“Got it,” I say with a nod, finally managing to pull myself together.
“Goodnight then, Tiffy.” He leans down and kisses me on the cheek like he’s done a hundred times before. I have been holding my breath ever since the very first time he did it, hoping it would progress into something more. Like a real date. Not a business meeting, or a working lunch, or even one of the many corporate parties we’ve attended together. A relationship.
But Cole must be the most patient guy in the world. Because that innocent cheek kiss has never strayed. Much to my dismay.
“Good night, Cole,” I whisper softly as he leaves my room.
“Oh my gawd,” Claudio says with a dramatic wave of his hand in front of my face. “I’m gonna throw up if I have to keep watching this desperate plight of yours. He’s not interested in you, honey. That kiss will never change. He thinks of you like a sister.”
“Just stop, OK? He does not think of me like a sister. He just hasn’t had a chance to see the grown-up me, that’s all.”
“Pathetic,” Claudio says, bouncing his ass down on the couch and kicking his Jimmy Choos up on the glass-top coffee table. “You’re pathetic. Trotting around like a bitch in heat. That man is not interested. I mean, what good is a gay friend if you don’t trust his manstincts?”
“Manstincts? Really?” He is always making these ridiculous frankenwords.
“What?” Claudio says, giving me one of those famous smirks that make men melt. “It’s a good one. And it applies,” he says, closing his eyes and lifting his face up like he’s so superior. He feels superior the way most people feel hungry. Three to six times a day. “Because I know what I’m talking about. I see what you cannot. Cole is not interested in you.”
“Oh,” I say, plopping down on the couch next to him with my drink. He always makes me feel better. “And you’re the expert in what straight men want, I suppose.” I wrap my hand around his biceps and curl into his chest.
He wraps his arm around my shoulder and starts playing with my hair. “I am, Tiffy. Give up on Cole, please. It hurts my heart to think you might waste your life on that guy. He’s all wrong for you. He’s not even straight.”
“Liar,” I hiss softly into his suit coat. “You say that all the time, but even my gaydar knows he’s into women. Besides, I’ve seen him date a few. He’s not gay.”
Claudio sighs. “Yeah, you’re probably right. But a guy can hope.”
I pull away and look up at him.
“No, no, no, you sweet idiot! I’m not interested in him! He’s portly.”
I giggle. “He’s not portly. He’s muscular.”
“OK, slightly chubby.”
“Asshole. I like him like that.”
“Pfft. No. He’s not one of those giant men. You know, the big and tall guys. I call them linebackers. Those guys are hunky.”
“Right? I totally agree.”
“Cole isn’t on the football team, Tiffy. He’s that nerdy kid who wants to run the film projector.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Now, that Fletcher. Mmmm. Mmmm. Mmm. He’s better than a linebacker. He’s like a combination of linebacker and tight-end. Yeah,” Claudio says, still playing with my hair. “Fletcher Novak is a tightbacker. I’d like to get a look at his back end, that’s for sure.”
“Perv. And that guy is not better than Cole. Not at all. He’s a stripper, for Pete’s sake.”
“Mm-hmm. Exactly.”
I giggle, thankful that Claudio and I have been a team since we graduated college four years ago. He wasn’t interested in grad school, but my father said I needed an assistant, and Claudio was more than happy to step in and run my life. I love him for it too. He’s more than my assistant though. He’s been my best friend since high school. We’ve been inseparable since the ninth grade and as soon as I finished my MBA two years ago, my father hired me as a junior account executive and I kept Claudio. I run fourteen hotel accounts in Northern California and Nevada, and Claudio is my right-hand man.
But he’s wrong about this Novak guy. I can see through Fletcher Novak a mile away. He’s a player. And I hate players. He’s also a slut. I hate them too. And a stripper? Please. Who wants to date a stripper? I mean, I get watching them for a few hours. But date one? No way.
“OK, toots, I gotta hit the sack. I’m gonna have so much fodder for my wet dreams.”
“Gross, Claudio! No!”
He pushes me off him and gets up laughing. “Night, babycakes. Sleep tight.” He turns back to me and winks. “And don’t say I didn’t warn you when you dream about the stripper instead of the spare tire.”
I throw a pillow at him, but he dodges and jogs away to his end of the penthouse suite.
He’s wrong about Cole. And Cole is not fat. Not even chubby. He’s just thick, that’s all. He’s muscular, but instead of being lean, he’s got some extra weight on him. I kinda like it. When he puts his arm around me it feels soft and comforting.
Fletcher Novak is nothing like Cole. And I don’t mean that in a good way. He’s crass and he sells himself on stage every night. What a stupid way to make a living.
And after reading through Amy’s reports on him, I just know he’s up to something. She didn’t have any details, but she said she’s heard rumors that he’s some sort of pimp.
Imagine! A pimp working in my father’s casino. He’d definitely have a heart attack if that got out.
No. Fletcher Novak needs to go. And I have plenty of reasons lined up to fire his ass tomorrow.
Chapter Four
I toss and turn in bed as I imagine how tomorrow might go. Cole’s reservations are playing on my mind. I fluff up my pillow and close my eyes for the millionth time.
But the only thing I see is that stupid Fletcher Novak. I know I’m right about him. And asking him to come inside my room wasn’t a proposition. He was the one propositioning me.
I fling the white cotton sheet off me and pad out to the living room in my bare feet and nightclothes to find my laptop. He’s up to something here, I just know it. So I’m going to do what I should’ve done straight away. Google him.
I settle down at the bar with my laptop and put in his name. And oh, yeah, baby, he’s there. Pages of results for Fletcher Novak. And all of them seem to have something to do with the Mountain Men Male Revue Show.
I scroll down and make a face. This asshole has a Wikipedia entry. How can he be that big? He’s a stripper, for Pete’s sake. I click on it anyway. Who wouldn’t? And up comes his face.
Fletcher Novak, no middle name. Hmmm. He’s two years older than me and grew up here in Lake Tahoe, on the North Shore—in Incline Village—and his parents worked at one of the resorts while he was growing up. Mother and father both died when he was eighteen. Brother, unnamed, three years later.
I almost feel sorry for him.
Almost.
Went to Berkley. Really? He does not look smart enough to go to Berkley. Majored in psychology. Dropped out senior year.
I do a quick date check, and yup, that’s the year his brother died.
The next thing on his biography is the Mountain Men show here in Tahoe. But the years between are missing. Another red flag. He was probably in prison. I wonder if we did a background check on him before he was hired? You’d think the Wiki geek who wrote this up would’ve found a little more info.
But maybe no one is that interested in him?
I’m certainly not. I just need to know what I’m up against. Because there is no way Fletcher Novak will still be part of this show after I get done with him.
I grab a glass and some ice and then pour myself a little bit of Scotch. Maybe a drink will calm my nerves and let me sleep. Get this asshole off my mind.
I sit back down on the barstool and click out of Wikipedia, going back to my search results.
He even has videos and all of them seem to be of the strip show.