by Alisha Rai
He is not here to sex you up. Calm down. “What proposition?”
He nudged his chair closer to her desk, and sat again, handing her his phone. “I had my first date for the campaign after you left. Here’s the raw footage.”
Aw, shit. He was gonna make her watch him turn his sweet smile on that beautiful woman?
She sniffed, to make it supremely clear she did not give a fuck about anything he did or who he talked to, and hit play on the video. “She’s gorgeous,” she admitted in as flat a tone as possible. Just because she didn’t dress up didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate style. The woman exuded glamour, from the tips of her fiery hair to her high strappy sandals.
“Hmm,” Samson agreed. “Keep watching.”
Rhiannon refocused on the meeting, hitting the volume button up so she could properly hear their exchange. After a minute, her eyes went wide. After three minutes, she looked up at him. “Did you seriously ask her if she was wearing hair extensions?”
He rolled his lips in. “Keep watching,” he repeated.
Rhiannon couldn’t help but do just that, and her envy vanished as she watched the couple on the screen with all the horrified fascination of someone watching a train wreck. She winced when Samson choked on a french fry. He took a sip of water, which he then spit on the tablecloth when he was racked by a coughing fit.
She inhaled when Samson oh-so-casually asked his date if she liked to “Netflix and chill” with her nephew and his reaction when the far-too-patient woman explained what he was asking. “What did you think Netflix and chill meant?” Rhiannon demanded, pausing the video.
“Exactly what it says! Watch television and relax.” He shook his head, bewildered. “I didn’t know it was about sex. Why can’t people say what they want to say?”
“Because we live in a puritanical society that can’t use the S word out loud.” Rhiannon shook her head. “You’re not that old, how do you not know slang?”
He sniffed. “It doesn’t have anything to do with age. I haven’t been plugged in for a while. This is the internet’s fault, going around changing words and meanings.”
Rhiannon rubbed her hand over her mouth to hide her smile. But she had to bite her lip not to laugh when Samson’s big hand knocked the girl’s large glass of wine over. Right into her lap.
Samson cleared his throat. “Let’s shut it down there. That’s enough for you to get the gist of what happened.”
She turned the video off in the middle of Samson’s frantic attempts to dry the girl’s dress, and put the phone on her desk. Then she looked up at Samson, whose face was a deep red under his brown skin.
Maybe it was because she’d been talking to her mother, but all she could do was channel Sonya. “Oh, honey.”
He groaned. “I know. It was bad.”
“Not bad necessarily—no, you’re right.” Rhiannon handed him his phone back. “You were a fucking hot mess.” She shouldn’t feel good about that. It was mean to feel good about it.
Ah, but she did. Not only because he definitely hadn’t been this graceless on their one and only date, but because she wanted him to have some flaws. The man was too perfect and shiny otherwise.
“I’m aware.” He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “That’s why I’m here.”
“I don’t know how I can help you with your gracelessness.”
“Aunt Belle’s assistant, Tina, said something interesting. About how you and I have much better chemistry than this poor woman and I did.”
Rhiannon narrowed her eyes, even as her heart skipped a beat or two. “I don’t follow.”
Samson rose from his seat and walked around the desk. She scooted back, to give him more room, because he required so much room. He perched on the desk and smiled down at her. “I have an idea for a better campaign. You and me.”
“We date?” Her voice squeaked.
“Not exactly. The idea we came up with was airing this debacle”—he gestured to the phone—“online. I originally didn’t want to do that, because I feel bad for Rachel, but I’ve talked to her since. She’s an actress, and eager for publicity, and she said it was clear I was the fuckup, not her.” His faint smile made it clear he didn’t mind that description.
“She’s not wrong. You will look bad, if that gets released to the public.”
“I’ll look foolish.”
“Doesn’t that upset you?” It would upset a lot of men she knew, to give the world the impression that they were anything but smooth as butter.
“Looking foolish? It wouldn’t be the first time. And it’s a pretty benign form of foolishness. After I got over my horror and embarrassment, even I found it funny.”
People would eat it up with a spoon. There was something utterly charming about a handsome, attractive, otherwise together man fumbling when it came to women. “What’s my role in all this?”
“All my matches are placed on hold. Instead, you and I go out to cool places around the city and chat about dating. We can say that you’re teaching me, helping me get back into the game. No cameramen, no closed set, we shoot it on our phones.”
“We’re competitors.”
“Like you said, we’re colleagues. The public loves it when brands work together, according to our marketing team.”
Not totally false, if the crossover was properly done. Rhiannon mulled that over. “And what do I and Crush get out of this?”
“You’ll be viewed as an expert on love and dating.”
“Meanwhile, Matchmaker will be cast as a clueless, old-fashioned ingenue in this setup,” she pointed out.
“Matchmaker is old-fashioned. We lean in on that, people wanting love the old-fashioned way. And a lot of our base will identify with a guy who feels bewildered with the way digital dating has changed love. Your base will identify with a woman of the world. You and I know we have a good rapport. This works. For both of us. For Crush and Matchmaker.”
