by Kendall Ryan
Chapter Three
Josh
I walk down Madison Avenue toward my company’s office fifteen blocks away. After living in Manhattan for nearly a decade, I still love it just as much, if not more, every day. This city energizes me, and so do the people. Today, the walk offers the added bonus of time to shake off the memory of my royal fuckup last night.
In the light of day, I have to physically try not to cringe at the memory of the exchange. What else can I do? Though I do wonder who Peyton is.
As I pass a coffee shop, waving to the barista who makes a kickass espresso, I wonder if Peyton is an artsy gal, serving up lattes to customers and putting a smile on their faces. On the next block, as I nod a hello to the curly-haired lady with three teenagers who runs the organic cleaners where all my suits are pressed, I wonder if Peyton might be a married mom of three. Oops.
But the other thing I’m damn curious about is this—did she secretly enjoy not only the pic, but our exchange? Hell, that picture was a fine shot. I still have no idea why ButterflyGirl6 gave me a fake number. I’ll bet the number belongs to a friend of hers, and she wanted to see if I’d actually do it, and maybe now ButterflyGirl6 is cursing herself for missing out on the ride of her life.
I won’t hear from her again, though. Last night after the major screwup, I returned to my dating app, deleted my profile, and erased all photographic evidence of my member from my phone. Some close calls you don’t need to experience twice, and I definitely don’t want to tempt fate. One wrong sender receiving an up-close-and-personal view of my private parts is more than enough, thank you very much.
By the time I reach my office, the walk through the harried Manhattan crowds has reset my mood. I stuff my earbuds into my pocket, run a hand down my tie, and stride into the building, ready to tackle the day and forget all about last night’s little error.
Big error.
I mean, it is big, if I do say so myself.
It’s time to focus on business, and honestly, my job is one of my favorite things.
Inside the office, I say hello to Irene, our receptionist. “How are things with your son? Did his Little League team win the championship?”
She smiles and adjusts her red glasses. “They did. We went out to celebrate at Famous Ray’s.”
“Every celebration should include pizza. It’s a law, you know.”
“It’s one I follow judiciously,” she says with a wide grin.
When I reach my office, my assistant, Toby, runs in, frazzled and breathing hard. “Josh!” Everything he says is in exclamation points; even breathing for him is exciting.
“What can I do for you, Toby?”
Panting, he drags a hand through his wiry hair. “Brody called me! He tried to call you!”
I frown, then snap my fingers. “I was listening to a podcast. I might have hit DO NOT DISTURB by mistake.”
Toby grabs his stomach. “Brody ate wheat last night! By mistake!”
I cringe. Brody can’t go near the stuff on account of the world’s worst allergy. “That sucks.”
“And he wanted you to take his morning meeting with Wish Upon a Gift.”
A new boutique is slated to open a few blocks from our flagship store on the Upper East Side, and that’s why Brody has been hunting for new partnerships to give us an edge.
I nod and flip open my laptop. “Right. Sure. He sent me the file the other night, and I glanced through it.”
Toby points wildly. “She’s in the conference room right now. He said it’s vital that you fill in for him!”
I push my hands down so he knows to cool his jets. I’ve handled plenty of meetings before. This one isn’t going to be an issue. I stand, clap Toby on the back, and tell him I’ll be there in five minutes.
Toby darts out the door, his feet clopping down the hall.
I review the file quickly, refreshing my memory of what I already scanned the other night. Then I slide open my phone and find about 547 texts from Brody.
They include phrases like too dizzy to live, I’m only ever eating fruit, wait—is there some new wheat-based fruit that’s secretly trying to kill me, my life is the worst.
And then there are the more business-like ones . . . new client with a subscription box that’s all the rage, seal this deal like the deal-sealing mofo that you are, this company is the toast of the town—but not wheat toast, we want to partner with them like a magnet wants all the metal in the world, like my dick wants all the ladies in the world.
Yeah, he’s a bit all over the place.
I text him back.
Josh: It’s under control. Sorry to hear that some wheat kicked your ass . . . again.
Brody: *middle finger emoji*
Brody: Also, thanks, man.
I head to the conference room, cringing when I overhear Toby telling the prospective partner how he had to help his roommate give her long-haired tabby a pill last night.
“I had to wrap him in a towel like a burrito,” he says.
The woman laughs. “That’s why I like dogs. “You can just trick them with a little bit of peanut butter.”
Her voice is pretty, sweet and melodic, and I wonder if the face matches.
I step into the conference room and . . . holy matching face of an angel. The Wish Upon a Gift woman is hotter than sin.
The brunette perched in a conference chair is smiling at my assistant, showing off the prettiest lips I’ve ever seen. She wears a black-and-white dress and looks like a cookie I want to bite. Which is a thoroughly inappropriate reaction.
I remind myself to expunge inappropriate thoughts from my mind. My dick got me in trouble last night. No way is that sneaky bastard getting me in trouble now. But, fuck me, I seriously need some action.
She and Toby turn to me.
“This is Josh Hanson! He’s my boss! And he’s also a rock star in one-on-one basketball. He kills me every time we play!”
