I glance down at my glass, then back up at him. “Maybe I just have very discerning taste in sparkling wine.”
“Or you don’t know how to brace yourself when served something chosen for cost more than flavor.”
“Or the sip reminded me of all my bad life choices.”
“That was my second guess.” His eyes are warm, and I feel the heat of his gaze sizzle across my skin, making the space between my legs damp. It’s been a long time since I felt this attracted to a man. And never this quickly. I don’t even know his name.
“I’m Julian Cross,” he says, as if reading my mind, extending a hand. “British delegation.”
I take it. His grip is firm, confident, lingering just long enough to feel intentional. My pulse stutters like it’s forgotten how to do its job properly.
“Iris Brooks,” I say. “If we’re going to use both first and last names. Most people call me only by my first name.”
“Do they?” he asks lightly.
“Only if they want me to answer since using both names usually means I’m in trouble.”
That gets a quiet laugh out of him. It’s low and intimate, like it’s just for me. And it does even more dangerous things to my body. I squeeze my legs together, but it only heightens the ache this man has created at my core. “Good to know,” he says. “I’d hate make you think you’re in trouble.”
My eyebrows lift, and I echo his words. “Good to know.” But then I have to look away, because I am definitely in trouble. And this guy has trouble written all over him.
He smiles and leans in. “Unless you like trouble.” The way he looks at me, like he’s amused and curious and very aware of howclose we’re standing, in combination with his deep British voice, makes my skin feel suddenly too tight. “Do you?”
“Isn’t it a bit early in our acquaintance to get that personal?” I try for a casual tone, but I’m blushing beet read.
“You’re right. How rude of me.” He sips his champagne and studies me over the rim. “My apologies if I made you uncomfortable.” His face doesn’t look sorry at all. It looks cocky. Like he knows that his words and gaze make my entire body tingle.
“You didn’t,” I say. Unless he means uncomfortably hot and turned on, but I will not say that out loud. It’s definitely too early in our acquaintance for that. Instead, I gesture vaguely around us. “Are you enjoying the glittering spread before us tonight?”
“Immensely,” he replies dryly. “Nothing thrills me like forced small talk and strategic smiling.”
I snort before I can stop myself. “You’re terrible at pretending.”
“I don’t pretend,” he says. “I deflect.” His eyes widen briefly before he looks down at his own drink. Like he surprised himself by confessing something. I file that away. “And what about you?” he asks. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“I’m working,” I say. “Journalist. Just graduated.” I mentally kick myself for letting that last part spill out.Way to make him see you as a naïve newbie instead of the sophisticated temptress you want to project, Iris.
“Congratulations.” His incredible eyes sparkle with amusement.
“Thank you.” I lift my glass to my lips, but then remember what it tastes like and lower my hand, trying to hide the small shudder the memory caused.
He smiles then, a big proper grin, and it hits me hard. “First big assignment?”
“Is it written all over my face?”
“Not written,” he says. “But implied.” His gaze scans the ballroom, briefly stopping at uneven intervals, as if he’s cataloging what he sees.
“Fantastic. I radiaterookie energy.” My tone is flirty, but inside a cringe.
“You radiate ambition,” Julian corrects, his eyes back on me, and I try to ignore how good that feels. “There’s a difference.”
I tilt my head. “You’re very good at this.”
“At what?” He quirks an eyebrow.
“Putting people at ease.”
“I don’t usually,” he says. “But you seem… receptive.”
