by Blue Saffire
Women have that way about them. Each one different, but each one a master of their ladycraft.
I sighed. I was poor company. This is why she needed to go. Maybe then I could avoid having another wily woman on the planet thinking I was the devil.
Be positive. She’d be out of my house in a day—two max. As soon as it stopped snowing, I’d drive her to Kalispell myself if I had to.
I reached the top of the stairs and stepped across the landing to the angled double doors in front of me, setting her rollerboard bag down to open the door. She rushed to my side and reached for the door, but not before I landed on the brass knob. Her hand gripped mine for a heartbeat, then she jumped back. Again.
“Sorry. I was going to get the door.”
“I got it.”
“Your hands were full, so…sorry. After you.” She took another step backward, and I opened the bedroom door. Griffin had left the curtains open, and from this room, you could see towers of trees slanting toward the creek and slipping down the side of Whitefish Mountain. The breath caught in my chest. Nearly three years since I moved in, and the view still stunned me.
“There are extra blankets here in the trunk.” I dropped her bags on top of the cedar chest at the foot of the bed and turned to face my intruder. “Bathroom is through there. Towels and everything you’d need are in the closet inside.”
“Yes. I remember. Michelle stayed in here before the wedding. We helped her get ready in here. It’s a beautiful room. The whole house is.”
“Thank you.” I stuffed my hands into my pockets. “Well, I’ll let you do your thing. Dinner will be ready in about an hour.”
“Thanks. Again. For everything.” She smiled and twisted a hand through the curls of her hair before settling it on the back of her neck. Her eyes slipped closed as she wagged her head from side to side with a deep sigh. With each breath, her chest thrust forward, shoving her bountiful breasts in my direction.
D-cup easy. Probably bigger. Fake or real? Given her curvy shape, probably real. I was a sucker for an hour-glass figure. It had been a while since I’d felt the plushness of an ass like that. Or any ass.
“So…I’m going to go, you know, get myself together. My socks are soaked from the snow. It’s been a crazy day.” Her words rushed at me.
I’d been staring at her. Could she tell where? A deep flush emerged in her olive complexion. Well, shit.
I cleared my throat. “Right. See you in a bit.” I spun around and nearly sprinted out of the room, pulling the door shut behind me.
Now she was going to think I was interested, which I wasn’t. Not that she didn’t have her…assets. The whole point of being up here was to purge thoughts of feminine allure. I didn’t need another woman right now.
Not that every woman was Irina. Everyone kept telling me that, and I guess it was working because now I had a voice in my head taunting me with the same line. Maybe it was true that not every woman wormed her way into your life only to lie to you and try to trap you. But Irina had been another in a long line of round-eyed, eyelash-batting women, promising me sweetness and love when what they really wanted was a cut of my money.
Irina, Jennifer, Margot, Tricia…I turned my eyes to the timbered ceiling. Before Tricia? Oh, sweet Jesus. Andrea. I must have blocked her out in the throes of my dating PTSD.
I rubbed my eyes, trying to erase the image of her sucking my old business partner’s dick. That had been a double whammy. The two of them schemed to try to squeeze me out of my own company.
The irony of my life burned in my chest. I’d founded SoulM8 to help people find love but also to find it myself. And the company was wildly successful. I, in turn, was wealthier and freer than I’d ever imagined. I could do whatever I wanted—except find my own soulmate.
I groaned and bounded down the stairs. More self-pity. The sudden presence of female pheromones was launching a sneak attack on my manhood. Vanilla and tropic fruit — like mango or something. That’s what Savannah smelled like. Sweet and—
None of my business.
That’s what I needed to tell my cock right now. I looked down at my tented jeans. That woman with her cashmere-covered boobs and puppy eyes is none of your business.
I resumed my chopping and browning and opened up two cans of beans. Make dinner. Eat dinner. Escape to my office with the excuse of work. Work all day tomorrow, and get her the hell out of here. It’s not like she needed a babysitter. She’d just been here and seemed to know her way around. I’d barely need to talk to her, let alone entertain her.
Entertain me.
I looked back at my crotch. Shut the fuck up.
You want her out? Call Griffin.
In addition to looking after the house, Griffin, a former Air Force pilot, also operated a helicopter charter service. As long as the airport was open, I could probably have him airlift my houseguest and her T&A out of here. I could send to her a hotel in Kalispell. If I wanted. Which I did. For sure. After dinner.
4
“Understand the POWER of beauty, feminine movement, and all forms sensual expression. Take your everyday look and KICK IT UP!!! No more going to the grocery store looking homeless! You think a good man should want you as you are? Eventually, yes, but that’s only half the story! The man of your dreams will embrace the real you. BUT the you that catches him isn’t the you who wanders around your house in a muumuu. It’s you PLUS. You POLISHED. You with SPARKLE. Embrace the sparkle!!!”
* * *
Despite Ms. De Laurence’s annoying obsession with capital letters and obnoxious punctuation, she had a point. One tight sweater, and Ian had practically drooled. And that made me nervous, but it was better than having him growl at me. He might make good siren practice after all, and then I could leave him with a better impression than my disheveled, windblown, spastic side.