Um, we played once. But Toby’s right. I did destroy him.
I give him a self-deprecating grin. “You played valiantly. It was an even matchup.”
The woman stands, revealing long, toned legs that I do my best not to stare at because I’m not an asshole who objectifies women—especially not women I want to do business with. But right now, I’m waging an internal battle between my dick and my brain. And the longer I stare at her, the closer my dick is edging to victory.
Not cool, man. Not cool.
I focus on her eyes and that’s a whole new challenge, because they’re sky blue, a gorgeous contrast to her lush dark hair. She stares at me a little longer than I’d expect, like she’s studying my face.
I extend a hand, and after hesitating for a second, she takes it.
“Nice to meet you, Josh.” She swallows a little hard on my name, like it surprises her or is hard to pronounce. “I’m Peyton.”
I blink. What the actual fuck? What are the chances she’s the same Peyton?
Slim to nil, right?
Has to be.
Because there’s no fucking way she can be the same Peyton. Her name isn’t a common one, but this has to be a weird coincidence.
As we shake, her gaze drops to my hands and she stares for an awkward beat or two. Like she’s cataloguing them now too. Like she’s doing the math—big hands, big feet, big . . . all over.
When she looks up and meets my gaze, the chance of her being the Peyton just surpassed one hundred percent. Red splashes across her cheeks. Her eyes are huge and wild. Her face is the picture of embarrassment.
Well, shit.
I cringe, and Peyton coughs. She recognized me from my childhood photo . . . not the dick one, obviously.
“Nice to meet you,” she says, as if she’s straightening out her words and trying to speak for the first time in ages.
“Good to meet you too, Peyton.” Trying to keep my tone as even as I can, I turn to Toby. “And thanks again. Especially for the cat tales.”
He laughs as he leaves, and when Peyton and I take our seats, ther
e’s a tiny smile on her face too.
“Cat tales,” she murmurs with a little laugh.
“I personally prefer taking my pills with peanut butter,” I say, hoping to use humor to defuse the situation. We both know what she has seen, and it’s hella awkward.
This situation is all kinds of fucked up, and I need to unfuck it. Stat.
She stares at me, her nose crinkling. “So, last night . . .” She shakes her head, frustration etched on her face.
Which means it’s time for me to launch into a full-court apology. After all, we can’t risk losing her business to someone else.
“Look, Peyton. I’m sorry. I had no idea who you were. Your number must have been on my phone because of the file Brody sent me. I did not in any way, shape, or form intend to send you that picture. I’m so sorry.”
It’s the only explanation. I mean, how else could I have mistaken her number for ButterflyGirl6’s?
Peyton lets out a heavy sigh and presses her hand to her face as if checking to see if the temperature is still high. “I seriously can’t believe you sent it to me.”
I sigh as well. “I can’t believe I did either.”
“And I can’t believe you sent me your elementary school photo too.”
Yeah, that was weird. I see that now.
I frown, scrambling to fix the problem. “In my defense, I was trying not to seem like an asshole who sends unsolicited dick pics.”
She holds up a hand to stop me. “Can we just not talk about that picture?”
“The kid pic or the junk shot?”
She raises her gaze to mine. “Both. Can we have a whatever you call it in basketball? A mulligan?”
I chuckle. “That’s a golf term. But we can just call it a do-over.”
“Yes, we need a do-over,” she says with an earnest nod. “We need to pretend it never happened and go about this meeting like we’ve never met before today.”
Yeah, good fucking luck with that.
Chapter Four
Peyton
“I can do that,” Josh says with a confidence I don’t share. He grabs a sheet of blank paper from the conference table, crumples it up, and tosses it over his shoulder. “There. Done. Out of sight. Out of mind.”
I give him a shaky smile.
If only it were that easy.
Over the last eighteen months of growing my business, I’ve done a hundred things that I never thought I could do.
Quit my job to pursue my dream? Did it.
Build my own website from scratch? Done.
Interview with a popular blog for a piece highlighting my accomplishments? The post was published last Wednesday.
But hold eye contact with this perfect ten of a male specimen without letting my gaze venture down to sneak a peek at that bulge? Is this really going to be my breaking point?
“Brody and I were really excited to meet you. Thanks again for coming in. Can I tell you a little bit about Wine O’Cock—I mean, Clock?”
I make a small noise of agreement, hoping that he thinks I didn’t catch his rather large faux pas. “Please.”
What is this life and why am I living it?!
“We’ve been looking forward to meeting you. Let me tell you a little bit about where we’re heading these days . . .” As Josh shares details on his company’s direction, I’m amazed he can segue so seamlessly, bridging the gap from the ridiculously awkward to cool-as-a-cucumber CEO.
His confidence is a little surprising, to say the least. You’d think accidentally exposing yourself to a potential business partner would knock a guy down a few pegs. If anything, he should be blushing and I should be the one smirking, not the other way around. But I guess if you know you’ve got a work of art between your legs, it’s hard to be humble. Now that I think about it, “humble” might not even be in Josh’s vocabulary.
“Tell me what you think about all that,” he says, waiting for me to share my own thoughts.
