The Do It List (The Do It List #1)

by Jillian Stone

  “We have about five minutes until my ride arrives.” He reached for my hand and led me into my bedroom, which overlooked the street.

  I pulled back. “We’re not going to…you know.”

  Using gentle persistence, he towed me over to the window and held me close, rocking me gently from behind. We didn’t speak for several moments. An echo of footsteps and crunching leaves drifted up from below. Shadows passed under the street lamp, briefly materialized into human form, and then disappeared into the darkness.

  “I can wait,” he whispered.

  I had to imagine his heated gaze, but it wasn’t hard. And his husky words aroused all the female parts—nipples, belly, womb. Suddenly, I got it. He wanted so much more.

  He pressed his body against mine. “I don’t mean to be overbearing, it’s just that I like you very much, even more than I imagined.”

  Before I had a chance to protest, to remind him that I hadn’t made up my mind about any do it list we might put together, he moved his hands up my back. Strong fingers kneaded my neck and shoulders until I moaned with relief.

  He encouraged me to lean against him. “I want see you naked in this bed, feel your beautiful body beneath me.” He pressed against my bottom. “You’re going to reach orgasm quickly because you’ve been anticipating, and you’ll be impatient for it.” His whispered words breezed through the damp curls of my hair. “You’re also going to be insatiable, so I will have to insist you come again. And maybe once more, just to make sure you’re satisfied.”

  His thumbs pressed along each side of my spine, as he moved down to the small of my back. A car turned onto the street and slowed. He swept an arm around my waist and slipped his finger under the lace trim of my panties. Arching against him, my nipples peaked and my belly fluttered.

  “Afterward, when I hold you, I want you wobbly-legged, unable to talk—completely and utterly spent.”

  His British accent, in combination with his raspy whisper nearly sent me over the edge. He kissed my temple and backed away.

  I hesitated a moment too long. By the time I reached the entry, the door closed quietly. “Wait.” My speech was breathy, aroused.

  The gruff male voice that drifted through the door sent shivers through me. “Lock me out, Gracie.”

  FIVE

  I SCROLLED THROUGH my morning e-mail, trashing or dashing off replies before arriving at brad.craig@dwd.com.

  Subject line: DO IT LIST. Sent from his mobile at 7:01 this morning. No message, just a vertical stack of ten numbers ending with a question mark.

  I smiled. Worse, I sucked in a deep breath and sighed.

  Besides his drop-dead good looks and the fact that he oozed masculine potency and sexual prowess, could Bradley Craig also be fun? A big part of me needed a little fun in my life. Working long hours and helping to raise my niece occupied most of my down time. Mitch had just begun his third year of residency at Mount Sinai. Becoming a world-class brain surgeon was no easy task, and he still had several years to go.

  I hit inbox zero and closed email.

  I swear I used to be fun, I was almost sure of it. Something simple and sexy with Bradley Craig might be just the answer.

  “We’re meeting in my office, Gracie.” Axel rested his palm against the doorframe and leaned into the creative conference room. His wry grin told me our intrepid, high-energy Chief Strategy Officer was up to something.

  “If it’s about Unilever, I’ve already heard the rumors. We’re pitching a new line of personal care products.” I ran a fingertip over my new business card, specifically the engraved letters of my name, barked from the snarling under bite of a bulldog wearing a spiked collar. College team mascot kitsch—competitive, blood thirsty—only with tasteful type design. The contrast was brilliant. It had Derek Moubin’s style imprint all over it. Pantone 152 orange-red, and black ink printed on cream-colored card stock.

  “Wanna hear what Adweek has to say about your promotion?” A big fan of my work, Axel could also be a royal pain in the ass at times.

  I hunkered down and squinted, ready for something snarky.

  He turned his phone sideways and used his thumb to scroll. “Twenty-eight- year-old Grace Taylor-Scott has been appointed copy chief of boutique creative group Barking Mad. Taylor-Scott’s work cuts through the ad clutter with insight and compassion. Her artfully edgy ads have La Perla and Unilever courting Darcy, Wexler, Dean, New York.”

  A bit of heat swept across on my cheeks. “When did that come out?”