Unfortunately, that sweater needed washing. I picked through my suitcase hoping something sexy would magically appear. I’d packed two sets of clothes: wedding party clothes and my usual leisure wear—one pair of (dirty) jeans, fleece-lined yoga pants, winter leggings, and…another pair of yoga pants plus a series of sloppy tunics and T-shirts.
Had I started reading the book before my flight out of Dallas, I would have prepared for daily sparkle.
Instead, I plucked the V-neck sweater off the floor, noticed a barbecue stain on the sleeve, and gave it a sniff. No. I shoved it into my dirty clothes bag and keep looking, but sparkle was in short supply unless I wanted to wear my rehearsal dinner cocktail dress or, worse, the bridesmaid’s gown. Both options were probably too much glam for chili.
Since “the inner confidence of beauty” was as important as the external presentation of it, I settled for wearing my sexiest bra, which I brought to wear under my cocktail dress, and my light grey, dolman-sleeved T-shirt that always ended up off one shoulder. The shirt read, “Sorry I’m late. I didn’t want to come.” Not exactly a beacon of positivity, but maybe he’d find it funny.
I strapped on the black, lace bra with its slightly undersized cups. No matter how many times I got fitted for these things, I always had boob spillage. Whatever. Tonight, that was a plus.
As I leaned forward in the bathroom mirror to apply mascara, the T-shirt fell away at the neck line. The tops of my breasts squished into their laced harness said hello to me in the mirror. I quelled the urge to cover up the boobiliciousness with my cardigan from the airplane.
“This is what we’re wearing,” I declared and smacked my glossed lips together.
I knew better than to keep obsessing, so I tore myself away and padded barefoot across the heated floor and out the door.
The minute I got downstairs, I wished I had the sweater. Not because it was cold. Ian had the fireplace in the foyer roaring along with the one in the living room. Plus, with the centralized heat, the whole house was toasty and was starting to fill up with the wonderful smells of his cooking.
No. The thermostat was fine, but he gaped at me as I turned into the living room from th
e stairs. I swear the room temperature went up another five degrees.
“You showered.” He ripped his eyes from me and back down at his pot on the stove.
“I took a bath. I couldn’t resist.” The words came out with such a squeak, I startled myself. Sirens probably had deeper, more melodic voices. “That bathtub is amazing.”
He grunted a series of words. I thought I heard a “good” and “glad.”
“Dinner smells…” I almost said amazing again. “Delicious.”
I hopped into the swiveling bar seat that gave me trouble earlier.
“It’s not fancy.”
“I’m sure it’s great. Thank you again for cooking and letting me stay here.” I tilted my eyes up to his and smiled. He blinked and kept stirring, saying nothing. My siren’s song was clearly off key.
“How long have you lived up here?”
“I bought the land seven years ago and started construction five years ago. That took about,” he paused and glanced up at the beamed ceiling, “two years—give or take.”
“But you don’t live here full-time?”
“No. I have a place in the Valley and penthouse in the city.”
“Nice.” I smiled and fanned my lashes at him. He pulled his chin back like he’d just noticed something foul on my face and then grabbed one of the bowls next to the stove top centered in the island.
“There’s shredded cheese and some sour cream if you want. On the table,” he said, then handed me a filled bowl.
I moved from the bar to a seat at the end of the oak table big enough to seat ten. When he approached the table with his bowl, his eyes switched from the chair next to me to the chair at the other end of the table. Sit next to me. Sit next to me.
Then, he did.
Maybe I had more allure than I thought. Or he had more manners.
Ian had set the table with everything we’d need. I sprinkled some cheese and chopped green onion into my bowl and dug in, probably too aggressively for Dr. De Laurence, but I was starving.
The food tasted even better than it smelled.
“Seriously. Thank you for cooking. This is really good.”
“You don’t have to keep thanking me.” He might have sounded gruff except for the infinitesimal smile lifting the corners of his mouth.
“I feel like I do. If not for you, I might be frozen to death by the side of the road somewhere.”
“I’m sure you would have figured something out, and in a couple of days, you’ll be back home in Texas. You and Michelle both lived there, right?”
“Yeah, but she moved to New York a couple of months ago.” I tried not to sound wistful even though I already missed my sister like hell.
“It’s not so bad. Now you have a reason to visit New York.”
My lip curled up. “Not sure that’s a plus. I’m not a huge fan of New York City.”
“Why not?”
“I know I probably sound like a yokel, but it’s too loud and crowded and busy. It gives me a headache. I don’t think I could live there unless I was a billionaire or something and could afford to live as high above the noise as possible.”
Ian flinched. Was it bad to use the “b” word when sitting across from one? Flop sweat gathered on my chest and back and trickled down my body.
“It’s just things are so expensive there. It’s so hard to have space. It’s like I can’t breathe or whatever, and I feel rushed. In New York, it seems like you have to have a lot of money just have peace and quiet. And even then, you don’t really…” I trailed off, staring into his blank face as the words fell out of me and ran around chasing their tail.
