by Lauren Layne
The thought catches me off guard, so jarring that I’m relieved I didn’t say it out loud.
“It’d just be dinner. Two people sharing a meal.” My tone is easy, careful not to betray just how unusual—and unfamiliar—the request is for me.
She may not do casual sex, but I don’t do this. I don’t ask women to dinner simply because I want to spend time with them. As Kate not so gently pointed out to me, I don’t date. Not as a means for anything other than getting laid.
But I want to date Lara. I want to make her laugh, and hear about her life, and figure out how to get her to that FBI dream job, and I want to be there when she gets the call.
I want it all.
I’m in so much trouble over this woman.
“I’ll think about it.” She points to the elevator doors. “Out.”
Damn it. This is not how I saw this going. “But—”
“I’m going down to the lobby. You’re going back to your apartment.”
I’ve done enough deals with stubborn, reluctant investors to know when it’s time to pull back.
For now.
“All right,” I say with an easy smile.
I move toward the open doors, stopping when I’m even with her. Her breath catches, and though I want to devour her mouth all over again, I want to surprise her even more.
I brush my lips against her cheek, smiling when her sigh is half relief, half disappointment. Then I step back into the hallway, still facing her.
“Goodbye, Ian.”
“Good night, Lara. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
It’s a promise. A guarantee that this isn’t over.
I see her swallow as she pushes the emergency stop button back in, and when we lock eyes before the doors close, I know she knows it.
24
LARA
Week 4: Friday Morning
I’m packing up the Wolfe conference room that’s served as my office for the past few weeks when Kate strolls in with two mugs.
She hands me one.
“Oh, thanks,” I say, taking it. “But I already have—”
I glance down at the contents. Not the coffee I was expecting.
I look up. “Orange juice?”
“With a splash of something bubbly.” She winks and clinks her mug with mine and takes a sip of her own clandestine mimosa.
I hesitate. Strictly speaking, it’s drinking on the job.
“Oh, come on,” she cajoles. “It’s a Friday and we’re celebrating. Plus, it’s your last day here. What are they going to do, fire you?”
I try to hide my wince at the reference to my employment status. Not that I’m worried about being fired—none of the SEC higher-ups are going to give a shit about a sip of champagne-laced orange juice. They’re never going to know about it.
But I am worried about the fallout of my report.
I sent it off this morning and haven’t heard anything. I tried calling Steve—three times. He hasn’t picked up. I don’t know if he’s just busy or . . .
If he’s pissed.
Which is stupid. I did my job. I looked at everything—e-mails, files, social media, Internet searches on the company computers. I turned over every rock I normally turn over and came up empty. There is zero proof Ian is guilty of insider trading. There’s no evidence. Nothing.
My weekly status reports have said this all along.
But while my ethics are firmly in place, my dreams are . . . hazy. I’ll get to the FBI someday, I know that. But I need a high-profile case to get there.
This wasn’t it, no matter how much Steve thought it would be.
For that, I’ve earned a sip of champagne. Besides, there’s OJ in there! Fruit serving, right?
“There you go,” Kate says when I take a drink.
She pokes through the cardboard box on the table. “It’s going to be weird without you here.”
“Good weird?”
“Well, everyone will be a lot less on edge without the SEC lurking, that’s for sure.”
“Par for the course,” I say, dropping my stapler into the box. “We don’t tend to make a lot of ‘work friends.’”
“What about within the SEC? Surely you’ve got some friends there.”
I shrug. “I’m friendly with everyone. But it’s not like here, where people come to the same office every day. We have a home base, but we’re on-site elsewhere more often than not. And even when I am in the office, it’s mostly married men who’ve got no interest in befriending a twentysomething woman.”
“Could be worse,” Kate points out. “There could be a bunch of married men who are interested in a little somethin’ somethin’ with a twentysomething woman.”
“True.”
“Have you seen Ian yet this morning?”
My mug stops halfway to my mouth, and I hope it hides my blush.
The way that man kisses . . .
Kate studies me. “You okay?”
A little hot-flashy, but yeah, fine.
“Yep!” It comes out too peppy, and Kate’s eyes narrow.
“What happened after we all left last night?”
“I told him about my report. He was relieved. I left.” After we made out in the elevator. Seriously, is the AC not working in here today?
Kate gives me a skeptical look. “You could have told him about the report in an e-mail.”
“Actually, I always tell the people I’m investigating my findings in person.”
It’s true. It’s not an SEC rule or anything. It’s not even necessarily recommended. But it’s a part of my own process. It feels like a human decency thing—whether I’m turning their life upside down or giving them their life back, it’s the sort of thing I feel I should look a person in the eyes and say, you know?
Of course, it’s never resulted in getting felt up before, not that his hands had wandered to any bikini areas. I’d just wished . . .
I take another gulp of the champagne, then set the mug down before I chug it.
“Well, thanks for taking the time,” Kate says, dropping into a chair. “He’s in a really good mood this morning. Like, I heard him whistle.”
“Really?” The information causes a thrill to rush through me that has nothing to do with professional satisfaction.
Kate shrugs. “Wouldn’t you if you’d just been told you weren’t going to jail?”
