“May I enquire what it is you ordinarily do?”
“Sure. I’m a stripper.” She gives an unconcerned flick of one shoulder as I almost swallow my tongue. “With a name like Holly Harper, would you expect anything else?” I don’t have time to process this before a bark of laughter breaks free from her prettily mendacious mouth. “You should see your face! Oh my God, that was the kind of laugh I needed!”
“I’m pleased to have helped,” I murmur, though the words sound anything but pleased.
“I’m a teacher, you big oaf!” Her hand meets my chest, not exactly in a slap because that would imply her hand meeting my body with some speed before removing it just as quick. Given that her hand is still on my chest, I’m not sure what this is.
I’m also not complaining.
“A teacher.” The word is a low rumble as I cover her hand with my own, as though to contain this tiny throb of connection.
“Yes, you know.” Her eyes shine darkly as they meet mine once more. “Classrooms full of little people, though I haven’t been inside a classroom for a while.” She frowns, her mind slipping to a topic not as happy as this one obviously made her. “I was working for an American family, here in London. Tutoring their daughters, getting them from school and their extracurriculars and back again. Part-time tutor, a part-time social secretary.” One hand clutches the lapels of my jacket as she pulls the other from under mine, ostensibly to sweep away a wisp of hair that has blown across her cheek. “I wanted to travel. I mean, I love teaching, but I wanted to see more of the world, and working for this family offered me that. I was going to teach at an American curriculum school internationally, but then this job came along. Great pay. Great conditions. Pretty much my own apartment in Chelsea. But. . . I don’t work there anymore. A family split.” She encompasses the tale with a shrug. “So that’s where the pinny?” Her eyes seek mine, and I nod. “Where the apron comes in. It seems catering ritzy parties is kind of a niche market.”
I don’t know about ritzy. I would’ve gone with staid as I watch as she begins to twist the white frill between her fingers. This time I notice she’s holding a business card in her hand. Griffin’s business card.
“I’m sorry to hear of your troubles.”
“You wouldn’t be hearing it now if not for all this.” She gestures to the house at my back.
“Yes,” I answer simply, because none of this seems like the Holland Harper I spent the night with. I’m sorry for her discomfort.
“Things just didn’t work out as I planned,” she murmurs.
“I find that’s generally the way with plans.”
“I’m sorry, Alexander.” My name on her lips is sincere. Quite beautiful. “Sorry I twisted the truth. We weren’t ever supposed to see each other again, and I guess I’m sorry it didn’t work out that way.”
I am a monumental arse. I didn’t offer her my life story, so why should I have expected different? But the fact remains, had I known the truth, known there’d be a small possibility of seeing her again, I wouldn’t have ended up in her bed.
And what a sad outcome that would’ve been.
“Don’t be sorry. I’m not.” That’s the truth but not the whole truth as I pluck Griffin’s card from her hand. I’m not going to take advantage of her, even though it would be oh-so very easy to. I’m not going to take advantage of her, even though I long to. And I’ll be damned if I allow Griffin to take my place. “Is this Griffin’s?” I say, turning it over in my hand.
She nods. “We talked about work.”
“You don’t want to work for him,” I assert as her expression morphs into a frown.
“I don’t think he was planning on offering me a job.”
“No one would employ you to look after children on the recommendation of Griffin.”
She rears back as though slapped, and I instantly regret the manner of delivery, even if I stand by the truth.
“I’m not sleeping with him, if that’s what you’re suggesting,” she says, her tone sharp.
“I’m telling you that’s what people will think. What people who know Griffin will think,” I amend.
“Maybe I don’t care what people think.”
We both know she’s not talking about her job.
“Be careful, Holland.”
“How about I’ll be careful if you don’t be an ass?”
“Griffin isn’t someone you want to be involved with.”
“How do you know that?” she snipes, trying unsuccessfully to pull the card from between my fingers. “Maybe he has a friend with a restaurant. Maybe that’s what he meant.”
“I thought you were a teacher, or was that another lie?”
“Hey, Lyle,” she answers heavily, punctuating each of her next words with a finger to my chest. “Kettle. Pot. Black.”
“That’s not an answer to my question.”
“I’m sorry. Did you think I owed you one? How do you even know Griffin, anyway?”
“How do you know him?” The accusation in my question brings heat to her cheeks and if I thought her eyes were angry before they’re positively glittering now.
“You mean, how well do I know him.”
“Are you a teacher, or aren’t you?”
“Yes, I’m a gosh darn teacher! Degree educated, experienced in the elementary system!”
“Gosh darn?”
“And for the record, I haven’t had sex with your buddy, so there’s no need to worry about me comparing notes.”
“Griff isn’t my friend. He’s my brother.”
“No way.” She looks taken aback, though not horrified. That has to be a good sign.
“I’m not certain if that was meant to compliment him or me.”
“People who fish for compliments don’t deserve them.”
“Holland,” I mutter, fighting my feelings and my rising temper, swallowing them down like bitter medicine. “I meant it when I said it was a surprise to see you tonight. I’m sorry we weren’t more truthful with each other, and I’m sorry to hear you’ve had issues with your employment. But if you’ll just stop trying to goad me for one minute, you’ll find that I might be able to help you.”
“You mean like your brother wants to help?” she retorts with more than a hint of accusation.
I could, I suppose. Except that she deserves better and that I demand better from myself. My needs are my own, and there are other ways to have those needs met without embroiling the innocent.
“There’s no need to be suspicious.” Because, unlike some people, I don’t act on impulse to the thoughts running through my head. Slipping Griffin’s card into my inside pocket, I take out my pen. My jaw clenches as I resist the temptation to ask for her number because I know the temptation might prove too great. I could give her mine, but then she might call. And I might answer. And that sounds like the beginning of a disaster. “Call this number tomorrow.” Taking her hand in mine, I jot my assistant’s number down on the back of her hand, ignoring how small it looks, the delicacy of her wrists. And how they looked manacled by my fingers. “George will be expecting your call.”