She examined the idea all around, looking for more holes to poke into it. But other than the fact that it was something of a strange concept to craft a joint marketing campaign with your competitor—colleague, whatever—she couldn’t find anything, on its face, to discredit it.
Except for the fact that she’d be with Samson. Again and again. Talking to him about love and dating and then walking away. Priming him to be the perfect date for some other woman.
But those were emotional reasons against doing this thing, and she wasn’t ruled by her emotions. “You came up with this?”
His smile was sly. “Did I tell you my degree is in marketing?”
“You know you didn’t. You haven’t talked to Annabelle yet. She may not like this.”
“She doesn’t usually concern herself with this level of detail. William is happy with the idea, and our marketing people are ecstatic over it. She’ll be fine.”
“I have to talk to my team.”
He nodded. “Why don’t you do that today?”
“Is this time sensitive?”
“Anything meant for the internet is time sensitive, I’ve been told.”
She mulled it over for a long moment. As if he knew she was wavering, he leaned closer and placed his hand on the back of her chair, boxing her in. Her breath caught as he brushed his other hand over hers, where it rested on the arm of her chair. “Come on. It’ll be fun and benefit both of us. We do have good chemistry, Rhi,” he murmured. “You can’t deny that.”
She licked her suddenly dry lips. Rhi. Not the first time he’d used her nickname, but it slid over her ears like silk in his deep, dark voice. His palm was so heavy, the calluses of his thumb rasping over her skin as he rubbed in the tiniest gesture. She wanted to flip her hand over and hold it. “We might.”
“Might?”
His shoulders seemed to grow bigger. What was he, a peacock? If so, she was an animal too, because her heartbeat was responding to whatever mating dance body language he had going on. “I don’t think there’s any question about it.” He straightened away from
her, unboxing her body. For the first time since he’d walked into the room, his face grew grave and vulnerable. “Look. Let me address the elephant in the room. I clearly like you and am attracted to you, so if something were to develop between us, physically or whatever, it would be fine with me. I’m not going to badger you about it, though, or make you justify your choices if that choice is no. You have my number. You can come to me.”
She tried to summon her voice, to explain the problem to him: she didn’t fuck with the same man twice, especially one who had hurt her before. It was far too risky. She’d been decimated before, and by someone whom she’d thought was on her side. Samson was technically a competitor, and she needed to be careful.
Never again.
She couldn’t force the words out, though.
When she sat silent, he lifted a shoulder. “Don’t stress, Rhi. I have to go meet a friend right now.” He named a downtown bar she was somewhat familiar with. “Someone recommended that place to me. I’ll be there tonight, around eight. Since you like to track me down so much, if you make a decision, come there and let me know if you’re ready to roll.”
She rose to her feet when he did, the words that finally emerged from her mouth blessedly strong and assertive. “Or I’ll call you.”
His look was filled with kind humor, like he knew she’d come find him over calling him. “Whatever you’d like. I’ll be there no matter what.”
She pursed her lips, trying to figure out if there was some double meaning behind his words. Was he trying to impress upon her that he was man of his word? Well, too bad. Nothing would help her learn to trust him again except his behavior.
She followed him to the door, and opened it for him. He nodded to her as he left. “I look forward to hearing from you, Rhi.” The intimate use of her nickname made her toes curl. How could such polite words sound like a sexy veiled threat?
She watched him walk away, trying not to stare too hard at his butt, but what else was one supposed to look at when a hot man was walking away from you?
Aw, shit. The truth hit her like a tidal wave.
She was going to sleep with him again.
Yeah, yeah, she didn’t sleep with the same dude twice, she didn’t fuck with zombies. Her dating rules were going to go out the window with this guy. She could feel it. Gawd, maybe soon he’d send her a dick pic and she’d find it charming, thus cancelling every rule she’d ever made for herself.
She shuddered. Let’s not go that far.
Fine. She might sleep with him again. But she’d do it on her terms. It would be within her control.
He disappeared from view as he descended the stairs that took him down to the exit, taking his bubble butt with him. That was when she realized a good dozen curious eyes were staring at her, the office chatter definitely at a lower volume than what it usually was. She frowned, and that was enough for everyone to get back to work. Or pretend to get back to work.
Everyone except Lakshmi, of course, who came clipping up to her in stilettos. “Were the layers a good idea?”
“Yeah,” Rhiannon said. The lipstick hadn’t been bulletproof, so if she did see Samson tonight, she’d add a couple extra layers first. At the very least, she’d wear a pair of pants with buttons, and not these threadbare sweats. “Get Suzie and the rest of marketing into the conference room in five. We have an interesting opportunity in front of us.”
Chapter Eleven
SHOULD HAVE given her a more specific time frame.
Samson sipped his second soda and tried not to stare at the entrance. He’d selected this place because it was dimly lit and intimate, a speakeasy tucked inside an unassuming restaurant. He’d chosen a booth in the corner. It was still early enough that not many people were drinking at the bar. He and Rhiannon could talk here.
If she showed up. He checked his watch again. She could easily vanish on him, he told himself, trying to manage his expectations.
