by Leslie North
“I’d expect no less.” He gestured around them. “Welcome to my office.”
“It’s gorgeous in here,” she gushed, twisting a little to look around. He’d gone a little over-the-top when he designed the layout for Finlay Tech headquarters, but after so many years of struggling—an entire lifetime of struggling, in reality—he felt he’d earned the right to splurge a little. “Is that a real waterfall?”
“My accent wall,” he said, smirking. The western wall of the office featured inlaid rocks, over which real water cascaded overtop. Slats filled the other half of the western wall, in which planters and air plants were hung, creating a lovely green space in his work haven.
“You could have been an interior designer in another life,” Mila commented, crossing her legs. “If you weren’t designing apps.”
“I can’t take the credit for all this. I just told a very talented woman what I wanted done, and she made it happen. I provided minimal input, I promise.”
Something strange slid over Mila’s face, and for a moment Grayson wondered if it was because he’d mentioned another woman. But no—that couldn’t be it. It was Mila herself who had wanted to sidestep the distractions and complications of sex.
“You certainly are a man of good tastes,” she said, sending him a breezy smile. His mind went immediately where it shouldn’t—to their incredible night together, and what good taste he had enjoyed in her.
“I agree. Though you’ve just complimented yourself, as well.”
It took her a moment, and then the meaning crashed over her. She shook with restrained laughter.
“Grayson,” she warned.
“Sorry, I couldn’t not.” He shuffled through some papers, looking for the outline of challenge events that he planned to propose to her. “What’s a hookup if you can’t joke about it afterward?”
She snorted. “I guess they’d just call that a mistake.”
“Exactly.” Now he couldn’t hide the grin on his face. It was too easy with her—to joke, to chat, to just fall into that familiar feeling that continually mystified him. They were still relative strangers. So why did he feel so comfortable with her? “Now are you ready to stop reminiscing about our amazing sex? We’re never going to do it again. You said so yourself.”
“I would say that you brought it up, but I’m honestly not sure who did.”
“Before we begin, do you need anything? Coffee? Water? A massage?”
Her brow arched. “Is a massage really an option?”
“It can be. I’m a man of means.”
She snorted. “I’m fine. I came fully caffeinated, as any prepared businesswoman would.”
“Good. That was a test.” He rifled through his papers. “And you passed.”
“I didn’t realize you’d be administering the test after I was accepted for the job,” she cracked.
“I do things differently at Finlay Tech.”
“Which is why you’ve hired an ex-lover.”
This time, the laugh burst out of him. He slid the outline across the desk to her, catching her sparkling gaze as he did so. Yes, working with her would be fun. Even if maintaining control during meetings meant that he’d have to jack off each night in the shower to memories of pumping his fingers inside her velvet pussy while she unraveled around his fingers.
“Take a look at the proposed schedule,” he said, leaning back in his chair. He’d drawn up a concise summary of each of the three challenges and their themes. Each outfit challenge would be centered around a certain type of event—a charity ball, a horse race, and an opera premiere, specifically.
“Wow. Opulent.” She thumbed through the two sheets, then glanced up at him. “So before the event, I choose an outfit for you and so does the app—and then you post the pics of both online and people vote on them? Whichever wins is what you wear to the event?”
“You got it. It’s a piece of cake on your end—and a great promotional opportunity, too. Whether your outfit for me wins or not, you’ll still be wearing something you picked out, so you’ll always get a chance to advertise your style. We’ll take some promo pictures at each event so that the participants can see how perfect the outfit looks at the venue. All you have to do is show up in a great outfit, drink the free wine, pose for some pictures, and enjoy.”
“Best gig of my life.”
“I thought you might say that.” He tapped a pen against the edge of his desk, forcing himself to look anywhere other than her face…or her ruffled blouse…or any of the other fascinating details about her he was hungry to gobble up. But no. Indulging in those inclinations would only make him want her, and he had a hard enough time avoiding that without stoking the fire willingly. “So the next step is choosing the outfits.”
“How about this—you send me pictures of the exact venues we’ll be attending, with some promo photos of the type of event we’ll be attending there. Because I need to know exactly what to plan for. Horse race wear can vary between locations, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
“Fair enough. It’ll be great.”
That bright, sparkling smile returned to her face, which caused another tendril of need to unfurl inside him. Being around her only provoked his desire to snag a kiss or take the flirting even further.
Which meant that the two weeks apart hadn’t done a damn thing for subduing his feelings.
He wasn’t just into her. He was infatuated.
Which meant the next few weeks were going to get sticky.
7
Come on, Mila. This is the big night.
She frowned at her reflection in the bathroom of the enormous event venue where the charity ball was being held. She and Grayson had been here for only five minutes, and already she had needed to excuse herself to head to the bathroom. For the past three days, she’d been feeling pukey. Dammit, this was not the time for a random bout of food poisoning or the flu.
You need to rally. Come on. Power through it and just enjoy it as much as you can.
