He approached the problem like every other one in his business of takeovers. He analyzed what mattered to me, and the likelihood of my conning someone into providing it for me. He had discovered the magic key over the summer. I reached down to stroke the soft leather of my four-inch sling backs.
It was shoes. I adored them. Couldn’t resist them, and there were no college guys that could afford the shoes I wanted. He had me at that point. He refused to buy me shoes. I had to earn the money for them. I still shuddered at the memory of those first two weeks when I had to wait for my paycheck to buy a pair of red peep toe Christian Louboutin’s. They had cost me two entire paychecks, and I learned that I would have to budget. I winced at the word. It made me itch every time I thought of it. The concept of saving money for something I wanted had been completely foreign to me.
“It wasn’t impressive enough.” His words brought me back to the conversation at hand. He looked frustrated and a bit ashamed. I tilted my head, beckoning him to continue. He sat down across from me and leaned forward. He ran a hand through his mane, tousling it further and explaining the tumbled mess it was in.
“I just came back from a job interview.” He didn’t see my mouth drop open at that statement. “It’s my dream job, and I’m perfect for it!” he exclaimed, a befuddled look on his face. “But they said I didn’t fit their ‘image.’ I don’t get what they mean. I have an accounting and finance degree, an MBA and a law degree. I couldn’t be more qualified.”
I cleared my throat delicately. “Is that what you were wearing during the interview?”
He looked up at me and then down at his clothes. “Yes, I got the suit specifically for it.”
I closed my eyes briefly at this information. I pondered how to inform him of why he didn’t fit their image. I decided to be blunt. “You’re a hot mess.”
He reared back slightly at my words, and then looked offended. I raised my hand to stave off the argument I knew was coming. I had met my fair share of lawyers, and you could always expect a well-executed argument. I had no doubt he was the same, even if he did look like a disheveled Matthew McConaughey from the film The Lincoln Lawyer. “Your clothes are wrinkled and don’t fit. You need a haircut, and is that a pocket protector?” I asked, with a controlled grimace.
He touched his pocket. “I didn’t want to mess up the shirt.” He shook his head. “Clothes shouldn’t matter. I know every law decision and precedent for the past seventy-five years. What does my ability have to do with what I’m wearing?”
I blinked at him, “It’s about trust.” He looked at me like I was insane, so I explained. “You want a lawyer that looks like a shark, not a half-eaten piece of bait,” I told him, with a shrug. “Appearances really are everything in the world of politics, business, and law. You have to look the part.” His look of utter defeat tugged at me.
“I don’t know how. This was the job I wanted. I need it.” I could hear the desperation in his tone, and I looked down at his lease agreement. Emergency contact was blank. I had the feeling he hadn't missed it, but that there was no one to put there. “You think they’d give me a second chance?” He gave me a look of such hope, I couldn’t burst his bubble.
“I’m sure they will.” I even managed to sound convincing to myself. “We just need to give you a little makeover, and they’ll hire you on the spot!” I gave him an encouraging smile, and watched, as a matching one came over his face.
“Really?” he said hopefully, before a look of despair came over him. “But I don’t know how to dress or look or act. Where do you go for a makeover?”
A Cheshire grin crossed my face at his innocence. “Oh no worries, young Skywalker. You’ve met your Obi-Wan.” Understanding dawned on him at my Star Wars reference, and I bounced in my seat in excitement. This would be fun.
I dropped the lease agreement on the pile on my desk and hopped up. “Let’s go.” He stood up, looking at me curiously. “There’s no time like the present.”
“Don’t you have to stay here until six?” he asked, gesturing to the hours posted on the leasing office doors. I waved my hand, unconcerned. “We have more important matters.” I looked at his outfit again and gave a deep sigh. “This really can’t wait.”
A few minutes later, we were out the door, my bag and keys in hand. “Which building?” I asked, pausing next to my Audi SUV. He looked at it, and then me again, but I waited for his answer.
“Building F, apartment 217,” he answered reluctantly. I saw the hesitation creeping over him.
