His gaze sweeps me again, deliberate and violating. “I see we’ve landed somewhere in between. Love the color, by the way. Brings out your eyes.”
At least he’s smirking rather than emitting icy rage. Maybe it’s a trap to lure me into complacency.
I glance down at my carefully chosen dress, noting the unintentional color coordination with him in navy. Fucking brilliant. I agonized over this outfit knowing I’d be at fancy Quinn & Wolfe HQ.
“Good morning to you too,” I reply breezily, refusing his bait. “I thought you wanted to see me at seven?”
“Is there a problem with when I choose to arrive?” His tone drops several artic degrees.
“No, no problem at all!” I chirp with my best customer service smile. “Gave me a chance to admire the lovely view up here. The feng shui is justchef’s kiss. Shall we begin then, Mr. Quinn? I know your time is precious.”
He tsks under his breath, the sound raising tingles across my skin. “So formal, Lexi. I thought we were on much more intimate terms now.” He steps closer. Too close. His expensive cologne and freshly showered scent envelop me, tightening things low in my belly against my will.
I step back sharply, death-gripping my bag. In my heels, I reached his nose, but today in my sensible pumps, I’m hobbit-sized next to his towering frame, barely grazing his chin.
“Youaskedme to call you Mr. Quinn,” I grit out.
He smirks. “You can call me Connor . . . if you behave. Come along then.” He turns abruptly, clearly expecting me to scurry after him like a smitten lackey.
I hurry to match his long strides, anxiety churning my gut. I feel exposed for a million reasons. Not just our horrific first encounter. And second. But also because I’m out of my depth here—I’ve never met with an exec at his level before, solo.
I follow him into his lavish office, taking in the imposing space. Sprawling views of the city skyline, of course.
The office reflects its owner—masculine, intimidating, arrogant. Every piece of furniture and decor screams expensive, carefully curated to intimidate. No crap flowers like at Sunnyhill. All the brooding art looks like it’s from a pretentious gentlemen’s club. I bet that other door leads to a sex dungeon.
The only hint of personality in here is a framed photo of a smiling redhead; probably Killian’s teenage daughter. It almost makes Connor seem human.
“Take a seat.” He gestures lazily to a chair facing his imposing desk. At least he didn’t snarlsitthis time. “And try not to steal anything.”
I cautiously sit down on the edge of the sleek leather chair, which immediately betrays me with a sound so embarrassingly close to a fart it resonates through the office.
I freeze, mortified, as his eyes dart to mine. So much for cool professionalism.
I shift and another squeal rips out, as if the damn chair is mocking me. Fuck’s sake.
“You, uh . . . might want to get someone to check this chair,” I manage to say, cheeks burning.
The corners of his lips twitch. The jerk looks amused by my mortification.
I clear my throat, trying to salvage some dignity, and pull out my laptop. “Okay, so, let’s get down to—”
Before another syllable leaves my lips, Connor storms over and fires a stack of documents onto my knees. I glance down confused, then the blood drains from my face.
It’s pictures—at least twenty crystal clear images of me at his bar. God, I feel sick. There’s me sitting at the bar. Staring into my drink. Looking pained. Running for the exit. I look ready to shit myself in one shot.
Jesus, what has he found?
“Pretty intriguing, huh?” he drawls, reclining lazily in his throne-like leather chair that doesn’t dare squeak under his arrogant ass.
I flick through the photos, heart pounding but trying to keep my cool on the surface. Nothing jumps out as a smoking gun. I force down the panic that’s threatening to choke me.
I have only one option here. Time to call his bluff.
I beam at him, all teeth. “You’re into making a photo album of me? That’s sweet. You want me to sign a few of those for you?”
His face lights up with anger, but I can tell he’s also a bit thrown off. Didn’t see that coming, did he?
“Smartass,” he growls, the word rumbling from deep in his chest that could either be taken as a backhanded compliment or an insult.
