“Yes, Chase doesn’t have time to do it.” She gives me an incredulous look.
“No, but you’re not his agent,” I counter, lacing my fingers behind my head.
She scoffs. “Please, Toddler Tom couldn’t tell a cucumber from a zucchini.”
“What?” I chuckle.
“He’s clueless.” She waves a hand at me.
“Okay, so Tom sucks. But who said you could plan the event for the Troubadours?” I can’t resist teasing her.
She stares at me blankly, like the wheels spinning in her head all came to an abrupt stop. “What do you mean? You did.”
“I said you could help with the image rehab,” I point out, quirking a brow and barely suppressing a smirk.
“This is part of the image rehab,” she argues.
Shrugging, I say, “Seems like event planning to me. I have a robust event team already. We do stuff like this all the time at the stadium, and if I really needed the help, I have someone from Stella who can come in to handle things.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“As you like to remind me often, you don’t work for me.”
She huffs and falls into the chair opposite my desk. “So damn dramatic.”
“Why do you want to plan this event anyway?”
Please say it’s so that you can stay here with me.
“Because it needs to go perfectly for it to work, and it’s tied to Chase’s reputation.” When I only stare, she adds, “And it sounds fun, okay?”
It’s now or never, Grant. Don’t fuck it up.
Deciding the best angle to approach the topic, I drop my feet to the floor and take her in. My eyes dip to the hint of cleavage peeking out of the vee of her shirt, unable to stop staring,when she crosses her arms and pushes her tits up further, her skin flushing at my perusal.
“How would you feel about a barter?” I ask.
“For me to help with an event? You want to barter for it now?”
I lace my fingers together on top of the desk and say, “Yes. This is a new scope of work from the previous engagement, so new terms.”
“As the engaged party, I think the terms are fine as is.”
“As the client, I beg to differ. New terms and you can plan the event to your heart’s content. I may even still pay you for it.”
“What do you want?” she asks, skeptically, tapping her fingers on her bicep.
“Move in with me.”
Her arms and jaw drop in unison. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Move in with me,” I repeat, my heart beating out of my chest.
“Are you having a stroke? You can’t be serious.”
“Healthy as a horse, Tay baby.” I wink to hide how damn nervous I am that she’ll reject me. “And I’m very serious. You can help plan this event, but you have to move in with me.”
She stares at me with narrowed eyes before slowly asking, “Why?”
