I bent forward, looking her in the eye, my erection hidden behind the desk, not that she was looking. “Ladies should be treated nicely. Whether I know them or not. So yes.”
Her glare morphed into a tender look, and her delicate features relaxed. “That’s…um…chivalrous…and sweet.”
Did she just say something nice about me?Andmaintain eye contact? “She likes chivalry. I should’ve led with that.”
Her lashes fluttered. “I’m sorry?”
“I feel like we got off the wrong foot. How about we start over? I’m Fabio Zappa. Chivalrous at heart. Answer to Fab. Like to help andpleaseladies.” I winked, stretching a hand. “Nice to meet you,…?” I glanced at the nameplate on her desk. Gabrielle Brighton. “Gabriella,” I whispered seductively, rolling her name in Italian. Girls loved it when I spoke in my original accent.
A shade of pink rose to her cheeks, and her lips parted with a reluctant smile that turned into a chuckle. “No. Nope. It’s Gabrielle…Brighton. Pleasure to have made your acquaintance, Mr. Zappa.” A little tremor ran through her hand as she briefly shook mine. Then she broke our gaze by staring down at those goddamn papers again. “And thank you for your earlier concern, but I’m capable of handling thatnot so gentlemanon my own.”
“I’m sure you are,Gabriella.” If she wouldn’t call me Fab, why should I call her as she demanded? Besides, I wanted to see that blush again, and now it was a deep pink. Sexy librarian just got even sexier with those glasses and natural blush together. Fuck, I knew my fist would be busy before I slept today. “It’s just that in my line of work, I see all kinds of shit. I’ve learned well enough that not all girls or ladies can handle assholes.”
“What exactly is your line of work, Mr. Zappa?” She glanced at the laundry bag. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
I slid my hand in my pocket and handed her my card. “I don’t.” If anything, I wanted her to know so she might use my services—it was clear someone like her wasn’t interested in any form of dating. I wanted her to hire me so I’d get this stupid fantasy over with, so I wouldn’t get a hard-on every time I thought of…Gabriella, the editor with the perfect culo that dressed like a sexy librarian and blushed deep pink when I said her name.
She took the card from between my fingers and read what was written. “Poles. Revue and…escort services.” Her eyes lingered on my photo on the right side of the card in a ripped tux, doing a pole dance. “Oh. That’s…interesting.”
“My jobs sure are. So is yours. I love books.”
“Do you?” She tossed the card on the desk as if it were trash. “What kind of books do you read?”
I didn’t like her tone. “Poetry mostly. Foscolo, Salvi, Carducci, Cummings.”
“I see. Must be handy with your clientele.”
“You think the only reason I read poetry is to whisper it in clients’ ears? I couldn’t just read it for myself? As a hobby?”
“Of course you could. Please don’t take my comment the wrong way. I publish steamy romance. Most of the readers use our books to come in handy with their sexual partners or for the same kind of entertainment you offer. I have nothing against you or your profession-s.” She rose and walked to the door. “Again, thank you so much for bringing back the dress.”
Whatever. Fuck it. “Yeah, sure.” I dragged my ass and bag of thongs out of here. But at the door, I spun, holding her gaze. “You’re…” Condescending or nonchalant or what?
“I’m what?”
An enigma. I couldn’t figure her out, and I figured girls out in five minutes. Five seconds even. It bugged me, and not just because she’d been the only woman not affected by my charms in a long time. Ever. “A tough woman to please.”
“Excuse me?”
“If you were my client, it’d be a challenge to please you.”
Her face changed as if I’d offended her. “Good thing I’m not then. Goodbye, Mr. Zappa.”
CHAPTER 3
Gabrielle
A tough woman to please. A challenge. Translation? A frigid, uptight ass that couldn’t have an orgasm. Great. Exactly what I needed today. A cocky—gorgeous—fuckboy, whose profession was literally giving women the orgasms of their lives, labeling my vagina a lost cause.
If that was what a sex worker thought about me, what would normal men or a guy like Fletcher think? Had been thinking?
Not that I cared. Since Jack, since the accident that took away my family, my life revolved around work and nothing else. A workaholic? Sure. It was the only thing that kept me sane, and it was better than any other adjective that ended with holic.
“How and when did I change from the lifesaver that brought your dress back to the guy you’re kicking out now?” And he was still there.
I just rolled my eyes, and guess what? Sadie was still there, too, watching the show, missing nothing but popcorn.
“Why do you take everything I say the wrong way? I meant what I’ve said earlier as a good thing,” he said.
