He didn’t look up, just continued to scroll on his phone. “No.”
While they were on the subject of crap he was doing wrong, she might as well go whole hog. “And what was that crack about me being an easy lay at the meeting? I am not. I hate slut-shaming.”
He cracked a half-smile. “It was just an attempt to allow you to leave the meeting and get away to somewhere safe.”
“Women can’t win. If we want it, we’re an easy lay. And if we don’t, we’re a stuck-up prude. That was uncalled for.”
He swiped his phone with his thumb and then slid it into his pants pocket. “I agree.”
“Even if you were just trying to get me out of there, I didn’t like it.”
“I apologize.”
“And just to be clear, that was the only time you get to call me an easy lay. I’m not an easy lay unless I want to be.”
“Message received.”
In that instant, when irritation itched over Colleen’s shoulders and she was simultaneously trying to figure out what was wrong with her dress or hair, she noticed that Tristan was wearing a three-piece suit, the vest snug over his trim waist and broad chest underneath his suit jacket.
The back of the vest and the lining of his suit jacket were probably a contrasting color, maybe scarlet, but she bet they would all match.
When he turned, a peacock blue pocket square was folded into a slim line in his breast pocket.
Maybe the lining and back of his vest matched the blue.
Just remembering Twist’s vest he’d worn at the Devilhouse, she kind of wanted to see Tristan’s.
Not that she was comparing the two of them. Not that there was any reason she should compare Tristan King with TwistyTrader.
Not everything in life should even be a dang competition.
Tristan was there, and he was hot and available, and he’d asked her to travel with him, even though it had started as him accidentally getting her fired. But then it had turned into something else, right?
And it wasn’t just convenience on his part, right? she begged herself in her head.
But if there wasn’t something so freakishly hot about Twist, then she should’ve just sent him a message like We shouldn’t message each other anymore or something.
But she hadn’t.
And she was kind of freaked out about how she was drawing it out with Twist, like she didn’t want to let him go.
Especially when Tristan King was right there, and yet he was acting weird.
Did he not appreciate the time and effort that had been put into this dress? That was practically an insult to the hard work of the tailor and hairdresser/makeup artist. “We’re alone now, and you haven’t said anything.”
Tristan grabbed his wallet from the table and held out his coat to insert it into the inside pocket next to his chest.
The lining inside was the same peacock blue as his pocket square.
All three-piece suits must be like that. But of course, most guys would strategically match their pocket square and socks to the linings of their suits.
Tristan didn’t look up at her as he said, “I was just reminding myself that you are my employee now, and it’s official since you signed that contract an hour ago. As much as you look stunning in that dress,” his voice lowered, “and I do mean absolutely ravishing—”
Okay, that was better.
He looked right at her, “—we are not on a date tonight. We are meeting with members of the Russian mafia who might induct us, kill us, or possibly write us off as useless and forget about us, if I play my cards right.”
Us. He kept saying us.