“There was no guarantee he’d have gotten time. Sometimes it’s just a hefty fine and job loss, though for some, that can be just as devastating.”
“The fine wouldn’t have bothered Ian.”
“Some of these guys end up losing seven figures. Not to mention their jobs.”
“I already told you he’s not about the money,” she says. “And I think you know that.”
I look down at my drink. I do know.
The Ian I’ve gotten to know over the past several weeks wears expensive suits, drinks overpriced wine, and hosts parties with caviar, yes, but that’s merely the top layer. Just like the flirtatious womanizer is just a layer. The man beneath that is kind, and generous, and maybe a little bit vulnerable.
“Lara.” Kate’s voice is softer than I’m used to, and I glance up. “Don’t play games with him. Please.”
I swallow and nod but say nothing. I’ve been so busy figuring out how to protect myself from Ian, it hasn’t really occurred to me that Ian might need protecting from me.
That he might be just as out of his element as I am, albeit in a different way.
Kate looks down at her mug. “Damn, it’s empty. I told myself I could only have one until I finish up the weekly reports. Guess it’s back to work.”
The sudden sting of sadness I feel at her words surprises me. I’ve been so focused on whatever the heck is going on between Ian and me, it hasn’t hit me that this is goodbye. Kate’s become a friend, or at least someone I would like to be friends with.
I’ll miss Kennedy and Matt, too, even Sabrina in all her gorgeous prickliness. It’s a group I wish I could be a part of . . .
If only things were different.
Kate stands. “Look, I know this might be weird, but if you ever want to grab lunch sometime . . .”
My smile is huge. “I’d like that.”
“Good.”
“Hey, Kate,” I say when she’s almost to the door. “Is Ian in his office?”
When she turns back, her grin is a little bit mischievous. “He had a meeting at nine, but it should be done by now. He’s got a break till eleven.” She leans against the door. “Whatcha need him for? I mean, the case is wrapped up, right? And you delivered that message last night. So—”
“Kate.”
“Yeah?”
I pick up my mimosa and take a sip. “What’s the deal with you and Kennedy?”
Her grin vanishes. “We’re not that good of friends yet, SEC.”
I smile. “Exactly.”
Kate points at me. “I knew I was going to like you.”
I’m still smiling when I walk down the hall toward Ian’s office. It’s just past ten, so assuming his nine o’clock didn’t run over . . .
Ian’s behind his desk, attention on his computer screen.
I watch him type for a moment. I’m used to seeing him in his charming people-person mode, but I’m realizing there’s another side to his professional persona. The guy who gets things done is very intense, very focused, and . . . very hot.
He’s wearing a dark-pink tie today, but it looks anything but feminine when paired with his dark-gray suit, broad shoulders, and sharp jawline.
The man’s every woman’s fantasy.
And he asked me to dinner.
Ian reaches for a pen and does a double take when he sees me in the doorway. “Hey there, Creeper. Come on in.”
“Hey,” I say, feeling a little flustered as I shut the door.
He starts to stand, but I hold up a hand to stop him. “Wait. If you could just . . . I need to say something, and I can’t when you’re all . . . close and stuff.”
Ian gives a puzzled smirk. “All right. What’s up?”
“You asked me to dinner.”
His gaze is steady. “I did.”
“Why?”
“Because I like to eat.” He smiles.
“Ian, I’m serious.”
He stands and comes toward me. “Because I like you, Lara. What the hell do I have to do to prove that? Get a skywriter? Tattoo? Take out a classified?”
My stomach flips at his words, and I can’t hide my silly grin.
“Did you turn in your report?” he asks, reaching out and taking my hand.
“I did.”
His eyes flicker in relief. “So I’m no longer under investigation for insider trading? You’re no longer investigating me?”
“Correct.”
He pulls me in for a kiss, and I’m ready for it. Hell, I meet him halfway, my hands on his waist, his cupping my face, pulling me close.
I can’t remember ever feeling this hungry, this reckless. Yes, we’re in his office. Yes, anyone could walk in. But right now, with his hands on me, I don’t care. I don’t care about anything but wanting more.
Without breaking contact, he reaches behind me and locks the door.
“My place,” he says, dragging his mouth from mine and trailing it down my throat. My head falls back, and I let out a little moan as he kisses my neck. “Seven o’clock.”
“I can’t come to your place on a first date.”
His mouth returns to mine. “Why not? You said you didn’t want anyone to see us.”
I huff in frustration. “I know, but—”
“I’m a really good cook,” he says with a slow smile.
That gives me pause. “You are?”
“Not at all. But I’m very good at takeout.”
“Ian . . .”
I can’t remember what I was going to say. This entire conversation has taken place in between kisses, and with each brush of his mouth against mine, it gets harder to think. And a lot harder to say no. I came in here thinking maybe we could take this thing slow . . .
Then his hands slide over my hips as he deepens the kiss, and slow sounds impossible. And not at all what I want.
I want this. I want the way I feel when I’m around him, the way I feel when his hands are on me.
“You want to come over,” he says, bending slightly to press a kiss to the V of my blouse.