  “PR just received the pre-release. You’re in tomorrow’s front page box.” He pocketed his phone. “Before my day reaches DEFCON four, I’d like to introduce you and your team to the new head of Insight, Bradley Craig.”

  My stomach flip-flopped. “Bradley?” I answered absently, stuffing my new business card back in the box.

  “I stole him from the London office.” Axel could not have looked more pleased with himself. “He’s on the Unilever pitch.”

  Sarah Springer, the only other female in my creative team, leaned across the conference table. “Lisa Peterman in HR says he’s hot.”

  I quirked an eyebrow.

  “Fresh meat from the UK.” Axel grinned. “I’m always looking out for my single ladies.”

  “He looks like that model—shit, what’s his name?” Sarah’s gaze flitted from me to Axel and back again. “Someone give me a head smack. You know the one—he’s up in Times Square.”

  Mentally, I compared Bradley Craig to the five-story poster and nodded. “The model in the knit boxers with the nice—”

  “Package.” A self-proclaimed fangirl of all things Abercrombie and Fitch, Sarah was an invaluable resource for hotness levels of all kinds, from fashion trends to celebrity meltdowns. She also happened to be the only woman in Manhattan I trusted with dating advice.

  “Call me when Miranda Kerr goes up.” Axel referenced the agency’s new Féria campaign for L’Oréal featuring the gorgeous supermodel.

  For a suit, Axel was more than okay. A lean, cuter-than-cute, forty-something ad man with a million-dollar smile and a mouth like—well—had you asked him about the merger three days ago, his answer would have sounded something like this:

  “Fuck Scacchi & Scacchi—it’ll be a cold day in hell before I’m caught wiping my ass with old stationery. Therefore—no new business cards. We’re keeping the goddamn worldwide because we’re more than ready to go global—when and if—the deal is fucking right.” Our fearless, foul-mouthed leader had left the conference room trailing expletives behind him.

  “…Motherfuckers.”

  Temperamental shortcomings aside, Axel had been my first friend and mentor in New York and would always remain so. He also loved edgy advertising and for that reason alone, he was held in the highest esteem by all the creatives in the agency.

  I put my iPad to sleep. “We’re making a Lo’s Rickshaw run.”

  Axel reversed course and handed Sarah a large bill. “Bring up…what is everyone drinking these days?”

  “Jasmine-infused green or black tea, iced or hot, with or without bubbles.” My art director shrugged. “You asked.”

  “Make mine a decaf chai latte.” He pointed from Sarah to me as he backed out of the room. “My office—ten minutes—both of you.”

  I rolled back my chair. “FYI, the model up in Times Square is Jake Hudson. He’s the new face-slash-torso for the A/X Spring collection. Derek has a shoot with him next week.”

  “The bath tub layout for Acqua?” Sarah’s large brown eyes went Gollum on me. “That rat—he never said anything.”

  “We just booked him.” I flicked my gaze upward. “It was a nightmare—sign him or lose him. His agent just confirmed yesterday.”

  Speaking of Giorgio Armani, I grabbed my distressed black leather messenger bag and thought about Bradley’s remark last night. He seemed genuinely curious about human behavior, be it the psychology of sale shopping or the length of time it takes a woman to reach orgasm.

  Geekishly smex
y.

  Sarah sprang out of her chair and caught up with me in the hallway. “Do you think Derek will let me drop by the shoot?”

  “If he doesn’t, I’ll have to send you over with a rough cut of the Swatch spots in need of urgent feedback.” Somewhat gingerly I stepped toward an open elevator.

  I turned to Sarah. “Do me a favor?”

  She nodded. “Anything.”

  “Push me inside.”

  I adored my art director’s ready sense of play and adventure. Without so much as a raised brow, Sarah shoved me inside the metal box.

  I ignored a few tetchy looks and resisted the urge to monitor my thumping pulse rate. Not quite as bad as the ride up this morning.

  With no Bradley Craig around, I needed a distraction. I listened absently to Sarah complain about her quasi-date with a casting director.

