Sal’s new PA.
My dumb heart kicks a little. Or was that a palpitation? Or . . . a ping? What the fuck, Christianson? She’s just another beautiful woman.
She’s still sitting at the bar, gazing at her phone, those long blonde locks cascading over her shoulders and fanning her breasts. And she’s still alone, only one drink on the bar in front of her.
“Thought I’d meet you halfway,” a sultry voice says, and I look to my side, finding the black-haired woman has made her way to me, and is now looking at me with take-me-to-bed eyes. “Drink?”
Now this is an easy question with an easy answer. But I’m stalling. Why? This woman is the guaranteed pressure release I so need. Sal’s PA is not a guarantee. She’s not even a possibility. I glance across to her again, and I find myself breathing in sharply when a man moves in to her side. He has a look on his face I know, because I use it often myself. Except Lainey doesn’t look at all enchanted by his obvious advances, more uncomfortable. And I can’t say I’m comfortable either, not by the weird pang of irritation, or by her obvious apprehension. The guy is getting too close. She doesn’t like it, and he doesn’t seem to be getting the message and backing off.
My feet are taking me to her before I realize they’re moving, leaving behind a dead certain night of passion. My brain switches on. I mean, my professional brain, and I nod mildly as I approach, feeling a weird invisible tug drawing me closer to her. “Can I help you?” I ask as I arrive at the bar, prompting the man to turn around and seek me out. He slowly lifts his eyes up the length of my torso until he’s looking at me, and then he quickly backs away without a word.
Lainey gives me a small smile. It’s a stunning smile, soft and serene. It’s genuine, and I don’t get those smiles very often. As pussy-ish as it might sound, it actually makes me melt a little. She is sex on legs.
“Thank you,” she says quietly, almost embarrassed.
She indicates to a stool, but doesn’t say anything, collecting her drink and taking it to those rosy lips. My eyes follow it all the way and then climb her exquisite face until I’m staring into eyes that are a brilliant shade of blue, but I remain standing, not taking her up on her offer. Because that would be stupid. I’m not stupid.
I cough and break the connection before I get swallowed up in her dreamy gaze. “Just thought I should apologize for earlier.” I have not one clue why I’m doing this.
“That’s okay. I concluded you must be socially awkward.”
My eyes shoot to hers. Socially awkward? I laugh. “I’m not socially awkward.”
“Must just be me, then.” She takes another sip.
“No.” Let’s clear this up quickly before it leads to awkwardness at work. And what does she mean by that, anyway? Just her who finds me socially awkward, or just her who makes me socially awkward? “Sal and I usually hire together.” I point over to where I was sitting with my tosser of a partner. “I was surprised he didn’t pull me in on the negotiations, that’s all.”
“Oh.” She smiles, seemingly accepting of my semi-pile of bullshit. “I see.”
Oh, good. That’s good. “Anyway”—I back up, pulling at the lapels of my suit jacket—“great to have you on board. Look forward to working with you.” And fucking you. I shake my head and close my eyes, damning my sex-hungry mind. “I’ll leave you to your drinks.” I go to turn, set on finding that woman again and dragging her out of here. I’m going to screw her blind. While screwing some sense into myself.
“Drink.” Lainey’s one-word counter halts my escape.
“Sorry?”
She smiles, paining me, and lifts her glass. “You said drinks, plural. I have one drink and since I’ve been stood up, it doesn’t look like that’s going to change this evening.”
My feet root to the glossy tiles. “Stood up?” I couldn’t have heard her right.
“Sadly, yes.” She toasts the air. “So, I’m just sitting here at the mercy of any creep who wants to make a pass.” Her smile is ironic, and I find myself laughing.
But what kind of twat would stand her up? Whoever he is, he needs de-balling. He’s a disgrace to mankind. “I’m sorry to hear that.” I need to get out of here pronto.
“Don’t be. I’m not.”
I cock my head in question. “You’re not?”
“No. It was a blind date. A friend set it up. She’s constantly trying to fix me up with the perfect man, and I’ve long accepted that he isn’t out there.”
The perfect man? I just about stop myself from telling her to look no further, but I fail to stop myself from sitting on the stool next to her. A date? So, she’s single? How the fuck is that possible? “Another?” I ask, indicating to her half-empty glass.
She looks at it, then slowly brings those lovely glimmering eyes back to me. “Why not,” she replies. “Thank you.”
Why not? I realize that was a rhetorical question, but it shouldn’t be. There’s a damn good reason why not. “Lemon drop martini?”
“Please.” She smiles, forcing me to quickly look away. She needs to stop smiling.
I order drinks while simultaneously giving myself a very stern pep talk. Get to know her, but not like that. Yes. Find out what I should have found out in the interview process had Sal not gone behind my back.
Sliding her drink toward her, I take my own and dive in. “So, Sal said your CV was very impressive.” Good boy, Christianson.
“I’m glad I impressed.”
Oh, she did that all right. I smile tightly. “And the reference from your previous employer was glowing.”
She nods mildly, bringing her glass to her lips again.
“So why’d you leave?” I rest my elbow on the bar and bring my feet up to the footrest on my stool, probably getting comfier than I should be.
Her head tilts a little as she rests her drink down and slowly twirls it by the stem. “Am I being interviewed again?”
“I feel like I missed out a little,” I say without thinking. That wasn’t very professional at all.
She laughs, a soft, throaty laugh, the sound sinking into my ears and lingering long after she stops. “I’ve heard you’re not the kind of man to miss out, Mr. Christianson.”
“You shouldn’t believe the rumors about me.” My voice is low and smooth. I didn’t tell it to be. I didn’t intend on sounding so suggestive.
She shrugs her dainty shoulders. “Don’t worry. I base my opinions on what I know from personal experience. Not rumors.”
“And what do you know from personal experience?” I ask, unable to stop myself.
She levels those gorgeous blues on me, her stare never wavering. “About you? Nothing,” she says, all husky. My balls swell on the spot, and I swallow down a large glug of my Scotch. “Yet,” she adds quietly.
I cough over my drink. Holy shit. Did she just say that?
“But I’m looking forward to finding out if Ty Christianson is the talented businessman everyone claims.” She smiles a small smile around the rim of her glass.
My eyes widen. Oh, she’s cute. Is she playing with me? Am I, the player, being played? I don’t know what the fuck to do. So I smile awkwardly. “What can I say? I have a gift.” More hidden meaning. But what I have a gift for needs to be forgotten quickly. I swallow down some strength and ignore my disappointment, getting up from my stool. And I do the right thing, offering her my hand. “Good talking to you, Lainey.” She accepts and shakes it mildly, her eyes getting wider the longer our palms remain locked. The sudden flash of something—I’m not sure what, or perhaps I won’t allow myself to fathom it—forces me to release her. “Good luck tomorrow.”