“You’re offering?” When he doesn’t answer, I reach across the table and take it. I swallow a huge gulp and push it back at him, wrinkling my nose. “God. Use sugar. I didn’t think it was possible to make mango-anything so flat.”
He studies me. “You know, I’ve had a lot of EAs over the years—”
“Yeah, I know. You’re hard to work for.”
“Perhaps.” He lifts his eyebrows slowly like he’s truly considering my words. Shocking. “But of all the many things I’ve complained about them doing, drinking my tea was never one of them.”
I shrug.
“So we’ve established you’re a book snob who’s very English major-y,” he says, this lawyerly edge in his tone like he’s laying out a case. “I asked you about the fireman books earlier because I have something in common with them.”
“You? I doubt it.”
He shrugs, his big shoulders rippling at his sides. “Remember, you asked.”
Uh, I didn’t, but...but I’m instantly silenced as he slowly rolls up his shirt sleeve. The fabric pushes up over a very defined, sculpted, powerful bicep, revealing a purple-and-black semper fi tattoo.
Whoa.
I’ve seen similar military tattoos but never in that color scheme and it’s awesome.
Not to mention the way his muscles bulge under the ink, sending my mind jetting off on fantasies of all the hell he—we—could raise with those arms.
It’s not what I expected. Am I still back in my room dreaming? The other dream the masseuse woke me from rattles my brain.
Yikes.
I need to get out of here before I’m lost in dirty fantasies with Magnus Heron.
That’s not the kind of complicated I need, no sirree.
But since there’s no easy way to leave without making it obvious I’m fleeing, I try to screw my head back on.
“Oh. Nice. I wouldn’t have pegged you as a veteran. When did you serve?” I ask, forcing disinterest into my voice.
I need to tell Paige her Google skills are lacking. Not a single article she sent ever said anything about military service. Though that might explain his hard-on for discipline.
“Four years. Right after high school. I was on active duty in Iraq at the height of the war.”
“Thank you for your service,” I say woodenly.
“You’re welcome.” His blue eyes sparkle as if he hasn’t been told that a million times, like every other serviceman. As if my gratitude makes him feel special.
God. What’s even happening at this table?
The waitress returns with my Bellini and his bourbon and sets them down in front of us. I take a big, heavenly gulp of the drink. It’s rich, smooth like ice cream, which is good. Otherwise I’d probably choke it up from the wild thoughts tearing through my head.
“So, are those years in the Marine Corps the reason you sleep like four hours a night? Because you know the rest of us don’t have that training?”
He shrugs, a thin smile pulling at his lips.
“Living on military time was always an asset. I get a lot done in a day.” He sets his jaw. “It doesn’t matter whether you served or not. Working for me is all the discipline you need.”
Dang. And for a second, I thought we might be having a real conversation versus wrestling that Godzilla ego of his.
At least I can do something more useful than listening to him boast about being God’s gift to the business world. I add a bunch of Mom’s books to my checkout.
If I’m glued to my screen until our food shows up, it’ll make him think I’m not interested in his wild ink and savage muscles. Even though I’m staring at my phone, his big bicep is all I see in my mind.
Ugh.
Keep talking, boss. I need you distracted. I need me distracted.
I need distractions galore before you notice my eyes undressing you.
The server returns with our food a couple minutes later.
“Can I get you anything else?” she asks.
“Steak sauce,” I say.
She nods at me and looks over to Mag. “And for you, sir?”
“It better not need anything else,” he grinds out.
She walks away with a worried smile.
“Jesus. You need to be nice,” I scold him. “It’s bad enough when you talk to us like that, but at least you pay us for the privilege. She doesn’t make enough to put up with your shit.”
His eyes widen, revealing vast blue pools. He’s shocked, like I’m the first person in the world who told this poor rich boy to quit being a prick.
“Point taken. I’ll work on it,” he says, spearing a fork into his pasta.
I’m speechless. I look down at my steak, and my small, but overloaded baked potato. “Did I order from the kiddie menu?”
He looks over at it. “We’ll get dessert. It’s richer than it looks. Fine dining portions are controlled for a reason.”
“That’s okay.” I’ll go to a vending machine. At least I know what I’m getting there.
He takes a bite of his ravioli. “We have another pitch meeting on Monday. I’ll send you the info and a briefing list tonight.”
Lovely. Here we go.
My steak is on the fork, right in front of my mouth. I haven’t even taken my first bite yet.
I roll my eyes and lay it back on my plate. “You do realize it’s Saturday, and I haven’t eaten since our last pitch, right?” I pick up the meat again and take a huge bite.
“At HeronComm, we work on all days ending in ‘y.’”
Yeah, that’s the problem.
The waitress returns later, sets the sauce down in front of me, and turns on her heel. But before she can disappear, Magnus says, “Ma’am.”
“Yes?”
“We’re going to want a dessert platter. Have it ready for us when we’re done, please.”
Impressive.
The world’s richest Neanderthal remembered “please.”
We spend the rest of dinner making small talk. I listen to his hopes for Jazzle Razzle while I wolf down my food. I don’t mind because he barely inserts himself into what it means for the entire company. Not just him.
The dessert platter arrives later on a silver tray lined with every upscale pastry, ice cream, and gelato outlined on the menu. None of them are large—and he was right about the richness—but there are so many bite-sized pieces that by the time we’ve shared them, I’m full.
She comes back and lays the leather folder with the tab down on our table. I reach for it, but Magnus beats me.
“Unnecessary,” he snaps off. “They’re being billed through the same account.”
The waitress looks at me, unsure what to do.
I’m not sure either, but he does have a point, so fine. Let him do the honors.
As we’re about to leave, Magnus leans in. He stretches a giant hand out and lets it hover over mine without ever touching me. “You have small hands, Miss Bristol.”
“Hmph. Maybe you just have big paws.” I try not to let my eyes linger as he coils his fingers with another insufferable smirk.
And another torrid mind flash of the awful, no good, very bad things those hands could do to me. It’s an unwinnable battle trying not to think about them gliding through my hair, roaming my hip, slowly moving up my thighs until they—