My email chimes and a meeting invitation pops up:Valentine’s Social Planning Session.
I flop back in my chair, flummoxed. I hadn’t actually expected Nick to step up and take a more active role when I suggested it. I’d just wanted to make a point.
And what point was that?
Hell if I can remember now.
I open the invite and sweet baby Jesus, it’s a recurring meeting. He wants to meet twice a week until the social—or until we kill each other, whichever comes first.
Probably the latter.
You’re the one who told him to get hands-on.
I hit the accept button, knowing I have no one to blame but myself.
Chapter Twelve
Nick
“Remind me again why we need a photo booth?” I ask as Scarlett flips through a variety of overly pink, overly frilly backdrops on her iPad. And why is she looking at her tablet when we’re standing in a fifteen thousand square foot warehouse surrounded by rental party supplies? She swipes the screen again and a kissing booth slides by, followed by a winged man in a tiny diaper—Cupid, I presume—and a red bunny with giant puckered lips, because that makes sense.
Scarlett sighs and adjusts her glasses. She does that when she’s nervous. Or annoyed. So pretty much all the time when we’re together. Which is sort of ironic, since today she’s rocking a pair of black heart-shaped frames.
How many pairs of glasses does she have, anyway?
“We’re never going to get through this list,” she says, shooting me an aggrieved look, “if you plan to challenge every idea I put forward.”
It’s a fair point, but how am I supposed to not challenge a red bunny? I shrug. “Humor me.”
“A photo booth will be fun.” She turns slowly toward me, a sly grin spreading across her face. “You are familiar with the concept of fun, right?”
It’s the second time she’s accused me of being no fun. I’m not about to let it slide.
“That depends on your definition of fun,” I drawl, returning her smile with a show of teeth.
She laughs, that deep, throaty laugh I’ve only ever heard when she’s talking to Miles, and damn if something in my chest doesn’t loosen at the sound. “Something tells me we have very different definitions of fun.”
Probably, but the more time we spend together, the harder it is to reconcile this snarky, strong-willed woman with the timid assistant who scurried into my boardroom just last week. How could I have ever thought her meek and plain?
So much for rock-solid instincts.
Then again, her snarky side only comes out to play with me.
“Come on.” She tugs my elbow, dragging me along as she scans the overflowing metal racks, her gaze lingering on what I think is a fountain with two swan heads forming the shape of a heart. There are linens and vases and boxes of superfluous junk as far as the eye can see. It’s just like one of those big box stores where you can buy a ten-gallon jar of mayo, a new pair of running shoes, and a TV all in one place. “Don’t be such a wet blanket. We can create our own hashtag and everything. People will upload their pics on social media andboom!Free publicity. The good kind, which, presumably, you still want?” she asks, batting her lashes in a way that is anything but innocent.
Christ. It’s no wonder Scarlett and Miles get along so well. They’re two of a kind, aside from the fact that, before meeting Lucy, he followed his dick every which way it moved, a trait I can’t imagine Scarlett shares. She probably doesn’t even have time for a relationship.
And what was it Miles told the women he’d bedded?
Fuck. Why am I even thinking about this?
“All right, fine,” I grumble, forcing all thoughts of Scarlett and bedding from my mind. “We can do the photo booth. Just make sure the backdrop is PG. Nothing racy.”
Her brows shoot up and she makes awho, me?gesture.
At this point, I wouldn’t put anything past her. “I’m learning not to make assumptions.”
The little smartass gives a slow clap and says, “Hearts and balloons it is. It doesn’t get more PG than that.”