“I do?” I manage as his palm slides down my thigh, his fingers wandering under my skirt.
“Mm-hmm.” His fingers trail up the inside of my bare thigh.
“But—”
The tips of his fingers brush lightly over the front of my underwear, and I can’t remember anything. Not what I’ve said in the past, not why I shouldn’t be doing this . . .
Then his fingers slip beneath the elastic, and I can’t even remember my own name.
He groans as he finds my wetness.
I gasp as I cling to him, trying not to let my knees buckle as his clever fingers find all the right places.
I don’t know this girl, the one who lets a polished playboy back her against an office door and slide his hand under her skirt, but right now I want to be her, if only for this brief moment of heaven.
“Ian.” I run my hands over his shoulders.
He pulls away with a groan.
“No, don’t stop,” I moan, pulling him close, too turned on to be embarrassed.
He lets out a tortured laugh, his forehead resting against mine. “I have to. I can’t take you here like this.”
Why the hell not?
I don’t ask it out loud, but he seems to know, brushing his lips across mine. “You’re different. Let me show you that you’re different.”
Frustrated as my body is, my heart soars. How could it not? Isn’t this every woman’s fantasy, to be the one who tames the untamable?
He eases his hand out from under my skirt, using his other hand to smooth it back to rights.
Ian kisses my cheek, his lips moving to my ear. “Seven o’clock. My place. Please.”
I look away just for a second, trying to gather my thoughts, and my eyes lock on the orchid on the table behind his desk. The damn thing is flourishing.
I swallow, my eyes unexpectedly watering with a feeling for this man that I’m nowhere near ready to name.
I nod. “Seven o’clock.”
25
IAN
Week 4: Friday Night
“Where’d those come from?” I ask as Sabrina fans out fussy little square napkins I’ve never seen in my life.
“Stationery store up in Flatiron,” she says, tilting her head to analyze the angle of her napkin arrangement. “Aren’t they fabulous?”
I grunt in response. “And you’re here because . . . ?”
“Well, imagine for a second if we both had better parents,” she says, going to the sink to trim the ends off the flowers she brought with her. “They would have wanted to see us off to prom. Document it. Make sure you had the corsage.” She holds up the flowers.
I look at Matt, who’s sitting at the barstool in my kitchen. “What’s she talking about?”
“Got me.” Matt shrugs and digs his hand into a bowl of fancy cheese cracker things, yet another Sabrina addition. “I never speak her language.”
Sabrina slaps the back of his hand. “Don’t touch. Those are for Lara.”
“Ouch!” He shakes his hand. “Since when do you like the SEC better than me?”
“Since always. I like everyone better than you.”
“I’m still not following the prom reference,” I interject, watching skeptically as Sabrina arranges flowers in a vase I didn’t know I had.
“Prom is a big deal,” she says, repositioning a flower whose name I definitely do not know. “So is your first date.”
“Oh Jesus,” I mutter. “That again?”
“They grow up so fast,” Matt says, picking up one of Sabrina’s napkins and dabbing at his eyes.
“Don’t touch those, either,” Sabrina tells
Matt. “Do you have any idea how much those cost?”
“Like you can’t afford it. How much are you charging these days to play God with other people’s lives?”
“Oh, I’m sure I’m within your budget, Boy Wonder. So if you’re looking to hire someone to help with your inadequate—”
“All right,” I interrupt. “Out. Get out.”
“But—”
“Nope.” I pick up Sabrina’s bag and push it against her chest, shoving her toward the door. “Bye.”
Matt gives her a goodbye wave, using mostly his middle finger to do so.
“You too,” I say to him.
He frowns as Sabrina gloats. “I think I should be here,” he insists, even as he stands. “You know, to run interference.”
“Yes, that’s what every date needs.”
“Ian, you can’t seriously be thinking about seeing this woman—”
“Enough!”
I don’t have a temper. I really don’t. But there’s a fine line between friends being friends, and friends being monotonous pains in my ass.
“Did I give you shit when you and Sabrina screwed, and then screwed each other over? Do I lecture Kennedy and Kate on whatever the hell is going on there? No. I let you guys do your thing, live your lives, so let me do the same. Please.”
Matt stares at me for a moment, then glances at Sabrina, who shrugs.
“Fine,” he grumbles finally. “Will you call me when she leaves?”
“No, because that would be weird,” I say, putting my hand between his shoulder blades and shoving him none too gently toward my front door.
Sabrina’s already there, opening it before reaching into her purse to apply her lipstick. “At least text us. We just want to be sure she’s not playing you, that this isn’t some trick—”
“I don’t deal in tricks.”
We all turn to see Lara standing in the doorway, clutching a bottle of wine to her chest and looking pissed. And maybe a little stung.
Sabrina has the decency to wince. “I didn’t mean—”
“Yeah. You did,” Lara interrupts.
She’s not wearing her glasses tonight, and her hair’s down, the same way it was that night at the club. But my favorite part is that she’s wearing jeans and some sort of strappy top. How long has it been since I’ve spent Friday night with a woman in jeans? It’s usually fancy dresses, uncomfortable shoes, and a shit-ton of hairspray.
