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when the bed he’d left had warm, naked Cassie in it. And two, somebody at Iron Works had a shitty work ethic.
    “Yeah,” he said by way of answering.
    “Still sleeping at eight thirty—must’ve been a late night.”
    Not just work calling, but the owner. The guy who not only signed Brian’s paychecks, but kept dangling the juicy carrot of partial ownership in his face. Guess he’d forgo the sarcasm and let Trevor needle him a little.
    “I closed last night. Didn’t get out of there until after twelve thirty.” Tack a couple of hours onto that for the fucking and late-night talking in bed, and he’d had all of five-or-so hours’ sleep.
    Trevor’s phony laugh came through the cell. “I bet there’s more to it than that. What was her name—no, scratch that question. Who gives a shit what her name was, right? Better question, was she worth the sleep deprivation?”
    The guy was a no-class womanizer, but Brian forced himself to laugh as if he agreed. “Yeah, definitely.” And that part was one-hundred-percent true.
    “Lucky bastard. I scored one at Frenzi when the power went out. Big tits and lips to match. She couldn’t keep her hands off me in the bar, but when I tried to get her primed in the BMW, she froze up. Wouldn’t let me touch her, looked at me like I was a pervert when I suggested she suck my dick on the way to my place. All I got out of it was missionary in the dark. Put her in a cab after instead of driving her home. Why bother, right?”
    What a dick. If Trevor wasn’t holding Brian’s future in his hands, he’d tell the guy exactly what he thought of him. “Better luck next time.”
    “I’ll choose better tonight. Maybe I’ll take home two to make up for last night.”
    Brian had nothing against casual sex or kink, but Trevor’s attitude toward women made his blood boil. Good thing the asshole kept his presence at the gym to a minimum. Speaking of which, hopefully the idiot wasn’t saying all this shit within earshot of members. “Are you up front?”
    “Sitting in my office. I need you to come in.”
    “Somebody call in sick?” Code for hungover on a weekend morning.
    “That twit with the big fake tits, Shanna, and she’s not sick. Try still drunk from last night. I’d fire her ass if I hadn’t fucked it already.”
    Unbelievable. The dick had made Brian sign a contract prohibiting romantic involvement or sexual contact with members, yet he was fucking his employees, thus rendering them un-fireable when they pulled shit like calling in wasted. From where Brian stood—which happened to be buck naked in a member’s living room—Shanna had more brains than he’d given her credit for. She’d essentially traded her ass for job security and the ability to completely slack off. This bullshit would stop when he owned a share of Iron Works, that was for damn sure.
    “When?” he asked, shrugging on his pants.
    “Half an hour ago. Eight-to-three shift.”
    “I’ll be there as soon as I grab a shower.”
    “No time for that, I have a nine-fifteen tee-off. Be here in ten.”
    Asshole. “On my way.” He stuffed the cell in his pocket and took a look around the room. Pretty nice in the daylight. Walls and furniture in shades of brown. Cream-colored curtains and chunky metal accessories. Not a prissy thing in sight—a living room any guy would be comfortable in. Cassie even had a decent-sized TV. If she liked sports as much as she liked sex, he might ask her to marry him.
    The random thought stopped him mid-stride. A couple months of easy conversation and one hot night didn’t mean he should cash in his savings for an engagement ring. But damn, coming home to Cassie after work every night—not difficult to imagine.
    He crept into the bedroom and collected his shirt and socks from the floor. He’d been right, she was cute when she slept. So damn adorable he didn’t want to disturb her. She murmured in her sleep, her eyebrows drawing together. Her hands moved to her breasts,