She nodded at her reflection, doing her best not to think about the nausea. But oh, how the nausea had been plaguing her all day. She’d puked twice and had no appetite whatsoever. In fact, she’d barely eaten a damn thing, and the mere thought of eating anything made her want to rush right into the bathroom stall and puke up last week’s dinner.
She ran cold water over her wrists, giving herself one last internal pep talk before she headed back out into the opulent foyer. This was the much-anticipated charity ball, one that had been sold out for months in advance. Gorgeous, immaculately dressed patrons mingled all around her, with local and worldwide celebrities nearly everywhere she looked.
From across the way, she caught Grayson’s eye, and he waved to catch her attention. Not like he needed to. Even in the middle of a sea of look-alikes, she’d always be able to pinpoint which man exactly was her tall, broad-shouldered, dark and handsome date—wearing the contest-winning outfit she’d personally selected for him and, frankly, wearing the hell out of it. Damn, her man looked hot.
Except, no. Not hers. Definitely not hers. Would never be hers, if she had her way. There was too much to focus on, and more sex only threatened to ruin what little stability she had in life as a new entrepreneur.
Besides, Grayson had “warning, danger” written all over him. The man had a waterfall in his office, for god’s sake. He could find women with diamond-encrusted nipples if he wanted. So why would he ever settle for little old Mila when there where hundreds of women with gemstones in their eyes willing to give him whatever he wanted?
Not only that, she could already imagine how the conversation with her family would go. She wouldn’t make it past “billionaire tech magnate” before they would be leaping down her throat with warnings and admonishments. Ever since her uncle lost that money in a tech friend’s startup—a company that burned through all the investors’ savings before collapsing, but not without giving the so-called friend a golden parachute—her parents talked about tech guys the same way some parents talked a
bout drug dealers or money launderers. Any billionaire showing interest in her would be viewed with suspicion. Her hyper-cautious family would certainly believe that someone of such means was using her for something nefarious. But if that billionaire was a tech guy, her parents would probably call in a priest for an exorcism.
It was just better to avoid that pool altogether…even though part of her was desperate to get wet.
Because damn, the man made it hard to look away when he looked at her like he did tonight. Yet another two weeks had passed since last glimpsing him and things hadn’t gotten any easier, or any less familiar. How was it possible that so much time away from someone could actually make her feel closer?
His dimple flashed, serving as a fishhook even across the foyer. She floated toward him, forgetting momentarily about the awful nausea. She’d managed to squeeze in a doctor’s appointment early that morning, so at least she’d be receiving an answer soon about what was plaguing her. If nothing else, she could be grateful for the chance to spend a night in good company before looking forward to the promise of medicine soon.
“Mila. God. You look amazing. Have I told you that already?”
She laughed weakly. “Yes, Grayson, you have. You don’t look half bad yourself.”
“I hope so, since you dressed me,” he murmured into her ear. His hot breath hit her earlobe, sending a shock wave of desire through her. She fought a grin, pushing at his arm.
“Don’t spill the beans—no one’s supposed to know which outfit was my choice until the contest is over.” She sniffed, waving as the photographer and videographer headed their way, equipment slung over their shoulders. They’d be taking a few promo pics from among the clamor of the foyer, as well as a candid interview. All of the footage would be edited that night, so the results of the first round of the challenge could go live tomorrow, bright and early.
“You may have gotten the votes for tonight’s choice, but I don’t think you’re going to win the challenge in the end,” Grayson said suddenly, eyeing her with mischief glinting in his gaze.
“You think your algorithm has a better eye than I do?”
He shrugged, which allowed that delectable cedar cologne to smack her across the face again. God, she’d melt into his arms if she could. If she would allow herself.
“I think you have the better eye, because you’re a human,” Grayson said casually as the photographer and videographer weaved closer through the crowd. “But I have the better tech.”
Grayson didn’t give her time to respond, instead launching into well-practiced introductions as the photographer and videographer dropped their things and got to work. Mila allowed herself to get swept up in the magic of the outing as the photographer guided them into specific positions and evoked certain moods. When it came time for solo photos, Mila pulled faces at him from over the photographer’s shoulder, causing him to burst into laughter.
Pulling faces at him was a welcome alternative from what she’d rather be doing, which was salivating over how fucking good he looked in that navy-blue suit with the skinny gray tie.
“You know what would really go viral would be if we had a ‘who wore it better’ challenge each time, too,” Grayson cracked as the videographer set up for their quick interview off to the side of the main ballroom. They’d use the bustling party as the backdrop, and then he’d be off to film filler footage from aspects of the ball: the appetizer trays, stranger’s laughing, even a famous cameo or two.
The way Grayson described the approach seemed like a sure bet to spark viral interest in his app, getting people to associate glamor and elegance with the program—and driving up excitement for the rest of the challenge. She just prayed with all her might that the interest might translate to her boutique, as well.
“If we do a ‘who wore it better’ challenge, that means you’re going to have to be putting on this dress tonight,” she reminded him, rocking back and forth on her heels as she looked up at him. Grayson still towered over her, despite the fact that she had a three-inch advantage tonight.
