‘Let’s start with a drink,’ I say cautiously, and I swear I hear the guy behind the bar guffaw. ‘You’ve got an event tomorrow.’
‘And a man’s gotta eat.’ He pats his flat stomach. Even without looking down, I know what it would look like, what it wouldfeellike. Lean and hard as a wall, muscled and strong. I can imagine the rough rawness of his cotton shirt, the warmth of his skin. My throat is dry, my palms clammy.
‘A man can eat anytime, I’m not standing in his way.’ I reach for one of the beers, lift it toward him in a half salute before bringing it to my lips to take a sip. I need it. The drink slips down, ice cold and refreshing, but it does nothing to quell the heat building between my legs. I make the mistake of glancing across at him to see his eyes resting on my mouth, tracing the moistness there courtesy of the beer.
‘Let’s sit down.’ I turn away abruptly, scanning the room for the least intimate chairs I can find, then close my eyes against the futility of that. Intimacy is exactly what I need if I want this guy to open up to me. And I do. This feature has the potential to blowmy career wide open. I know my editor can’t keep passing me up for the Washington desk forever; I just have to knock his socks far enough off to let him forget that I’m Pulitzer Prize winner Randolf James’s daughter.
‘Over there?’ I gesture to two big armchairs in the window alcove. Because they’re nestled into the buildout, there’s no way anyone can get close enough to hear our conversation, but they’re visible to the whole bar, meaning we’re not likely to do something stupid.
Like what?A shocked voice bursts through me. What the hell am I afraid of? That if we’re alone, we won’t be able to keep our hands off each other?
I fidget with my fingers uneasily as I make my way through the tables and chairs to the seats in question.
I can’t help but watch as he eases his bulky frame into the seat to the left of the table. His jeans are faded and worn, but man, they hug his body in all the right places. His butt, his thighs, and most concerningly, that bulge in the front of his pants that suddenly I find it almost impossible not to look at. I force myself to sit down and grip my beer as though it’s a lifeline.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ he says, relaxing back in the chair, legs spread wide, elbows pressing to the armrests, a study in relaxation.
‘Is that new for you?’
For a second, something flashes in his eyes, but it’s gone again almost instantly, leaving the appearance of amusement on his face instead. ‘Is that how it’s gonna be, Bailey?’
It’s the first time he’s used just my first name, and I know I should be glad. Only it feels like a reaction to my words, like he’s being more formal, not less, and I don’t want that. I’m tempted to apologise, but a sense of self-preservation holds me back. Maybe it’s better if we keep a wary, almost combative, distance?
Better than thinking about his flat stomach, bulging pants, ass-hugging jeans, and the possibility of falling into bed together.Oh. My. God.For the first time in my career, I’m seriously tempted to cry off an assignment. To tell my editor to send someone else for this. But just the thought of my editor’s face, the smug look of victory, makes me hold my ground.
‘Let’s get started,’ I demur, pulling my notebook from my bag and opening it to the page I’d been writing on in the car. I tap my pen to the edge, glancing across at him.
For once, his expression isn’t that lighthearted grin. He looks contemplative and deep, as though he’s working out some huge problem.
‘Don’t be worried,’ I say, after a pause. Isn’t that my job? To reassure him? I am the professional here, after all.
He leans forward, and he’s so big that it only takes a slight movement for me to feel as though he’s almost engulfing me, even when we’re still several feet apart. He reaches for his beer and holds it between his hands, eyes locked to my face. ‘Don’t you want to know what I’ve been thinking?’
I’m terrified to ask, just in case his thoughts are going in the same direction as mine. It’s one thing to find myself unexpectedly and completely hot for someone I’m meant to be writing a piece on, but it’s one hundred per cent another if hereturns those feelings. My own I can ignore. His? That would make it a heck of a lot harder.
‘Is it relevant?’
He laughs, but it’s not carefree. There’s a note to it that speaks of disbelief. ‘Yeah, Bailey, I’d say so, or I wouldn’t have brought it up.’
I feel like something’s happened between us. My experience suddenly seems to count for nothing. I’m like an awkward child, fumbling in the dark. Once upon a time, I had a place at the most prestigious ballet school in the States, with an offer to attend a summer program in Paris. I was confident and outgoing, with the world at my feet. That girl feels like a million miles away right now.
‘Okay, fine. What is it?’
He lifts his beer and takes a sip, gaze latched to mine. I try not to look, but I can’t help it. There’s something magnetic about his movements and motion, so I stare at the capable fingers that grip the bottle, at the way his lips shape as he takes a drink, at the shift of his Adam’s apple as he swallows, the hair-roughened movement of his throat somehow so animalistic and masculine that muscles deep inside of me clench with a long-forgotten need.
‘I don’t much care for one-way streets. Never have done.’
It’s a statement that doesn’t seem to make any sense. ‘What does that mean?’
‘I’m not interested in sittin’ here letting you pull threads out of me all night.’
‘It’s just a drink,’ I say, focusing on the last part of his statement.
‘You know what I mean. I’m not gonna sit here like some lab experiment you’re running.’
I expel a long, slow breath. ‘That’s sort of how this works.’
‘Yeah, well, it doesn’t have to, right?’
