Well, that had been easier than he’d thought. That was the normal reaction he would get from people when he told them that he had a girlfriend. No one really understood their relationship, nor did they care to figure it out. It was easier to just let people believe he was a philandering asshole than to explain that they had been in a successful open relationship for the last ten years.

Easier to let people believe he was the bad boy of the Maxwell political dynasty than to clue them in on his long-term plan—top of his class at Yale, clerk at the Supreme Court, federal judge, attorney general. Thinking of it both excited him and made him feel sick. He wanted to live up to the man his father expected him to be, but following the mold made him crazy. It was a double-edged sword, a line he constantly skirted.

That girl would have been a treat for completing his clerkship and moving one step closer to the end goal on his path. Another thing completed on a checklist. Finishing didn’t seem fulfilling in the same way it had when he was accepted to clerk. But, tomorrow, he would have to clear out his desk and get serious about deciding on which private practice offer he would accept.

He had been staring at three offers for over a week now, and since each position began in January, they were expecting an answer by Christmas…maybe New Year’s at the latest.

But he didn’t need to worry about that tonight. He could have Andrea as a treat instead.

Clay fished his cell phone out of his pocket again and smiled. Four minutes. Perfect.

He dialed Andrea’s number and waited for her to answer while he waited outside of the building. It clicked over to voice mail.

He scowled down at the phone. “What the fuck?”

Then, it almost immediately lit up again.

“Can I help you?” she asked curtly.

Clay cracked a smile.

“So, where are you? I’ll grab a cab now and meet you.”

Andrea made a tinkling giggle. “Do you think you’re the only one who can have fun, Clay Maxwell?”

A smile spread across his face. “You’re bad, and it turns me on.”

“Well, you’ll have to do something about it by yourself. I have…other plans,” she said breathily—for his benefit, he was sure.

His body itched from the challenge she was posing. Andrea always seemed to do this. He could fuck so many other girls, and then one little giggle from her would make him want to claim her all over again.

She was a continual challenge. She was beautiful with long blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and a tall, lean frame that he knew intimately. But every time he thought he had her figured out, every time he was sure she was going to do one thing, she would do something else. She liked to play games, and he liked her games.

Because, at the end of the day, he knew exactly where her head was in all of this. It wasn’t seeking out a Harry Winston engagement ring. It wasn’t demanding an I love you before bed. It wasn’t a scowl for his philandering or the way he treated his brother or innumerable other reasons. It was just an arrangement for two people who cared about each other…in their own way.

“Pray tell, love. Who is the lucky bastard?” Clay asked.

He was already sliding into the cab that had appeared for him and adjusting the purple-striped bow tie at his neck.

Andrea came from old Southern plantation money. Her mother was a Southern pageant queen, and they had both been raised in the South Carolina Junior League. Her father owned half of Charleston and regularly purchased, stripped, and resold the other half. The Maxwells could stretch their lineage back to Thomas Jefferson himself. They had been in real estate in The Triangle area of North Carolina for just as long. Clay was a Southern boy through and through, and if there was one thing Andrea couldn’t resist, it was when he acted like it.

“He’s no one you know,” she told him.

“I know everyone.”

“Not this one.”

“Stop teasing me.”

She giggled. “Oh, but you don’t really want me to do that, Clay. You probably want me to describe him on the phone. Should I start with his suit or how big I think he is?”

“Always good to know your competition,” he said.

“Well, I don’t have time. I have to get back to my game. I don’t want him to think I have a doting boyfriend waiting for me at home.”

Clay snorted. “Doting. Sounds just like me.”

Andrea was silent for a moment, and if he couldn’t hear the bar noise in the background, he might have thought she had hung up on him.

“Sometimes, it’s not that far off,” she said quietly.

“Right,” he said with a laugh. “Doting, Andrea?”

“You’re an ass.”

“Yeah, you’ve always known that. Now, I’ll show you doting. Where are you?”

“Don’t ruin my game, Clay,” she said without conviction.

She had called him after all.

They had rules, and they were simple. When they were together, it was just the two of them. When they were apart, anything was fair game. But when one of them called, ruining the other person’s game was exactly the rule of thumb. He was coming to claim her, and she knew it. They had both known it as soon as he answered.

He could hear the telltale signs of excitement in her voice. He was sure she was pouting to look like she was upset.

“I would never,” he lied.

“I don’t ruin yours.”

“You do if you can help it. Now, tell me,” he demanded.

“Fine,” she said. “But you’d better bring your A game. He’s a keeper.”

“Don’t I always?”

She told him the name of the bar where she was. It wasn’t far from his townhouse or his work, which made him wonder if she had picked it, hoping for this outcome. She was conniving, and he wouldn’t put it past her.

Clay felt emboldened as he left to chase down his girl.

Chapter 2

GAMES

Clay stepped into the dimly lit bar. It was one of those upscale artsy places that Andrea frequented and he loathed. The actual artists wouldn’t be caught dead in here, but art enthusiasts congregated in the space. And if Andrea liked anything, she liked throwing her fortune away at art shows.

He spotted her sitting at the horseshoe-style bar in the middle of the room, talking to her prey. She was in a demure black dress that hugged her lithe curves and two-thousand-dollar shoes that she had a closetful of at home. She was facing the entrance, which was likely strategic on her part. Her head had tipped up when he entered the bar, but aside from a passing glance, she didn’t even acknowledge him. But she certainly knew he was here.