She’s captured the way I feel about her in this sketch, the look in my eyes like I could eat something alive. And that something is her.
Not only does it capture the way I feel about her, but the pencil strokes feel like a confession, too. I don’t think Lucy spends time drawing men she’s got no interest in.
Which just makes it worse for me. It would be better if she hated me, if she’d already quit and levied lawsuits against us. I’d rather give her millions than have to endure the torture of knowing she wants me and trying to resist taking advantage of that.
Now, I turn to Lucy, who’s standing next to me in the wings of the big stage, her clipboard clutched in her hands. “Where the hell is Akela?”
“I—I’m not sure,” Lucy says, looking paler than usual. Beyond the heavy ruby curtain, I can hear the thousands of attendees shifting, murmuring, crinkling their programs with impatience. We have five minutes until I’m supposed to go on, and Akela is nowhere to be found. The other marketing demonstrator, Lily, was so sick from the sushi the first day that she still hasn’t been able to leave her room.
They’re both technically part of the marketing department, but the company trots them out when it’s time to show off a product in a pretty hand. We’ve sent them to various pleasure stores and conventions like this one. They also usually get a spot at the adults-only sections of certain festivals.
It was Nico’s idea to create a presence like that in marketing, a younger voice to show off the products. Of course, like most of his ideas, it was a good one.
“I’ll try and find her,” Lucy says, turning on her heel and walking away, but this is the third time she’s tried to go and find her.
Our original script for the demo had two, then we adjusted it down to one. At this point, I’m going to be going up on the stage without any support whatsoever. It’s the exact reason I didn’twant to come to the convention, why I didn’t want to do my father’s friend a favor and make an appearance.
Sure, there’s a little reward in exposure, but too much risk. It’s much harder to control the narrative when the presentations are live, and things like this can—and do—go wrong.
“Okay. Ready.” It’s a shaky voice behind me and I turn, expecting to see Akela with her.
Instead, I find Lucy standing in front of me, wearing a skin-tight, glittering dress and heels that look way outside her pay grade. I blink, my mind attempting to understand what I’m looking at—the girl who walked into my office wearing mass-marketed, poorly manufactured, and already-fraying crap, now looking almost natural in this.
She could be a bottle girl at a club, her blond hair swept up into a high ponytail, her hands still clutching at her clipboard.
“Lucy.” It’s the only thing I manage to get out. Every ounce of my energy is spent on keeping my eyes on her face, keeping myself from taking in her breasts, her legs, the way the hem of the dress clings to her thighs.
Fuck, I could so easily slide a hand there. I could so easily get to hear those little gasps again, feel her pulse under my thumb. Right where I want her.
“I’ve got it,” she says, giving her ponytail a confident swing. “I know the entire presentation, Dane, front and back. I can do this.”
I should argue, tell her that it’s not her job. Maybe even softly inform her that there’s nowayshe’s going to be able to walk in those shoes. But the event coordinator is flashinglet’s gohand signals in our direction, expression tight and anxious as the woman on stage finishes introducing us.
“…Dane Rourke, with Ember!”
So, giving Lucy one last look-over, I turn and step out onto the stage, hearing theclick, clickof her heels following right behind me.
“That wasfantastic!” the coordinator blurts, and I think she’s addressing me, until she flies past and lands in front of Lucy, who’s coming off the stage right behind me.
On stage, Lucy somehow seemed to… transform. Up there, she was sexy and effortless, making the crowd laugh, playing off my speech with ease, and even ad-libbing a few.
My phone is pinging in my pocket. No doubt messages from Nico, who probably watched the entire thing on the feed, and is likely sending me more shit like what he said the night he met Lucy at the office. Cole is still in Brazil and probably wouldn’t have watched the presentation even if he were right here, attending the conference.
“Thank you,” Lucy says, a little breathless, moving a single tendril of hair that’s escaped from her ponytail away from her face.
“How did it go?” Akela appears, croaking through a dry throat, wearing Lucy’s skirt and blazer, which look a little big on her. She’s shaking, her face pale and sweating. I take a step back—I take plenty of supplements to keep from getting sick, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to take the chance at catching whatever they have.
Which is clearly not food poisoning, if Akela managed to catch it from her roommate.
“It wentperfectly,” the coordinator says, still gushing. “Tickets for next year’s conference are already nearly sold out.We really can’t thank you enough, Mr. Rourke, for agreeing to come?—”
Then I’m pulled into a conversation with her, and it’s another ten minutes before I’m able to disengage. By the time I do, Lucy is back in her own clothes, standing to the side, clearly waiting for me to say something to her.
I should tell her she did a good job. I should thank her for her quick thinking and the way she was able to save the presentation.
What I want, though, is to press her against the wall, lean my head down, and tug the hair tie right out of her hair, letting her waves fall down around her shoulders again.
Instead, I just turn to her, giving her a perfunctory nod, once again not allowing myself to really look at her. I can’t let my gaze linger, because I’ll just be torturing myself with what I can’t have. Or, worse, talking myself into taking it.