“Do you want the job or not? Because I’m your only hope at the moment,” I told him, lifting a questioning eyebrow. He nodded slowly, before going to an older model Accord that looked like the rust was the only thing holding it together. I had a feeling a shopping trip would be in our future.
I followed him around the parking lot to his building, parking next to him. The differences between us were glaringly obvious, but he didn’t look the slightest bit ashamed, and my respect for him went up a notch. I was well aware of my wealth, but also knew not everyone was as lucky as I was. He didn’t attempt excuses, or drool over me, because I had wealth and he didn’t. I appreciated that.
When we got to his apartment, I looked around curiously. Surprisingly, it was clean and picked up. I had expected to see an apartment as messy as the man in front of me. His furniture was old and a bit worn, but clean. He didn’t have much, but he had moved in recently. Perhaps he hadn’t had time to get anything else. I set my bag on the counter before looking at him.
“Strip.”
Chapter Three
The look of shock on his face would have been amusing, if he didn’t just stand there dawdling.
“Excuse me?” he stuttered, a slow flush rising up his cheeks.
“I’m pretty sure my words were clear. It’s cute you're embarrassed, but trust me you haven’t got anything I haven’t seen. Now strip,” I told him impatiently, with a flip of my hand.
“Embarrassed? Oh no sweetheart. I’m a lot of things right now, but embarrassed isn’t one of them. Who the hell do you think you are?” he finished with a roar, startling the crap out of me. I jumped a bit and noticed he was breathing heavily. He really was angry.
“I’m Olivia Martin. And you asked for my help!” I griped, hands going to my hips at his tone. The absolute insufferability of some people.
“I don’t think I actually ever asked for your help. And I’m pretty sure at no point did I agree to strip for you,” he said angrily.
“I need to see what I’m working with!” I exclaimed. “Your clothes are a baggy mess. In fact, we can put them in the garbage. I need to get your measurements, so we can get clothes tailored to fit you.”
“Put them in the garbage? What world do you live in, sweetheart? I can’t afford to throw away perfectly good clothes, because you don’t think they’re good enough.” His anger came through loud and clear, as he paced in front of me. “Oh yeah, you drive an expensive SUV and wear shoes that cost more than my car did. Do you have any idea what it’s like to struggle?” I gathered his question was rhetorical, but I answered him anyway.
“No, I don’t. At least not for material things,” I told him honestly. “I didn’t mean to insult you. I was going to buy you new clothes.” I could see his mouth drop open, ready to ream me out and I waved at him. “I know that sounds condescending, but I don’t mean it that way. One suit. You need to make an impression on those people to get the job you want. I have money. I'm not going to deny it or be ashamed of it. But I can use it to help you.” I paused and looked at him, an unfamiliar sense of shame coming over me. “I didn’t start off right. I shouldn’t have come in and demanded, or told you your clothes should be thrown away.” He raised an eyebrow, and I forced the words out. “I’m sorry.”
He smirked and said, “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it sweet—”
“And don’t call me sweetheart.”
He bit the rest of the word off and nodded. “How about Livie? Can you handle that?�
�� I cocked my head in consideration. I had never had a nickname before and kind of liked it. I gave a slow nod of agreement, and he held out a hand. I gingerly reached out to shake it. His warm palm felt hard against mine. There was no denying the shock that jolted between us when our skin met, and we looked at each other carefully before pulling our hands apart.
A minute later, he reached up to tug at his already loosened tie. The motion was casual and appealingly sexy. With a tug, it came loose, and he dropped it to the floor. Next, he toed off his ugly ass brown shoes and shrugged out of the jacket that looked two sizes too big. He tossed it on the counter next to my bag, and I shifted a bit. His hand went up to the buttons on his shirt, and with a slow flick, he undid the first one. I noticed it seemed a bit warmer in the apartment and made a note to have someone come check the A/C unit.