  According to the Urban Dictionary a quasi-date is an ex-girlfriend or boyfriend you still hang out with because they’re smokin’ hot. Instantly my mind wandered to last night in the elevator—in fact, this very elevator—and Smokin’ Hotness himself.

  “I was stuck in this elevator during the blackout.” I blurted out, much to the consternation of everyone on board including Sarah.

  “Holy crap! And you waited this long to say something?”

  I checked my watch. “It’s nine-thirty. And I haven’t told anyone because…” I lowered my voice. “There would be questions.”

  I might have given things away with an eye roll.

  Sarah’s mouth dropped open. “You weren’t alone.”

  I imagined every ear in the elevator swiveling like a radio telescope dish. I cleared my throat. “Could we take this up outside?”

  Sarah, bless her heart, waited until we got in the tea truck line.

  “Okay, who?”

  No one in this office can know what happened—about you and me. My own words came back to haunt me. But I had to tell someone, and Sarah was the closest thing I had to a best friend in New York City.

  I exhaled. “The new hire from London, Bradley Craig.”

  “Just the two of you…alone?”

  I nodded.

  Her eyes stayed glued to me. “And?”

  “And…it was frightening at times, but he was…jeezus. I shouldn’t be telling you or anyone this.” Before I could stop myself, I blurted out the truth. “He was amazing.” Heat swept over my cheeks.

  Her mouth dropped open. “Oh…my…God. Please tell me you did it.”

  “Next!” The young Asian man took our order.

  “Four green teas—two iced, two hot. Three chai’s—one hot decaf, two iced.” I turned to Sarah. “He’s like, half British, so I’m guessing he probably drinks black tea.” I ordered something called Earl Greyer. No joke.

  Sarah added, “Four two-percent milks and one nonfat—three sugars, two Equals, and two Splendas on the side.”

  Our server tossed sweetener packets and foil-covered plastic cups into a cardboard carryall. “Next!”

  While we waited, Sarah rocked her body to a bit of imaginary hip-hop music. “Tell me, Gracie girl—did you do it? I hope you did it.” Sarah angled hard to one side and circled her fists—the Beyoncé move I’d taught her.

  I shook my head. “We didn’t do it, exactly.” I plunked a cardboard tray of hot drinks into her open palms, and I handled the tall frosty versions.

  “But you would have.” Sarah trotted to catch up with me.

  “We were rudely interrupted by auxiliary generators,” I whispered, enduring yet another anxious elevator ride.

  Outside Axel’s office, I turned to Sarah and squinted.

  “My lips are sealed.” She held fingers to her lips and twisted.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” I murmured and ducked into the room.

  I was aware of Bradley even before I set eyes on him. He sat comfortably at one end of a long leather sofa, one leg crossed over the other, looking GQ-ish.

  Axel made introductions. “Sarah Springer, Bradley Craig.”

  Sarah nodded, handing him his tea. “We thought you might like Lo’s version of Earl Grey.”

  He leaned forward and politely took the cup from her. “Thank you.”

  “You-you’re welcome.” Sarah stammered, falling under the spell of Bradley’s blue-eyed gaze. “Sweetener?”

  “Sugar and a spot of milk, if you have it.” The half-Brit, half-American bearing gave him an air of rugged sophistication.

  Seeing him in this business setting seemed almost alien. Think about it—I had held the man’s cock in my hands and stroked, heard his groan of arousal, trembled from his touch, inhaled his scent. And now here we were in the CSO’s spacious office waiting to be introduced to each other.

  Ever since last night, before we entered the elevator together, I’d been aware of his gaze. This morning was no different. I could feel him track my every movement. Jeezus, if he kept this up, this visual stake out of his territory, the gossip would start right after the meeting. I concentrated on passing out the iced versions of chai tea.

  So far, I’d managed to steer clear of office liaisons with the exception of Derek, who was more of a close colleague happy to be of service and vice versa. The fact that my attraction to Bradley felt so different put me on edge.

  I handed Derek his iced tea.

  “Thanks, Taylor-Scotty.” Naturally, Derek had his own name for me. New York’s hottest art director angled his lanky frame into a corner chair and resumed texting.