“I’m down for that, as long as you’re okay with the dress not surviving.”
She frowned, looking down at the glittering mauve wrap-around, which highlighted her breasts perfectly. “No. This dress is too pretty.”
Grayson didn’t say anything, but his silence felt intentional. When his gaze swept up and down her body, practically leaving char marks in its wake, she knew he was biting his tongue.
“What?” she finally asked.
“Nothing.” He looked away suddenly, clasping his hands behind his back as he gazed at something across the room.
“Grayson.” She crossed her arms, cocking a hip. “Come on. You clearly were biting your tongue. Now what was it?”
“I was biting my tongue for a reason,” he said, still not looking at her. “I was doing that because you told me you’d rather not go there. So I won’t.”
The truth sizzled through her, and she was suddenly so desperate to know what he thought of her outfit that she might claw the information out of him.
But the videographer called them over then, urging them to stand for a quick test while he checked the light balance. Grayson shoved his hands in his pockets at her side, whistling under his breath. She sighed, reminding herself not to care about what he thought.
“This is really eating you alive inside, isn’t it?” Grayson asked a moment later.
Of course it was. And she hated that he was right. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh. Right. You’re playing coy now.”
She snorted, swatting his arm. God, they really were a seasoned couple already. “Fine. I want to know what you were going to say. Badly.”
The grin on his face turned devilish. “I’m not telling.”
“Grayson.”
He shook his head, looking extra pleased with himself. Then he leaned down to whisper in her ear, “Maybe later. Once we get a few drinks in us.”
His words hung heavy in the air between them, and she couldn’t decide if they were a promise or a threat. The videographer cued them up, and the three of them went over the gist of what they’d be discussing. The spot took less than fifteen minutes to film, and it was full of genuine laughter and even more of their easy banter set to the background of conversation and a vibrant jazz quartet.
The videographer excused himself to get more footage of the overall event, which the photographer had already left to do as well. Grayson and Mila were alone, grinning at each other.
“Time for champagne and a lap?” he asked.
“Love to.”
Grayson squeezed her arm before heading to the bar to grab them drinks, and she watched him head into the crowd, feeling a dumb smile overtake her face. If she let her mind drift, she could imagine she was on a date. Like a real life, honest-to-god, luxurious date with this gorgeous god of a man who always had a mischievous smile waiting for her.
And she should enjoy it, as much as she could. Because finally, her days-long nausea was a thing of the past. She was ready for the evening, even if she was secretly battling a stomach bug or a weird 72-hour virus.
She checked her phone idly, noticing a missed call and voice message from her doctor’s office. Thank God—he probably was calling with more information. She’d left explicit instructions to call and leave a voicemail, no matter what time of day. Just so she could know.
Mila dialed the voicemail box just as Grayson began weaving his way back through the crowd with two champagne flutes in his hands. The friendly, drawn-out bass of her elderly doctor appeared on the voicemail next—“Hi Mila, it’s meee, Dr. Templetonnn”—and she received the champagne flute gratefully, clinking her glass to Grayson’s.
“Cheers,” she said. “I just missed a call from my doctor so…” she trailed off as Dr. Templeton’s message swung around toward Why I’m calling territory. She brought the flute up to her lips and took a generous sip, just as Dr. Templeton’s recording said, “…didn’t mention that you were preg
nant.”
The mouthful of champagne she had burst out of her mouth in a graceless spray. She gasped, covering her mouth, but the movement made the phone drop from between her ear and shoulder and clatter to the floor.
“Holy shit,” Grayson said, scooping up her phone and handing it back to her. At least she hadn’t spit all over either of their nice clothes. Her heart pounded in her chest as she fumbled to hold both the champagne and the phone. “Is everything okay?” he asked.
“Uh…yeah.” The word pregnant echoed through her head. There had to be a mistake. She’d listen to it again. After all, there was no way in hell she was pregnant. “I just…choked. Sorry. I didn’t mean…” She handed off her champagne flute. “Can you hold this a second?”
Grayson received her champagne flute, watching her with knit brows as she replayed the message and listened very, very carefully. And this time, the entire message was clear: Your test came back negative, and given the persistent nausea, I do think it’s more related to the pregnancy. Your urine was tested in office, and I’m not sure if the nurse informed you or not. But you are pregnant.
Her throat closed off for a moment and all she could do was stare ahead. How was this even possible? She used condoms religiously.
Except…
“You look spooked,” Grayson said, bending slightly to search out her gaze. “You still with me?”
“Uh…” She slipped her phone into her gold clutch, swallowing the knot in her throat. “Yeah. It’s just…I…sorry.” She had no excuse. She could barely even process this. Much less with the swirling revelry around her, laughter and wine corks popping as well.
“Want to walk around and check things out?”
She nodded, trying to force a smile. “Great idea. Let’s go.”
“Here’s your drink,” Grayson said.
“Oh, you know what? I’m not feeling really…alcohol-y tonight.” She mustered a weak laugh. “But thank anyway. I’ll go toss this.”