Samson internally grimaced at the memory of her expression when he’d said he’d be interested in something personal developing between them again. That Night, when he’d asked to see her again, she hadn’t looked that conflicted. Her agreement had been hesitant, but it had come. He truly hated that she’d taken a chance on him, on doing something she didn’t normally do, and he’d let her down.
His mother had been a gentle soul, and she’d been the one he’d gone to for dating advice, from the time he was old enough to understand why he felt some kind of way about a girl. Especially once he hit his late teens and his father’s personality had undergone a drastic reversal.
He remembered one epic lecture when he’d come home and told Lulu his ninth-grade crush had reacted in what he thought was an unreasonable way to something he’d said and started crying. First Lulu had dissected exactly all the way his words had been harmful, and then really lit into him.
Every time you hurt someone, you break off a little piece of them. Not only do they have to live with that broken piece, then the next person who comes along has to figure out a way to spackle that spot. Your behavior has ripple effects.
He owed Rhi for the piece he’d broken off her. This campaign might possibly make up for some of that. It would help her and Crush, which she seemed to love above all else.
Yes, he wanted her. But he’d meant what he’d said, and he wasn’t going to pressure her for anything more than a business relationship. If she decided that she couldn’t stand being around him without them both getting naked, well . . .
He snorted to himself. Fat chance of that happening, but it was a nice fantasy. His phone vibrated, and he pulled it out, frowning at the unfamiliar New York City area code on the screen. He had it set to Do Not Disturb for unknown callers, so it had gone straight to voice mail.
It wasn’t particularly loud in the bar, but his hearing wasn’t the best—another souvenir of his former profession—so he pressed one finger in one ear to hear the message. “Hey, Samson. This is Trevor. Trevor Sanders? I’m sorry to cold-call you like this, but I saw that you were back in the public eye and I was hoping to speak with you about this exciting new organization I’m starting. I’m going to be in L.A. soon and would love to sit down with you and talk. Or you can text me. Whatever works for you. Looking forward to hearing from you.”
His phone creaked under his tight grip and he eased up. This fucking asshole. Trevor. Trevor Sanders?
Like he wouldn’t know who Trevor was. Former star quarterback of the Brewers. Blond haired, handsome, that stupid Colgate smile. The most expensive caps money could buy.
He sent a group text to Dean and Harris. Did one of you give my number to Trevor?
The denials were instant.
Nope.
Nah, man.
He rubbed his finger over his lips. Okay, thanks. He called me. I have nothing to say to him. Don’t give him any info about me, and tell anyone else the same thing.
The bubble popped up under Harris’s name. I didn’t give him your number, but I have talked to him recently. He didn’t give me all the details, but I guess he’s setting up some kind of nonprofit to help retired players.
Dean’s reply came before Samson could finish his text. Don’t care what he’s doing, he’s a dick for what he’s done. S, next time he calls, forward it to me.
Harris answered. Oh yeah. Not saying he’s not a dick for the past.
Warmth ran through Samson. He didn’t need protection, but it was nice to feel the brotherly camaraderie from men he’d known for forever.
Samson tapped back his reply. I’ll be fine. Let’s meet up for lunch soon.
“Is this seat taken?”
He jerked, his phone slipping away from him. “You’re quite the butterfingers, aren’t you?” Rhi remarked and bent over to scoop his phone up off the floor. “I guess I should be glad that wasn’t wine.”
He stood. “Literally no one’s ever called me clumsy before.”
She uttered an amused noise. Their fingers touched when she handed over his phone, and maybe it
was his imagination, but he swore her gaze lingered on his hands.
Rhi slid into the booth, opposite him. She’d changed since he’d seen her earlier, into slacks and a snug blazer, with a Prince T-shirt on under it. Her thick hair was gathered up in a claw clip, but a few tendrils brushed her cheek. “You look nice,” he said.
“I can clean up when I need to. I’m a board member for a domestic violence organization,” she said crisply. “We have a meeting tonight, I’m going straight there after this.”
“You look nice no matter what you wear.” He tried to dismiss the pang of disappointment that he was a stopover before she went somewhere else. That was fine. He hadn’t expected anything to come from tonight, except talk of their looming partnership.
Liar.
Okay. He hadn’t seriously expected anything to come of tonight. “Do you want a drink?” He slid the menu over to her. “According to reviews, they have good cocktails here—”
“I don’t need a menu.” Before he could signal the waitress, she raised her hand. “Vodka tonic with a splash of cranberry, please,” she told the server.
Samson waited for the waitress to leave. “You know what you want.”
“When it comes to drinks, yes.” Rhi’s face was unreadable. She clasped her hands on the table. Her nails were short and unpainted.
He straightened his shoulders, trying not to remember how those nails had pressed into his skin. And failing, terribly.
“Let’s cut to the chase.” Rhiannon cocked her head. “Crush is willing to get on board with this wacky idea of yours. My team actually loves it. They called it real Wholesome Content.”
Odd phrasing, but okay. “Are you willing to get on board with it?”
“I am.” Rhiannon’s drink came, and she swirled the liquid with the straw, the pretty pink of the glass’s contents matching her lips. There was something glittery in her lipstick, an added pop that might hypnotize him if he let it. “I have some . . . terms, let’s call them, though.”
