Sweet Temptation: A Players Rockstar Romance (Players, Book 3)

home without even consulting me, then pretty much telling me how it was gonna be. Like I didn’t even get a vote.
First Brody. Jude. Ronan. Now Maddox and some random stranger.
I was trying, really trying, to see it the way Elle did. To take her advice and Jessa’s. And Ashley’s.
But I wasn’t Elle or Jessa or Ash, and this shit was grating me.
I decided to call Brody to complain, and made the mistake of picking up my phone.
I had messages. Oh, did I have messages.
I hadn’t checked them since this morning, because I was dreading the influx of concern. I didn’t even want to know how far the news of the Great Stalker Incident had already spread.
I took a quick look through my notifications.
Elle had checked in with me again. Ash had checked in, and there was a concerned message from his girlfriend, Danica, which meant he’d told her what happened. There was also one from Xander’s girlfriend, Courteney, which meant he’d told her, too.
Fabulous.
By this time tomorrow, maybe it would be all over the web so every person on Earth could message me about it.
I sent a quick reply to Danica and Courteney, then called Brody. Somehow, he eased me back to calm, using his soothing dad voice. Yup, he had a new parental tone too, and it sounded very much like Elle’s.
Also aggravating, but decidedly effective.
“Just let them do their jobs,” he said, like he was soothing a baby back to sleep. “We can discuss it later.”
I got off the phone with him feeling marginally better… then truly wondering if “later” meant “never.”

Chapter Eight
Summer
I headed down from my bedroom after my post-yoga shower with my hair in a loose bun on top of my head. I was freshly dressed in comfy loungewear—soft leggings, an off-shoulder T-shirt, and my favorite fluffy slippers—and ready to head to work. It was already mid-afternoon, yet my workday was just about to begin.
Maddox and his co-worker had been moving from room to room, basically counting windows, mumbling to each other and making notes, as far as I could tell. They were polite and professional about it, not to mention quick. They were now in the basement, according to the distant voices I heard.
I stopped as I walked into the living room. Ronan was just walking in the front door; he’d been poking around out in the yard again. I’d seen him from the upstairs window, inspecting my fence and typing on his phone or taking pics or something.
This was deeply unfortunate. Because if he was about to add “handy with lumber and tools” to his growing list of attractive qualities, this whole situation was just gonna get waaay more frustrating.
For me.
A hot man in my house, who kept getting hotter with every passing hour, but wasn’t amenable to my flirting? I didn’t even know what to do with such a situation.
The moment he saw me, he said, “I’ll order in dinner, around six o’clock. Do you like Greek?”
“I love Greek,” I said, caught off-guard. I was trying to be annoyed here.
“Great,” he said. Then he took off his shoes and stripped off his leather jacket in what felt like slow-motion… while my eyes bathed in the glorious sight of all his muscles flexing under his shirt, the buttons straining in front until I hoped they might rip right open.
No such luck.
He laid the jacket on top of his shoes and nodded curtly, like, Excuse me, then disappeared down the hallway in the direction of men’s voices. I heard him head down the stairs to the basement.
I frowned at his jacket on my floor. The whole thing felt very husband-comes-home-at-the-end-of-the-day… and wife picks up after him.
Granted, I hadn’t offered him a proper place to put his things. Very unhostesslike of me.
But that was just because of my deep-seated aversion to this whole bodyguard situation.
I picked up his jacket.
I’d never lived with a man before, other than my dad and my brother. I’d had plenty of men spend the night, or crash in my home for days on end, both friends and lovers. I’d never picked up after a one of them. My hostess duties did not extend to picking up men’s socks, putting toilet seats down, or hanging up discarded coats.
Strangely, I didn’t totally mind the feeling of picking up after this one. Maybe because the soft, buttery leather smelled of him, and yes, I took a deep inhale.
Fucking delicious.
The man exuded some serious alpha male pheromones.
I hung up his jacket in my coat closet… And now I felt like some mid-century housewife, relegated to coat check duty, as I wondered what he was talking to the other men about downstairs.
Should I put on an apron and offer them a drink?
I would offer them a drink. Absolutely. However, given that they were essentially here uninvited, the lot of them—fuck it. They could fix themselves their own damn drinks when they got home.
A weird thought, when I considered that this kind of was Ronan’s home, temporarily.
So maybe I’d offer him a drink later. When the other guys were gone. They could definitely get their own damn drinks.
I poured myself a gin and soda, spritzed it with fresh lime juice, and headed downstairs. I sauntered right past them, sipping my drink as I went. When Ronan caught my eye, I smiled and shut myself in my studio.
I had my phone if they really needed to talk to me, but otherwise, I was locked behind this soundproofed door until approximately six-ten, when I’d wander out of here in search of Greek food.
I made it until about five minutes after six before I gave up on working on the set list for my next couple of shows, and headed upstairs.
Unfortunately, I’d found it hard to concentrate. I kept wondering if the alarm guys were gone yet. And what Ronan was doing upstairs.
And why he hadn’t texted to ask me exactly what I’d like from the Greek place.
I could smell the food as I climbed