With each button, it got a little warmer, and I attempted to discreetly fan myself. He caught the motion, and a slow grin crossed his face. I forced myself to stop and hold still. I had told him the truth. He didn’t have anything I hadn’t seen already. On TV that was.
As he removed his dress shirt, I couldn’t help the thought that, for a man who had no social skills, he sure did know his way around a strip tease. He had a plain white t-shirt on underneath, and he left it on, as he moved his hand to his belt buckle next. He undid the buckle with a quick motion and slid it off. He coiled it in his hand, the leather sliding smoothly between his fingers. I felt a hitch in my breathing, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the belt in his hand. He set it on the counter, and I looked back over at him. His eyes were on me, his stare penetrating, as he reached a hand to the hem of his t-shirt. He tugged it from his pants, drawing my eye, as I licked my lips. I heard a soft groan, but ignored it, as he pulled the shirt up and over with one hand.
I gave a gasp at the body he had hidden under those ill-fitting clothes. He was lean and hard, every muscle defined. He didn’t have the thick muscle of a bodybuilder, but instead, the inherent strength of a man forced to work hard labor.
I felt the weight of his stare, as his hand dropped to the zipper on his pants. He hovered for a moment, giving me the opportunity to tell him to stop. My curiosity was wild by this point, and no way would I tell him anything. He unzipped his pants and quickly shed them. He had on boxer briefs and wore them in a way that made me think Calvin Klein models needed to take a lesson from him. He stood there, more comfortable in his partial nudity than he had been fully clothed at the leasing office.
I wouldn’t deny it. I ogled him for a good five minutes before he finally cleared his throat. I snapped my eyes to meet his, and he tried to control his smirk. I straightened my back and moved to the counter. I reached for my bag and he said, “Leaving so soon?” I heard the laughter in his voice and knew he thought he had managed to scare me off. I grabbed the tape measure I had stashed and gave him a smirk of my own.
“Nope. Just need to get your measurements.” His look of chagrin made me laugh, but a moment later, neither of us were laughing when I bent down to measure his inseam.
I fumbled with the tape measure, desperately trying to avoid looking at the package directly in front of my face, as I pulled the tape up his leg. I couldn’t help but notice a twitch from the corner of my eye, and I flushed. He cleared his throat, and I could hear him muttering something under his breath, but I didn’t ask him what he was saying. I managed to get the measurement finally and stood up to finish. I measured his arms and chest before realizing he was rattling off baseball stats.
I looked everywhere but at him, as I put up my tape measure. “I should probably see what you have in your closet to work with,” I told him, the thought of seeing his bedroom increasing the temperature in the already sweltering room.
“Not tonight,” he gritted out, moving behind the counter. “I have to head into work in a few.”
“Oh, okay,” I said, my disappointment mingling with relief. “Where do you work?” I had a strange desire to keep the conversation going. He gave me a quick look before answering. “I load trucks for a shipping company. I work the late shift,” I nodded, thinking that was how he managed those muscles.
“We should probably exchange numbers. So you can call me when you have time to finish the makeover,” He nodded, and I could see the question on his face.
“How are we going to get them to talk to me? There’s no point in a makeover, if they won’t give me another chance.” His look was challenging, and I gave him an ‘Are you kidding me?’ look.
“Have a little faith. I have my ways, and trust me when I say there is most definitely a point in giving you a makeover.” I grabbed a pad and jotted my number down. “Text me when you’ll be home. And remember I know where you live, so if I don’t hear from you by the weekend, I’ll be back.” I gave a smile at the stunned look on his face, before flouncing to the door. Before I could walk out, he recovered enough to say, “Beckett.” I looked back at him and said, “I know. Beckett Hughes, lawyer extraordinaire.”
Chapter Four
It took him two days to text me, which was about eight hours longer than I expected it to take him. I was lazing in the sun on my rooftop terrace when the phone dinged. I didn’t even need to check to know it would be him. I was secretly glad, because I would have had no choice but to keep my word and go back to his apartment, if he hadn’t contacted me. And that just screamed desperate to me.