What I think is that it’s time to save this deal. And that’s what I intend to do.
“I love all those partnership possibilities,” I say, then tell him the story of my company.
I launched my subscription box service on a hope and a prayer, and now all the hard work, the late nights replying to manufacturer emails, and negotiating costs and securing clients, is finally paying off. My little boxes could be on retail shelves all over the city and the East Coast, all the places where Wine O’Clock has been expanding.
This deal could mean so much for both Gram and me. A nicer apartment, money for proper health insurance, savings for my retirement. Maybe even a little fun. I hardly remember what that word is anymore.
But now this?
No. No. No. That’s not what today is supposed to be about.
Today is about my business, about his luxurious boutique wine shops possibly carrying the product I’ve created. My gift box subscriptions have been bringing in a solid stream of revenue, but a deal with this company would take my business to a whole new level. This could be my key to success . . . I just wish the person holding that key wasn’t ham-hock-cock Josh. Gram is going to die when she hears about this.
If only I could delete that picture from my memory the same way I should have deleted it from my phone, but a girl can’t just forget her first dick pic, especially one as museum worthy as that. With its wide tip and veiny shaft . . .
No. Bad Peyton. Focus.
The effort it’s taking me to think about anything other than that beautiful gift between his legs should count as cardio. My heart rate is up, that’s for sure. I take a deep breath and straighten my shoulders.
“It’s a tiny speed bump,” he says, smiling at me again. “We can move past it, right?”
“I would hardly call that tiny.”
I realize the error in my words immediately. My throat goes dry, threatening to close up completely. I make a strangled noise, and Josh’s smile fades.
“Can I get you water? Did anyone offer you something? Let me grab you a water.”
He’s already risen to his feet and is halfway to the door before I’m able to respond.
“Sure, um. A water would be . . .”
He steps outside the conference room and is already calling to Toby for two aguas, por favor. No one in the office appears to be Spanish, so I have no idea why the sudden shift. Unless he’s completely forgotten where he is. This isn’t tenth-grade Spanish class, that’s for sure.
But when Toby responds with some Spanish phrase of his own and a good-natured laugh, and I realize it was Josh’s attempt at humor. Lightening the mood.
Part of me wonders if I should use this distraction to slip out the door right now. Forget the whole thing and move on with my life. Maybe this isn’t my big break. Maybe this is a detour, or a giant flashing neon sign from the universe.
But how is that fair? I’ve worked so hard to get to this moment, I can’t let a little thing—okay, a rather big thing—like this stand in my way.
It’s like the universe is laughing at me, telling me not to take myself so seriously. Or maybe that I should have followed Gram’s advice to go out and get some action. Because Josh, fucking ham-hock-between-the-legs Josh, is way too delicious for words.
It certainly doesn’t help that his confidence is sexy as all get-out, just like everything else about him. He wears that sharp black suit like he’s doing it a favor, and his necktie may as well be the yellow brick road that my eyes are skipping down, making their way to his . . .
Straightening my shoulders, I accept the cool bottle of water Josh offers when he returns. I take a deep drink of it as he slides into the seat across from me again, holding his own bottle.
“I’m sorry you missed meeting Brody. He had an unexpected health thing come up.”
“Is he okay?” I ask, recapping the bottle and setting it aside.
Josh mirrors my movements and nods, his expression turning serious. “He’ll be all right, as long as he stays away from any more gluten.”
A smil
e spreads over my face of its own accord. “I’ve heard gluten can be quite terrifying at times.”
“You really can’t be too careful in those situations.”
Yeah, this guy is super confident and, honestly, quite sweet in his attempt to defuse the awkwardness. I’ve read about the owners of Wine O’Clock online, and they’re known not only for building an enviable business in a little over five years’ time, but also for an excellent track record with business partners.
I can completely see why. He’s so smooth about this whole debacle.
So that means he has smarts, looks, confidence, and humor?
God help me.
Folding his hands on the table in front of him, Josh leans closer. “Peyton, let’s get down to the nuts and bolts of this, shall we?”
And my face goes beet red again.
Chapter Five
Josh
Nuts?
Seriously, Hanson? Of all the words in the English language, you choose nuts?
But hey, on the plus side, she hasn’t seen the boys, just their leader.
Even so, I need to keep this meeting above the belt, including my own damn thoughts. I offer Peyton another apologetic smile. Time to get this deal back on track.
“Want to tell me more about your company?”
“I do. I really do. I would love to tell you about Wish Upon a Gift.”
Her tone shifts instantly when she mentions her business, making me even more keen to hear her pitch.
I smile. A perfect, professional smile, as I cross my legs and fold my hands in my lap. I’m a motherfucking gentleman, not a junk-shot-sending caveman. “I want to hear all about it, Peyton.”
The only way to get past this mixup is to focus on business.
Not on her pretty face.
Not on those gorgeous eyes.
And definitely not on that dark hair I want to wrap around my fist and yank on it hard.
Four fucking months . . . that’s what’s wrong with my libido. It’s not operating in its normal overdrive. No, today, it’s at fucking warp speed. This is what happens when your own hand becomes your closest companion.
