And no, not like that.
“A woman bearing pastries come to grovel and whimper and tell me she made a mistake leaving me and my credit card late at night when all I wanted was the pleasure of hercompany,” he drawls, twirling his pen in his fingers like all the varsity athletes in high school used to do while they ignored the English teacher.
Fuck this asshole. I really have to dig deep to keep from dumping the whole box of pastries over his head.
He just grins at my annoyance.
We’re in his office in the Soundview Hotel. There’s a hundred million dollars’ worth of art in the office—Renoirs, Ming vases next to rare books on the mahogany shelves.
Masculine maximalism.
“Set them on the bar.”
“You just love telling people that, don’t you?”
“No, my favorite thing to say to people,” he says, standing up and buttoning his jacket, “is ‘Make you a drink?’”
“It’s the middle of the day.”
“Don’t you have a mug that says ‘It’s Booze O’clock Somewhere’?” He snickers.
Yes, I do have that mug, and no, I won’t admit it to him.
“No.”
“Hmm.” He laces his fingers in the black-and-white bow on the box, pulling at it.
“There are savory ones in there too. I know you liked the stuffed pretzels,” I tell him.
“Sweet, savory, or…”
“Or?” I blink up at him. He’s unreasonably close. I swallow and force myself to keep his gaze.
“Or?” Two fingers tip my chin up. “What if I say I want option number three?”
I can’t speak, can barely breathe. I don’t know if I want him to kiss me or want to want him to kiss me, want an attractive guy to actually want me, to like me, to love me.
He leans in.
Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me.
He doesn’t kiss me.
Because of course he doesn’t.
Of course it’s all in my head.
“Still rocking the pineapples.”
I clutch at my earrings that I was too lazy to change.
“I run a hotel, Creampuff,” he says as he selects a raspberry-and-chocolate tartelette. “I know what the swinging pineapple means.”
Of course.
He’s just messing with me.
Classic.
