call, “You’re a drug lord, aren’t you? Some kind of crime kingpin.”

  I laugh. "You got me.”

  “See you around, sugar."

  7

  Noah

  Aiden stands in my kitchen in workout clothes, making a protein shake. When I walk in, he whistles. "That’s some fancy-ass shit.”

  “Shut up, jackass." I straighten the collar of my shirt. I feel as ridiculous as I look in this outfit. There’s a reason I don’t wear tuxedos. Aside from the fact that I try to avoid doing anything that requires a tux (or a suit, for that matter), they don’t make tuxedos in “football player” size. This thing had to be tailored for me, which seems like an insane amount of effort and expense to go to in order to attend a swanky ten thousand dollar per plate fundraiser.

  Going to the fundraiser was not my idea. It was my agent’s idea, since apparently I'm more marketable if I show up at a public event or two, mind my manners, and pretend I like being around people. The real reason I’m going is that it’s for a good cause, even if it's going to be a room full of uber wealthy snobs eating caviar to benefit a foundation run by the