I contemplated waiting to reply back, but it was ingrained in me to promptly respond to phone calls and texts. Daddy always said good manners were good business, and I found it applied to boys, as well. Men, I mentally corrected. Beckett was no boy. At least, not like any I had seen on campus. He was a grown man, already graduated from law school, compared to my nineteen years.
I checked my messages and read, “I don’t have to work this evening. Would you like to come over and decimate my closet?” I laughed at his wording, feeling like there was nothing sexier than an intelligent man.
“I would be happy to. Six ok?” I typed. He responded promptly, causing me to smile further.
“That would be perfect. I’ll make dinner.” My eyebrows arched a bit at the mention of dinner.
“You cook?” I texted, figuring he would buy something already prepared.
“If I want to eat,” he answered, and I snorted. “Surprised?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“Can you cook?” he asked me, and I debated whether to tell him the truth. I could cook and quite well. The privilege of being bored one summer and aggravating our cook to the point that she put me to work. However, it was rare that I let that information slip or showcased my ability.
“I can,” I finally responded, figuring there was no reason to withhold the truth.
“Interesting. You’re full of contradictions.” I felt a flutter of pleasure at his words, as well as his proper use of English in his text message. I wasn’t the girl that used emoticons or abbreviations. They irritated me to no end, because I inevitably had to look up what they meant. Years spent by my father’s side, as he brokered billion dollar deals, and being educated by the best tutors’ money could buy, left little tolerance for slang.
I kept an eye on the time, as I got ready for our date, and it was definitely a date. I had decided that already. When a man made or bought you dinner, that made it a date. What had begun as a makeover had changed during his strip tease. We had both felt the undercurrent, and even as sheltered as I had been growing up, I knew there was something there. I had never shied away from an adventure, and I wouldn’t start now.
As I rang his doorbell, I couldn’t deny the nervous energy I felt. The feeling of stepping on the edge of a precipice and looking down. That flip flop of your stomach, as you contemplated the odds of falling. Then the door opened, and I caught my breath.
He had shaved and combed back his lion’s mane. There was a hint of his aftershave on the air, and he wore a black tee with jeans, and his feet were bare. I couldn’t help but stare at his feet, the long toes and
the sheer size of them. I had never before had the thought that feet were sexy, but his were. A thought niggled at the back of my mind that there was some comparison you could make between size of feet and other parts, but I couldn’t remember what exactly.
He looked down to see what I was staring at, and I watched him wiggle his toes. “Would you like me to put shoes on?” he asked, carefully, and I flushed, realizing how long I had been staring. I shook my head, and shoved the garment bag I was holding at him.
“It’s not perfect, because it hasn’t been custom tailored, but I have a feeling it will look good on you.” I managed not to add that he could make a paper sack look good. I had the thought that I was overdressed, but disregarded it. There was no such thing as casual for me. Clothes were my art, my passion, the way I expressed myself. The click of my heels and the swish of my skirt were trademarks, sounds both familiar and comforting to me.
“You look beautiful,” he remarked, and I felt the sincerity in his words. I looked at him, and he turned his head, uncomfortable with his honesty.
“Thank you,” I answered, smiling, because he liked what he saw. “You look good too. That suits you much better than what you were wearing the last time I saw you.”
“Should I be insulted?” he asked, teasing me. “The last time you saw me; I was practically in my birthday suit.”
My smile was equal parts coy and shy. “Before you stripped, I meant.”
“Let me go put this on,” he said, indicating the garment in his arms. I protested, “You don’t have to do that.” Truthfully, he looked good enough to eat, exactly as he was.
“No, I want to. You look incredible and fancy. I’ll dress up to match.” His smile was confidently sexy and made my toes curl inside of my stilettos. I had a gray sheath dress on, with black pearls and a pair of gorgeous pearlescent Choo’s. They were last season, but that didn’t matter to me. I bought only what I absolutely loved and would wear them repeatedly.
The Anderson Brothers Complete Series Page 38