“It’s a different lifestyle. People don’t require space. Or so I’m told. My ex loved it there. She refused to move.”
“Wasn’t she a model? I would imagine she’d have to be there to work.”
Ian dropped his head to the side. “Did you Google me?”
My face felt blistered from hot embarrassment. Of course, I’d looked him up. What woman wouldn’t Google him the minute you found out you were staying at his house? “No.”
“Liar.”
“It’s hard not to know a little something about the man named one of America’s top five hottest bachelors by Gloss Magazine.”
“I didn’t think any females over the age of sixteen read Gloss Magazine.”
“Hey, they are doing some excellent journalism these days, covering politics and the world.”
“Is that right?” His mouth tilted sideways, making him look like a sexy lumberjack. The beard wasn’t so bad when he smiled. “What else did you read about me?”
“Nothing much. Michelle told me that your girlfriend was a model.”
His “I chop wood like a strapping man” grin receded. “Still is. A model, that is.”
“That sounds…exciting.”
Ian emitted a strained grumble. “Not really.”
I stuffed a spoonful of chili in my mouth and chewed, looking past Ian into the kitchen and counting magnets on his sleek, black stainless steel refrigerator.
He coughed. “So, what do you do?”
Yay. My turn to be disgruntled. “It’s a stupid job. I’m looking for something else as soon as I get home.”
“That doesn’t answer the question. And if you’re making a living, it’s by definition not stupid.” He pointed his spoon at me.
A gulp of air slowly slid out of me like a leaking tire. “I’m an assistant at an oil and gas company. I support a couple of the executives there.”
Ian shook his head. “That’s a reasonable job. Why do you think it’s stupid?”
“It’s not the work. It’s the job. The CEO is a maniac. He screams and curses and everyone is always scurrying out of his way like rats. No one stands up to him. I—”
No. I wasn’t going to tell a self-made, driven, entrepreneur worth a billion dollars that my secretary job gave me panic attacks.
“I’m hanging on until I get my bonus in March, and then I’m gone.”
“And then what?”
“I—” My mouth froze up again, and so I shrugged.
“What’s your dream?” Ian’s eyes lit up, and he leaned toward me.
“You’re going to think I’m ridiculous.”
“Nope. I guarantee you I won’t. Tell me.”
His earnest chestnut gaze lured me in. “I’ve always wanted to write novels.” I paused and swallowed. “Romance novels.”
Here we go. I braced for him to make some snide remark about Fifty Shades of Grey.
He grinned. “That’s cool. You should do that.”
“Really?” Shock put a squeak back in my voice.
“Yes,” he said with an assurance I’d never felt. “You don’t think so?”
“I do, but that’s not the response I usually get—especially from men.”
Ian leaned back and pushed his now-empty bowl to the center of the table. “Huh. Well, I spend my days working on new and better ways to help people find romance, so I think it’s great.”
His unexpected support eased the tension in my shoulders, and I exhaled—not realizing I’d been holding my breath.
“How do you do that? Helping people find romance.”
Ian straightened up and rubbed his hands together. “We have algorithms that match people based on their priorities. They fill out a profile and then rate the categories of information on importance on a one to five scale. Then, they list their must haves and deal breakers. Our system analyzes the ratings and the keyword matches and scores compatibility.”
“And the new and better part?”
“We’ve built in some new AI to improve our matching system based on who people end up communicating with and learning when two people who’ve been communicating simultaneously stop coming into the app or when one does, but the other keeps surfing. There’s a lot of user behavior to look at.”
“AI like bots?” I’d read an article about how companies are using artificial intelligence computer programs to do work that people
used to do. Another reason to get out of the administrative assistant business before I got replaced by Siri.
“Not yet. I mean more machine learning stuff. But we are working on doing a more interactive intake process.”
I had no idea what that meant, but Ian’s eagerness to explain kept me from feeling ignorant.
“The profile piece. We rolled out a video option where people can record some of the answers on their phone and give a fuller view into their personality. But we can apply analytics to the videos and see how they light up, for example, when they talk about their dog or their kid or skydiving or whatever. We can compare that to the ratings they gave certain topics or ideas in their profile. It gives us data to be able to eventually have the entire profile process be video. They can just talk—almost like old school video dating—but then we’ll do the profiling based on the answers and demeanor. It’ll be more on how we observe them for real versus what they say is important to them.”
“People lie that much?” I asked.
“People aren’t always aware of what they really want. Some women say they want a brilliant match with a college education, but they only talk to shirtless gym rats with GEDs. Or guys say they want a nice, family-oriented woman, but they pick the women with the biggest boobs.”
Ian flushed a little and pretended not to dart his eyes to the “Sorry I’m late” slanting across my chest. He was a boob man for sure.
“God, that’s really cool but kind of freaky.” I slid back in my chair and folded my arms across my chest.
“What?”
I narrowed my eyes. “All the things that you end up knowing about us. You and Facebook and Google.”
Ian smiled. “Us? You have a SoulM8 profile?”
I shut up and played with a piece of fuzz on my pants. I’d set one up years ago, and every six months or so, I would plow back in before running scared and letting it go dormant again.