  A self-professed despiser of advertising, Derek struggled with the idea of being sucked into the thirty-second TV spot vortex. All that artistic angst turned out to be the ultimate in bohemian chic, and so damned sexy in a coworker!

  He often protested his moniker, Mobius, but the name had taken on a life of its own and this ad man appeared to be going places. Sooner rather than later, we would lose him to some enticing faction of the New York art world, but for now, the money and praise kept him coming into work late every morning.

  Derek’s copywriter, Mark Hurley, slouched on a nearby couch. Derek and Mark were polar opposites. While Derek could be aloof and hard to know, Mark won you over with his Midwestern charm, lots of facial hair and a wild, upbeat sense of humor. As odd pairings often do, they played well off each other. Derek elevated Mark’s Hangover movie humor while Mark humanized Derek’s cutting-edge visuals.

  I handed Axel his decaf chai tea.

  “Gracie, I’d like you to meet Brad—”

  “We’ve already met, briefly.” My gaze locked with the new man who, at the moment, stirred milk into his tea. “Hello, Bradley.”

  He appeared pleasantly amused. “Good morning, Gracie.”

  Axel tilted his head. The man missed nothing and seemed mysteriously pleased with our brief flirtatious moment.

  “All right people, listen up. This may well be the most important pitch we’ll be in all year. Besides the launch of Héros, we’re now looking at all—I repeat—all the personal care products. Hair, skin care, body washes, and a new physics garden line. Tea tree, aloe vera, arnica—already huge in Europe.”

  He made a point of eyeballing me. “Gracie and Sarah are perfect for this. Derek and Mark—we’re going to need humor as well.”

  I held onto the last iced chai latte and settled on the couch between Mark and Sarah. The meeting appeared to be limited to Barking Mad creatives, two account supervisors, Audrey Lacoste and Frank Manning, along with the new head of research.

  “Winner takes all, including—here’s the kicker—”Axel held up both index fingers. “Two Super Bowl spots.”

  That sparked everyone’s interest, even the antisocial art director in the corner looked up from texting.

  “Thirties or sixties?” Derek asked.

  “One of each. Think set-up and payoff. They’ve hired Jordan McQueen as their review consultant. We know he admires our work and he asked specifically for Barking Mad.” Axel scanned the creatives in the room. “I’d like to see something synergistic—Super Bowl spots with a
line that goes viral.”

  I stole a glance at Bradley, whose attention had moved to the art director in the corner. He appeared to be sizing up Derek.

  Axel nodded to the account team. “Frank and Audrey have been working on some ideas. Anything you’d like to share?”

  “We’ve got several strategies in development, but we’re waiting on research.” The stunning redhead gazed across the room. “We’re looking forward to working with the new director of Insight.”

  Bradley returned Audrey’s gaze with polite, business-friendly interest.

  A queasy unease clenched my solar plexus. I needed to catch my breath. Sarah had once called Audrey a poll dancer trapped in a power suit. And already the feline account executive had my hackles up. I tucked my lower lip under my teeth and bit down hard. Several months ago Audrey had hit on Derek. The fact that he’d slept with her had moved him to part-time fuck buddy.

  In truth, Audrey had saved me some heartache. I should be grateful, but I wasn’t. Not after that once-over ogle she had just given Bradley. Some women you could never trust. And this seductress, with hair color that matched Hannah’s red-headed Barbie, topped the list.

  Axel leaned back on the edge of his desk. “The tough part is always the same with packaged goods clients. They want to test concepts and copy platform.”

  When every creative in the room groaned, Axel nodded. God bless him. “They agreed to let us design the method and mode of the tests. And this time we’ve got the big guns on our side.”

  Axel’s gaze moved to Bradley. “One of the departments I was most impressed with at Scacchi was their research division, especially the way they tested creative. And since Bradley is here—direct from London—why don’t you explain how you do it?” Axel evaluated the cool looks around the room, including my own. “Just hear him out, you’re going to like this.”

  Bradley cleared his throat and leaned forward. “The idea is to have the client and creative design the emotional message first, then we add in the sell. As long as the creative meets both criteria with high marks, the client agrees to sign off on the work.”