“I knew it,” I say with a smirk, feeling a zing as his eyes drop to my mouth.
“There’s still a problem though,” he says in that deep, even voice. “I usually buy a woman a drink between the eye contact and the kissing.”
Without missing a beat, I drain the rest of my wine and hold the empty glass out to him. He chuckles and plucks it from my fingers, then steers us toward the bar, quickly securing a pair of stools and fresh drinks, in that order.
“Wyatt,” he says once we’re settled.
“CJ.” When I offer my hand, he takes it. But instead of shaking, he rubs his thumb over my knuckles.
“CJ,” he repeats, and something low in my belly heats at the way he lingers over those two little syllables. “What do you do for?—”
“Nuh-uh.” I pull back and reclaim my hand, sipping my wine as I eye his ruthlessly tailored navy suit, pristine white shirt, and sedate striped tie. This man is corporate perfection, but I get plenty of that at my actual job. “No shop talk. Can’t we strip it all away and see what’s underneath?”
At the word “strip,” Wyatt’s eyes hit my mouth again, and this time they trail down to the silky tank underneath my blazer. And I’ll admit it, I lean forward the tiniest bit, well aware that my already low neckline shifts even lower when I do. One of the best things about being on the fat side of curvy is the cleavage. My boobs are spectacular, and I kind of want Wyatt to notice.
Judging by the way his eyes heat, he notices. So I lean forward even more and rest a hand on his knee.
“Ask me anything else, Wyatt. Please. The weird food combos I love or the last time I cried or my perfect day or the thing I would uninvent if I could.” His eyes track me as I sit back and study him over the rim of my glass. “Ask me something interesting. I’m begging you.”
“Begging, huh?” He tilts his head and rewards me with another slow smile. “Okay then.”
So he asks me a question. Then I ask him a question. We ask each other questions for hours.
They’re the best hours of my life.
“Seepage,” Wyatt says three drinks and a second location later.
I snort. “That’s the worst word in the English language?”
An hour ago, we traded the upscale chamber of commerce gathering at a downtown gastropub for a nearby dive bar. The Midnight Moose is covered in limp tinsel and strands of Christmas lights that have almost all of their bulbs. Not that the ambience matters. This place could have eight tiny reindeer behind the bar mixing drinks with their dainty little hooves, and Wyatt and I wouldn’t notice. We’re wrapped in a warm little cocoon with room for only the two of us, and I want to stay here forever laughing with him, teasing him, learning what delights him. And, of course, what horrifies him.
“Yes. Seepage.” Wyatt shudders. “Way worse than ‘ointment.’”
Now I’m the one shuddering. “You said you wouldn’t use it against me!”
I swat his arm, and he grabs my hand and brings it to his mouth. “Sorry.” His lips brush the backs of my fingers. “Favorite letter of the alphabet?”
“W,” I say shakily when I feel a quick stroke of his tongue against my knuckles, there and gone. “You?”
“C.” His breath is hot on my skin. “And J. Tell me about your situation.”
“My situation?” We’re sitting in a booth in the darkest corner of the bar, pressed together thigh to thigh. His free hand curls around my knee, making me grateful I wore a skirt tonight despite the Illinois winter cold.
“Husband? Boyfriend? Girlfriend? Wife?”
I blink up at him, still a little stunned at how fast everything’s moving. I’ve never clicked with someone as hard or as fast as I have with Wyatt. I went to the mixer on a whim while I’m in `Beaucoeur on a temporary work assignment. I thought I’d stay for an hour, do a little networking, then bail. Instead, I found my dream man under the mistletoe, and just a few hours later, it feels absolutely right that I’m practically sitting in his sweet, broody lap while his thumb moves in a slow circle over my skin.
“CJ?” He shakes me the tiniest bit, and oh yeah, he asked me a question.
“If I had a partner, would I be here with you and your incredible jawline?” I reply.
He tilts said jawline down, and I take that as an invitation to trail my fingers over it. He’s got perfect end-of-the-day stubble, and I want him to rub it all over me, my pink parts in particular.
Oh, but his somber expression’s back, and his forehead creases in thought as he studies me. After a beat, he says, “No. You wouldn’t. You’re the only woman I know who’d kiss a stranger at a business function. You’re impulsive and you take risks, but you also take serious things seriously.”
Blood rushes to my cheeks. “Yeah,” I say. “I do.” Even the people closest to me don’t always understand how to look past my fast, bright exterior to see the dedication and hard work that drive me. But somehow Wyatt slipped in and saw it all, down to the core of me.
When I don’t follow up with a question of my own, Wyatt looks at me with raised brows.
