When a struggling Broadway talent agent reluctantly agrees to represent a male stripper, she finds out there's more to her new client than oiled abs.
Season 1 of Strip in the City
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Today might be the worst day of my life. I just lost my biggest c...
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When West led me inside his tiny apartment, I was surprised to see how clean and organized it was. Not like serial killer clean, but definitely tidier than I'd expect a guy's apartment to be.
West ran a hand through his thick black hair. "I need to take a shower. Are you okay waiting here?" he asked.
"Sure," I replied casually. "Take your time."
West grabbed his shower supplies before peeling off his t-shirt and heading toward the door. I had to swallow around my immediate reaction to his shirtless chest and back, because damn.
"The bathroom is detached. Across the hall, to the left. It's really inconvenient, I know."
"Gotta love these old walk-up apartment buildings," I joked, trying to break the tension and earning me one of his bright smiles before he disappeared.
I glanced around his apartment in a totally not-snooping way, trying not to think about him naked and wet. Not helpful, Maren. What drew my attention first was the electric keyboard sitting on a small coffee table, which was directly in front of his full-size bed.
There were pictures of him in uniform, a box of worn tap shoes, and a newspaper article about the launch of a free after-school dance program for at-risk youth in Newport, Rhode Island, funded by a trust.
When West came back inside, wearing nothing but a pair of basketball shorts, I found my voice lodged in my throat. He was all lean muscle and defined abs. His flawless alabaster skin and jet black hair slightly damp from the shower. Beads of water trickled down his face before he toweled them off.
I swallowed hard.
West strode across his room and plucked a fresh t-shirt from his dresser. "Forgot to grab a shirt on my way out. Sorry."
"Don't be sorry," I said, my voice jumping six octaves higher. I certainly wasn't offended. I gestured to the piano, trying to think of something else to talk about besides his shirt and his body. "Do you play?" I asked, and West shook his head.
"Nah, that's just for decoration."
He went to move the piano under his bed, but I stopped him. My hand landed on his arm, and our eyes met once again. "Wait."
I wasn't sure how to comfort him, but the piano seemed like the most obvious distraction.
"Play something for me," I said, then softened my voice. "Please?"
I watched the tension leave his face, and West glanced down at my hand, which was still resting on his muscled forearm. The undeniable heat between us sparked, starting a flame low in my core.
"What do you want to hear?" West asked in his deep voice.
There were a million songs I would love to hear him play, and even more I wanted to hear him sing. Show tunes and pop songs. But, tonight wasn't just about me. "Play something that makes you happy."
