Then he said, “Okay.”
“Really?”
“What have I got to lose. You fuck up, you’re fired. You don’t fuck up and you actually help me…” He shrugged. “Then it’s worth the pain.”
Pain? “Uh, you’re telling me being nice to people is going to be painful?”
“Depends on the people. And how nice we’re talking. And how much I have to censor myself to get through this.”
Okay, that was fair. I’d hate to have to force myself to be nice to absolutely everyone in any given situation. But if he really wanted to improve his “asshole” reputation…
“It’ll be great. Not painful at all. You’re going to be sincere and have pleasant conversation, and resist every urge you have to act like a dick. And I’ll be there to help you along, keep things flowing. Easy peasy, right?”
“Right.” He said it grudgingly, but I couldn’t help it—it warmed me that he was going along with my ideas. That he was trusting me.
That he was giving me a chance to do what I was pretty sure I did best.
Raw kitten power.
I needed my own pastel superhero cape or something. If I couldn’t make people like Johnny O, it would be the death of me. I was going to live and die on this sword.
My first client, my first success story.
“Uh, Angeline?”
“Hmm?”
“Where’d you go there?”
“Oh. Um, I was picturing myself as a pastel superhero.”
His eyebrow crept up.
“Never mind. Thank you. You won’t regret this. It’ll be… fun…” I faded off, swallowing as he slowly stalked over to me.
Kind of like a panther in heat approaching his female victim… uh, mate.
He’d stopped in front of me, looking down into my eyes. The man was so delicious up close, it rendered me momentarily dumbstruck.
I’d only survived last night because it was darkish in the club. Right now, with the morning light pouring through the windows of his studio, he was vividly gorgeous. The bright blond of his hair, the deep blue-green of his eyes, his dark eyebrows and the stubble across his jaw… the tattoo creeping up his neck.
His soft shirt was unbuttoned so low, his tattooed chest so close to my mouth…
“What should I wear to this dinner?” he said, in a sinfully low voice… like he was asking me where I wanted to lick first. I actually had to struggle to compute what he’d really just said.
“Whatever you want to wear.” Then I remembered some of the things I’d seen him wear, like a very small towel draped over his dick, and squeezed out, “Something professional.”
When his heated gaze dropped to my chest for one mind-fucking heartbeat, I blurted, “And we are not getting involved.”
His eyes met mine.
“It’s just a dinner. It’s not a date. My body is not available. And neither is my… uh… my heart,” I whispered. I suddenly felt parched. I needed water or something.
Then he said the most unexpected thing.
“I wouldn’t know what to do with it if it was, Angeline.”
It was entirely fucked up that that statement actually turned me on.
