King of Sloth (Kings of Sin #4) by Ana Huang

CHAPTER 27





Sloane





“Why are you smiling so much?” Jillian asked.

“It’s freaking me out.”

“I’m not smiling. I’m exercising my mouth.” I took the proffered coffee with one hand and finished sending my email with the other. I glanced up when I didn’t get a reply. “That was a joke.”

It wasn’t a great one, but hey, I was out of practice. I deserved some slack.

“I know,” she said with a shudder. “That freaks me out even more.”

“Hilarious,” I said dryly. “When you’re done with your stand-up routine, connect me with Asher. If he’s late to a meeting again, I’m adding a waiting fee to his monthly bill.”

“Sure.” She gave a dreamy sigh. “Asher days are my favorite.”

I shook my head and waited for the door to close before I logged on to my private video-conferencing system.

Jillian wasn’t wrong. I was smiling a lot, to the point where I annoyed myself, but I was still riding high from the past week.

Last Wednesday had been a rollercoaster of emotions. Pen’s hospitalization and seeing my family were unpleasant shocks, but my night with Xavier, both at the club and his house, smoothed the jagged edges of an otherwise epically shitty day.

I hadn’t planned on sleeping with him. Part of me actively resisted it because I knew it was a bad idea. But there was something about the way he held and looked at me…He posed the greatest danger to my perfectly constructed world, yet I’d never felt safer than when I was in his arms.

Take your hair down, Sloane.

It was a simple request, but when I did it, it’d felt like more. It’d felt like trust.

I stared at my screen. Asher wasn’t on yet, which was just as well. Once they got rolling, my memories couldn’t stop replaying the past few days—the way Xavier felt inside me, the way we moved together, the way he’d planned the outing with Pen and how great he was with her. I didn’t have much of a maternal instinct, but my ovaries had almost exploded when they hugged goodbye.

There was nothing sexier than a man who was good with children.

He’d chosen an activity she would like that wouldn’t aggravate her symptoms, but he also treated her like a normal kid, not a porcelain doll. That was what Pen wanted, and it was probably the reason she’d gotten attached to him so fast. My only worry was—

“Sorry, boss.” Asher’s perfect face filled my screen, his smile as roguish and charming as his British accent. Despite his words, he appeared unrepentant about his latest mishap. “Before you say anything, know it won’t happen again.”

I almost jumped before I caught myself. I’d gotten so wrapped up in my thoughts, I’d nearly forgotten about the call.

I straightened, brushing aside concerns about my personal life to focus on my most high-profile client.

Asher was in his house in Blackcastle. He wore an old gray T-shirt, and his hair was damp from either sweat or a shower. He must’ve come straight from his daily workout.

I wished he were as dedicated to maintaining his reputation as he was to his fitness. You’d think the most famous soccer player in the world would be too busy with, and protective of, his career to engage in illegal street races, but this wasn’t the first time I’d had to clean up his mess before the press got wind of it.

“I’m not your boss. If I were, you wouldn’t ignore me every time I tell you to do something,” I said evenly. “Let me make something clear, Donovan. I don’t care how great your scoring record was at Holchester. You’re the new kid in the club at Blackcastle. You have a nine-figure contract riding on your ability to control your impulses so keep your head down, obey the speed limit, and for God’s sake, stop fighting with Vincent DuBois. He’s your teammate.”

Asher’s $200-million transfer earlier this year had made headlines worldwide, but it came with a unique stipulation: a two-year probationary period, during which he must uphold the contract’s ironclad morality clause, among other things. If he didn’t, his contract would be terminated, and he’d have to pay back half of his first two years’ earnings.

Asher’s face clouded at the mention of his rival. Vincent was the only player who came close to matching his fame and talent.

“Vincent’s an asshole,” he said.

“I don’t care. Your rivalry is whipping the tabloids into a frenzy, and we don’t need that right now. Shape the hell up, Asher, or I will personally hire a mercenary to repossess every car in your garage and make sure Rahim never sells you another vehicle. That upcoming limited-edition Bugatti you have your eye on? Gone to the next highest bidder.”

Asher was famous, but I was determined, fed up, and pissed off. Plus Rahim, his luxury car broker, owed me for the sheer number of referrals I’d sent his way (for people who were more responsible drivers than a certain athlete).

Asher swallowed at my threat. “Come on, Sloane. That’s not—”

“Take care of it. Now.”

I ended the call. Some clients required tougher love than others; Asher required freaking titanium.

I had a few minutes before my next meeting, so I quickly checked my phone.

XAVIER



Black coffee, two sugars?