At least Nick’s underwear model vibe saved the day. I’ve glanced at his Instagram a few times and there’s an obvious pattern in every photo where he’s on some tropical beach, all glowing muscle.
Likes, comments, and marriage proposals through the roof.
Whatever else he is, the man could give Hercules himself some brutal competition.
“I’m sure my dance moves will light up the tabloids by tomorrow, but whatever,” he says. “It’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before. Sometimes it’s the price of business, and I like closing deals.”
I nod.
Nick slumps back in his seat and belts out a laugh, still watching my eyes in the mirror.
“Dude, why are you always so quiet? Are you pissed at me? Does late-night driving like this keep you from a hot date or something?”
For a second, I bite my lip. He actually pauses long enough to answer. Long enough to blow my cover.
But Abby said have fun with it, didn’t she?
I shake my head.
Driving him around reminds me why staying single feels like the smartest idea ever.
We don’t inhabit the same universe.
He’s made of drive, abs like Jason Momoa, and a splash of stupid. All he does is work his butt off and dive into debauchery the second he’s off the clock—or in this case, still technically on it.
Nicholas Brandt is my new anti-date. The man has heartbreak written all over him, if we pretend for a second there’s some whacked-out scenario where I’d ever wind up dating a man like him.
No way.
A drive with Brandt a day keeps Tinder at bay.
Also, I wish he’d put his shirt on. Stovetop abs aside, it’s hella awkward escorting your half-dressed boss around.
“You’re going to party with me one day,” he says quietly with a low growl. “I’m going to find out what makes you tick.”
I’m tempted to tell him I flat-out don’t party with my boss. It would be beyond inappropriate, but he’s drunk. I’m just hoping he won’t remember this conversation in the morning.
I pull up to the Palmer House while Nick snaps out of his haze.
He taps Jorge on the shoulder. The big businessman doesn’t wake up until my boss locks a hand around each shoulder and starts shaking him.
“Eh?” Jorge sits up, rubbing at his bleary eyes. “Huh?”
“We’re at your hotel, buddy.” Nick steps out of the car and holds the door open wider, ignoring the bitter Chicago wind sweeping over his naked back.
It’s a five-minute spectacle waiting for Jorge to move his feet just the right way to exit the car. He almost falls face-first in the dusting of snow.
Nick catches him, somehow—no easy thing considering his bulk. He’s lucky. Losing a client to death by drunken slip after closing a good-sized deal would suck.
“Jorge, what’s your room number?” Nick asks.
“Three...three thirty-five. I think,” he grunts.
Nick nods. “Can you walk?”
Jorge mumbles something in Portuguese I don’t follow, but it sounds like a litany of curses. He doubles over, then takes a step and tilts forward again.
Bossman laughs with a confidence I can’t believe he has, considering the situation.
“Don’t worry, man. We got you.” He peers into the car. “Halle, can you step out? I need a hand.”
Oh, boy. I signed up for babysitting as a favor to Beatrice, but this...this can’t be in the job description.
He wants me to help him drag a shirtless drunken man to his hotel room?
I stare at him with an open mouth, mentally tallying all the ways I don’t get paid enough for this, even with an awesome salary.
Nick shrugs, staring me down with this grumpy expression.
“I get it, it’s not part of the job description. I’ll remember this when the time comes for quarterly bonuses. Impress me, get paid, and we can get drinks on me,” he says matter-of-factly.
Yikes.
Yeah, no way is that happening. Not for any bonus. I do have principles.
I also don’t drink with my boss, especially now that I’ve seen what happens when he drinks.
But he’s waiting.
Giving me the sternest look ever as a shiver finally rolls through me.
“Idiot,” I mouth quietly before climbing out of the car.
The bulky coat surrounds me like a cloak, hiding me and keeping me warm.
Thank God. Right now, I don’t want this dumbass to figure out I’m a woman, and I appreciate the extra cloth between me and Man Boobs.
Nick hooks one of Jorge’s arms over his own shoulder. I do the same, and together my shirtless boss and I drag his equally naked client through a fine hotel lobby, up an elevator, and down a hall to his room.
“Jorge? Where’s your key card?” the boss asks.
Jorge leans against the wall and doesn’t answer, grunting and batting his eyes.
Lovely.
“Do you have your key?” he asks again, his voice steady and surprisingly calm.
He’s way too patient. I’m ready to slap this guy if he doesn’t move his butt in the next three seconds. Then again, Nick’s about to make a bazillion bucks off the big man, and I’m not.
Jorge says something but his speech is so slurred neither of us understand him.
“What?” Nick asks.
“Svbackic. Pocket.”
“Huh?”
“Pocket!” Jorge snaps.
Nick might be a patient drunk, but Jorge isn’t.
His eyes connect to mine.
I shake my head. This is where I draw the line. No freaking way am I reaching into a strange man’s pants pocket to pull out his room key.
“I’ll give you a raise,” Nick bites off. “Do it.”
I shake my head. Lines have been drawn and I’m not crossing them.
“Damn,” he mutters. “Which pocket? Jorge?”
“Svbackic.”
“What?”
“B-b-back.”
Nick sticks his hand into the back pocket closest to him and rummages around.
“Not that one.” He reaches over, slides his hand into Jorge’s other back pocket, and his eyes light up. He pulls out a sleek white plastic card.
A second later, he waves it in front of the card reader. We both shuffle-haul Jorge inside and tumble him down on a California king bed.
“Our work here’s done,” Nick says, dusting off his hands.
I swallow a groan.
The worst part is how casual he is. Like he’s used to this sort of thing.
If this is a regular night at Brandt Ideas, I wonder what I’ve signed up for. Because we’ve already dragged this guy through a hotel, to his room, and my boss had to frisk him for the key.
I’m still marinating in the client’s club-sweat.
Yeah. I’m officially not sure how much more I can take.
Taking an hour-long shower the second I get home excites me more than any fat paycheck.
A chill rolls down my spine when I imagine how late it’ll be after I scrub myself clean.
“Halle, you okay?” Nick snaps, shifting into no-nonsense mode. A hint of concern flashes in his eyes.
I sink my chin down into the coat, pull my cap down, and nod, following him out the door.
“Some days we really earn our pay, right?” he mutters, stabbing at the elevator button once we’re inside.