Every day at breakfast and dinner, he regales me with stories about his family or his work in the Secret Service. He took the job with Jameson because he’s in search of the next big career adventure, and he seems to love Pittsburgh.
Through some subtle digging, which probably wasn’t subtle at all, I also learned he’s not married, nor has he ever been in a committed relationship. That’s something he and I have in common. Our distinct lack of relationships come from being too committed to our work.
I’d like to say I regaled him with interesting tales in return, but, sadly, my life is so boring I was able to summarize it while he poached my eggs yesterday.
After I’d gone through my educational accomplishments, which I’d reached at an incredibly early age, he asked, “But what do you do for fun?”
I had to really think about it, but I’d been too embarrassed to admit sex was my go-to “fun activity”. Not dating. Not vacations. Not parties with other friends. If I got an itch, I scratched it physically.
Nothing sordid, of course. I usually maintained a friends-with-benefits relationship with someone likeminded whose main focus was also school and performing at an elevated level. It had always been mutually beneficial to use sex as an outlet.
Oh… I’d once smoked weed, but I hadn’t liked it because it made me feel so out of control and paranoid.
I kept that bit from Cruce, too. I didn’t think it made me seem cool or exciting. Instead, it felt a little pathetic.
My shower is quick, and I manage to nick myself just above my ankle while shaving. I slap a piece of toilet paper over it, then work on my hair and makeup. There’s a knock on the bathroom door. Cruce’s warning of, “Five minutes, Barrett,” kicks me into high gear. Silently, I pray I don’t come out resembling a clown.
After liberally spraying my roots with dry shampoo, I brush out my tangled hair. It ends up not looking bad at all, the various layers sticking out at oddly fashionable angles.
Except my bangs.
They’re still crimped in the middle, and I can’t get them to lay straight.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, rummaging in a drawer to find a jeweled barrette. I sweep my bangs back, shove the barrette in, and don’t give myself a second look.
It’s time to get dressed and I have no one I’m trying to impress.
I slide on a pair of nude lace panties before pulling the peach concoction over my head. The dress floats over my body. It’s a little tight in the chest since it was designed to maximize cleavage and keep the fabric securely in place. Perching on the edge of the bed, I slip my heels on.
When Cruce knocks on my door, I call, “It’s open.”
Rising from my bed, I turn toward my full-length mirror in the corner of my room to make sure all my bits are tucked in the right places.
“Not bad,” I murmur as I take myself in. Cruce’s reflection shows him standing behind me, his hands clasped in front of himself.
In the mirror, I catch him running his eyes down the length of me. When I turn to face him, his eyes flash with appreciation, although they linger just a moment too long on the barrette in my hair.
Flustered, I start to reach up to touch it, but he says, “Don’t. It looks perfect.”
I blush, feeling the heat climbing up my chest to my cheeks, then clumsily move to my closet to grab a matching clutch.
“What’s that?” Cruce asks, and I follow his gaze downward. “Above your ankle?”
Kicking my leg out to the side to see, I blush even harder when I see the piece of toilet paper stuck to the small cut on my leg. “Shit,” I mutter as I squat to grab it. “Just cut myself in the shower.”
Ignoring Cruce’s snort of amusement, I rise and nab my purse. When I’m finally ready, he’s holding his arm out. “Shall we?”
I slip my hand into the crook of his elbow, shamelessly gripping onto the hard muscle there. If I have to spend an evening at a horribly boring State dinner, at least I’ll have a handsome, engaging man by my side.
♦
“So, when the chef brought my meal back for the third time still wrong, I knew I’d have to use the full force of my office to make a point,” the Polish ambassador to some country I’ve never heard of says.
I grip onto the edge of the table. Not for balance, but to restrain myself from picking up my salad fork and stabbing myself in the ear with it, just so I don’t have to listen to this anymore. I’m going to lodge an extremely cross complaint with Uncle Jon, letting him know in no uncertain terms that I’m never coming to another presidential event if this buffoon is the type of person I must force myself to politely converse with.
A light tap on my shoulder makes me lift my head and I find Cruce smiling down at me. He’d been off talking to my uncle’s press secretary, who’d also served with him during his term as vice president.
“Would you like to dance?” Cruce asks, holding his hand out palm up.
I consider the fork, decide a dance is a better option than stabbing myself, and place my hand in his. When he tugs me from my chair, I don’t spare a glance at the Polish ambassador, even though I’ll be leaving him all alone at the table. He’d managed to chase everyone else off, and I’d been the last one stuck listening to his pompous ramblings.
“I know your job is to save me from kidnappers,” I murmur as Cruce leads me to the parquet dance floor in the middle of the room. “But that was quite possibly the best save of your career.”
Chuckling, Cruce brings me in close. His free hand slides to rest on my lower back, and I bring mine to his shoulder. We start a passable job at a slow waltz. Because I’m not tall enough to see over his shoulder, I peek around Cruce’s broad chest, spotting my aunt and uncle smiling as they watch us.
I duck out of sight, hiding my own smile. They love me so much, and they constantly fret over how hard I work. But I’m no fool—I’d already recognized my uncle ordering me to attend as his way of trying to assure I have a social life, too.
“Think we can leave soon?” I ask Cruce hopefully. “I could get in a few hours of work tonight.”
Cruce’s smirk is chiding. “Can’t you just relax for one evening?”
I shake my head. “Nearly impossible.”
“Come on, Barrett,” he taunts with a laugh. “You’re amazingly gorgeous tonight, the music is great, and the champagne is flowing. Live it up a little.”
Gorgeous?
Amazingly gorgeous?
I blush again, feeling it all the way to the roots of my hair for some weird reason. Shyly, I drop my gaze. But Cruce isn’t letting me off that easy. Next thing I know, his fingertips are pressing under my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. It’s such an intimate touch that my face gets hotter, and I’m afraid he can feel it.
His head dips closer as he murmurs, “You can take one night off, Barrett. Okay?”
His blue eyes locked on mine are mesmerizing, not as icy as I once thought. Rather, they seem all-knowing—magically understanding something about me that even I haven’t quite figured out.
I’m hypersensitive to the weight of his hand on my back. The thought if I were to go to my tiptoes, I’d be close enough to kiss him flits through my mind.
Not that I would.
I mean… I’m his client. It would be totally inappropriate.