“So.” I start wandering casually around the room. It’s a tactical move—one that’ll have these two women salivating over my physique while trying to keep their business heads on. Call me unethical. I don’t care. “Obviously, first of all, you want to ensure that whoever you decide to work with is aligned with your plans for Pyra.” I scan the two women over, noting curvy, womanly frames, boobs that are more than a handful, and nice tight waists. Women with something to grab on to. God, I love a woman with a fine curvy arse. “And I can assure you, there’s no man on earth who appreciates exceptional quality, sexy-as-sin underwear more than I do. I will devote my full attention to your brand and building it beyond your wildest fantasies.” More grins. “You want a concept that’ll blow Pyra out of the water. Because Pyra is unique, yes?” I rest my palms on the table, leaning in. Both women drop their eyes to my chest. I smile on the inside. “It’s not directed at the typical woman we see on every billboard dripping in sexy lace.” Their hums of agreement and obvious relief has me concluding they’re bored out of their minds with the suggestion that only the perfect size-zero woman can model high-end lingerie. I’m on the right track with this. I’m a little surprised Sal didn’t have this in the bag already, if I’m honest. “It should be all about the suggestive element,” I go on. “The outside confidence in a real woman from wearing gorgeous underwear no one can see. Your underwear.” Both women lift their faces from my chest. I smile. God, I love my job. They’re virtually hyperventilating, and I flick a cheeky smirk to Sal, who is there with them. “Every woman is beautiful. Pyra will make them feel that way, not inferior like so many underwear ads do. There will be no skinny supermodels. Only curves, and we’ll make sure we make every woman in the world confident. And that means wearing your gorgeous, beautifully made, structured, sexy lingerie.”
“Oh my God,” Karen gasps.
I grin.
Just call me Ty Christianson, fall to my knees, and worship me.
“You fucking beauty.” Sal slaps my shoulder once the elevator doors slide closed on Karen and Whitney. “Fucking beauty. How the hell did you come up with that off the cuff?”
“I like lingerie, and I definitely like the women who wear it.” I shrug and stroll smugly back to my office, executing a perfect little comedy skip as I pass Gina’s desk. “I’m taking over Pyra,” I call to him and get no challenge. I’ve earned it. And I’m fucking looking forward to it.
I try not to, I do, but once I’ve slammed my door behind me, my arm lifts of its own accord and fist-pumps the air. “Boom.” My head is literally about to explode with the ideas swimming around in my brain. I need to get it all down.
Landing at my desk, I call Gina and tell her to cancel my diary for the rest of the day. Then I turn my mobile off and pull my shirt out of my trousers. I grab an art pad from my drawer, a pencil from the pot on my desk, and I get my head down. It’s time to unlock the reason we started this company in the first place . . . because I’m a fucking genius. Formidable. Ty Christianson is back in the game. The right game.
I LOOK AT THE CLOCK. Jesus, how did it get to nine? Resting back on the couch in my office, I twiddle my pencil in my fingers and cast my eyes over the dozens of sketches spread out on the coffee table before me. “Fuck, I’m good,” I muse, standing up and stretching my muscles. Despite them feeling a little tight and my eyes dry, I feel good. It’s been years since I’ve locked myself in my office and pulled an all-dayer alone on a project. These days, I sit around a conference table and brainstorm with the various teams we have working for us, offering ideas for them to take and run with. I approve stuff, suggest enhancements, and sell the idea to potential clients. It’s been too long since I’ve started from scratch.
I turn my phone on and blink rapidly to try and moisten my eyes as I head for the bathroom. Sal’s message is the first to pop up, telling me to call him when I appear from my den. The next three messages are all from women trying to track me down. Not tonight. After being hunched over my sketch pad all day, I’m looking forward to sprawling out in my bed. Alone.
I take a leak and drop Sal a text telling him I’ll see him in the morning. Then I grab my briefcase and stroll slowly to the elevator. It’s silent, the floor of Christianson Walker totally deserted. As I press the call button of the elevator, I lean my shoulder against the wall while I wait, flicking through the emails I’ve ignored all day while I’ve been lost in creating. I groan and stuff my phone back in my pocket. If I start answering them all now, I won’t sleep tonight. I need to sleep.
Stepping inside the elevator, I flop back against the wall and watch the doors slide closed, but a loud bang has my arm shooting out and stopping them. What was that? I peek out, hearing some scuffling coming from Sal’s office. He’s still here? I trek down the corridor, set on dragging him away from his desk and getting him home to his wife before he gets himself into trouble. “C’mon, Walker,” I call, rounding the corner to his office. “Time to wrap— Shit!” I collide with something, knocking it backwards on a yelp.
“Oh.” Her startled voice and wobbly form force me to grab her before she falls on her arse. I catch the top of her arm and knock her bag from her shoulder, sending the contents scattering across the floor. “Damn it,” she breathes, now frozen under my hold. “You frightened me.”
“Back at ya,” I reply, wrenching my hand away and stepping back, refusing to allow my brain to acknowledge how good she looks. A few more wisps of her hair have come loose over the course of the day, making it adorably messy. I can smell her, still fresh and sweet. My mind puts my face in her neck.
Stop.
“I stayed late,” she says. “I didn’t think anyone would mind. I’m trying to get to grips with things.”
“I don’t mind,” I assure her, crouching to start gathering up her things, my hand pausing when it lands on . . . “Condoms?”
She’s with me on the floor in a heartbeat, snatching the box from my limp hand. “Doesn’t hurt to be prepared,” she mutters, scooping up the rest of her things and stuffing them inside her bag quite heavy-handedly.
I pull back my useless hand. Yes, be prepared, maybe with one or two, but . . . “With a whole box?” I didn’t mean to say that out loud. It’s none of my business.
Lainey rises before me, and my eyes follow her up, watching as she pulls her bag onto her shoulder, faffing with it unnecessarily. She doesn’t look embarrassed, more annoyed. “Are you about to slut-shame me, Mr. Christianson?”
I recoil, frantically searching my head for a counter. “No, of course not.” God damn me, who the fuck am I to judge? And now she thinks I’m a chauvinistic pig. I can’t blame her. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t—”
“How many do you carry then, Mr. Christianson?”
I shrug. “One or two. My wallet isn’t as big as your purse.”
“Too bad for you.”
I recoil, part shocked, part awed.
“Good evening,” she says, giving me a curt smile as she skirts past me, leaving me behind, still crouched on the floor. I frown and slowly rise, my mind off on a tangent. Well. That told me. But . . . how many condoms will she go through on her mission to find Mr. Perfect? I huff to myself. If she wants a true gentleman, a man who will treat her right, she shouldn’t need those. A decent man shouldn’t want to get her into bed first—an ironic conclusion coming from me, I know, but my dad didn’t take Mum to bed until he knew her inside out and his heart was pinging all over the shop. His words, not mine. He didn’t want my mother to think he wasn’t interested in her mind. So he talked to her. And talked to her. And he kissed her. And kissed her. Again, his words. I smile. You were a romantic old fool, Dad.