Free Playing for Keeps by Yahrah St. John

herself. The warm earth shades oozed class and elegance. He stepped out onto her enormous balcony and found a great view of Central Park.
    â€œNice place,” he commented on his way back in. A little devoid of warmth, he thought, but nice all the same. He’d love to come in and spice it up with some color.
    â€œThank you,” Avery said. She was curious as to what was roaming through his mind as he fingered the Monet, Renoir and Degas prints that adorned her walls. He was probably thinking she was uppity and a snob.
    â€œYou must love the Impressionists,” Quentin said.
    â€œYes, I like their use of short, thick strokes, the soft edges, the intermingling colors and the way their paintings command your attention,” Avery rattled on, until she realized Quentin was eyeing her up and down. “What’s wrong? Do you not like what I’m wearing?”
    Quentin rubbed his goatee. “It’s not that…” He paused.
    â€œThen what?” she asked, exasperated. She thought she looked just fine. She was wearing Michael Kors, after all.
    He chuckled at her tone. “It’s fine if we were going to a fine-dining restaurant, but for where we’re going this evening, you are a tad overdressed.”
    â€œWhere are we going?” Avery asked.
    â€œTo this Moroccan restaurant that I know in Jersey.”
    â€œMoroccan?” she said haughtily. She’d never tried Moroccan food. All she knew was that they used a lot of curries and chutneys.
    â€œYes, Moroccan,” he replied, mocking her. “And I just thought you might feel more comfortable in some jeans. You know, less out of place, but it’s your choice.”
    She thought about it for a moment. He did have a point. She doubted her black pants and multi-floral blouse would fit in. “Give me five minutes,” she said and scurried off to her master suite.
    It took longer than five minutes for Avery to rummage through her closet because she couldn’t remember what she’d done with the single pair of jeans she owned.
    Avery released a huge sigh of relief when they zipped up with ease. She glanced at her rear end in the mirror. The jeans hugged every curve, which was exactly how Quentin wanted them, she was sure. She replaced her jacket with one of Jenna’s tops from her photo shoots. As a talent agent, she sometimes secured free clothing from the designers and passed along what she didn’t want to Avery. The sexy, low-cut top wasn’t really her style, but it fit the occasion.
    She breezed down the hall and found Quentin perusing a magazine on the edge of the sofa. “Will this suffice, Your Grace?” she asked, bowing in front of him.
    He smiled. Avery Roberts was certainly a shrew, but if she thought her sarcastic tone would send him running in the opposite direction, she was wrong. He had a bet to win. He would show his friends that he was still a playa and, like fine wine, he had only gotten better with age.
    Quentin rose to his feet and pulled Avery toward him. “Yes, that will do,” he said, mere inches from her face. He loved the slight bit of décolletage he’d received when she’d bowed.
    The breath caught in Avery’s throat and for a second she thought he was going to kiss her, but instead he stepped away, leaving her bereft and wishing he had.
    â€œReady?” he asked.
    â€œYes,” she huffed, reached for her purse on the console in the foyer and preceded him out the door. Quentin smiled as he watched her switch. He definitely liked the way she looked in those jeans. She’d been anticipating that he was going to kiss her, but instead he’d wait and when she was panting for it, he would give it to her and give it to her good.

Chapter 5
    O nce they exited her building, Avery looked up and down the street for a taxicab, ignoring the motorcycle parked directly in front of her apartment building.
    â€œYou don’t have to worry about