by Ember Leigh
Except once he was wiped from my memory banks, there would be no way in hell we’d find our way back to each other.
Carl was—is—a misogynist, pure and simple. We connected because of our work, and I was enamored with his power. He was my boss, so there was something inherently off-limits and sexy about it. The company we worked for had a permissive policy about interpersonal relationships, so it seemed fine. It all seemed fine. Until it wasn’t.
We had a sex-only relationship that turned into something more. In retrospect, I realize now that he’d been keeping me around for the benefits. Someone to grab dinner with. Frequent sex, but always on his terms. Willing ears to unload his anxieties onto.
But me, after a three-year dry spell post-college, I was so ready for a boyfriend that I lapped up his crumbs and called it a loaf of bread. It only took the “incident” in Columbus—the only way I refer to it nowadays—to help me see that Carl was a piece of shit. That our three years of pseudo-dating hadn’t meant much of anything to him.
In fact, it had meant nothing at all.
To him, I was just another pair of legs that occasionally spread for his benefit. A pair of legs that he asked me to spread for one of our top clients—only after said client groped the shit out of me—so that we could keep him on the account.
I wish he wasn’t one of the longest-running relationships in my personal history. I wish he hadn’t blacklisted me for whistleblowing his slimy ass. I wish a lot of things. But wishing doesn’t change the past.
All I can do is start over and make sure that this time around, I keep my dating life far away from the professional pool. Messing with the wrong sociopath can really set back a career. Though I don’t begrudge having to start over in Cleveland. I welcome the challenge—and I like being closer to Bayshore.
Even though the move was necessitated by Carl, I’m not going to let that define my life here.
So tonight’s visit to a place that I originally knew because of Carl feels a lot like a win. I’m dressing to the nines, so that I can look—and feel—a perfect ten. Carl be damned.
I take a rideshare to the restaurant, just in case. I have a sneaking suspicion that Dr. Dom might not be the type of man who only orders one drink. And if he wants the wine or screwdrivers or whisky neats to flow, then dammit, I need to be there beside him in his alcoholic log flume.
This is our last official required meeting for the duration of this project, so in a way, this is also a goodbye to my short-lived infatuation with him. Because after tonight, I’m laying it to rest.
Dominic will be well on his way to finding the woman of his dreams—even if those dreams are far less romantic than most sane people’s—and I will be well on my way to putting Dom back in the client folder, where he belongs.
I need to repeat that thought to myself as the rideshare winds through downtown Cleveland. Amid the busy streets and the ochre hues of sunset and the building anticipation of a great meal with a gorgeous man and his acid tongue…yeah, I basically need to tattoo this reminder on my forearm.
I’m wobblier than I like when I step out of the car, and I pull my light jacket tighter around me as a cool wind billows down the street. I’m dressed sexy chic but appropriate, with a skintight black wraparound paired with a trendy black leather jacket that gives the outfit an edge. I opted for smoky makeup as well, since I’m a grown woman who does what she wants, and I’m praying that Dominic doesn’t read into the clear signals I’m putting out there that I’m dressing up with the hope that he’ll notice.
It’s a terrible double standard, this business of being a woman. I want Dom, to notice but I don’t. I want him to want me, though he shouldn’t. I want him to hoist me in his arms and back me up against a wall, even though the very thought of that is the most forbidden thing in my career right now. I want to make him tumble at my feet, even though he is a jerk who does not deserve my while.
Warm, fragrant air envelops me as I step inside the restaurant, pure garlic and cork, and I’m immediately starving. At the host stand, I give them my name, but it’s unnecessary, because my gaze falls on the bar hugging the far wall of the restaurant.
And there he is. Leaning against the wooden bar top like he’s been plucked out of a movie, his charcoal button-up playing a little too well with his jet-black tresses and icy blue gaze. He sees me. I know it because goosepimples are covering my forearms and I’m drifting toward him without fully hearing what the employee is telling me. I think the host has a menu in his hand, or maybe he’s telling me to go sit in the corner and wait until the last ounce of my grace is sucked out of me from looking at this gorgeous man.
I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. I just need to be where Dominic is.
Dominic sips from a tumbler of amber liquid, his gaze never wavering from mine. Time slows as he drinks me in, and something snaps, electric sharp, between us. It feels a lot like desire, but maybe I’m imagining it. It could be curiosity. A sudden appreciation for my outfit. Or maybe he’s seeing me as the confident and successful woman that I’ve been striving toward since the incident. The woman I haven’t felt in far too long.
It’s too easy to read into his appreciative gaze, the way his attention ignites every synapse in my body. He’s probably standing there, thinking about how annoyed he is that I got here three minutes late, waiting to insult some other aspect of my career. There probably isn’t all this fervor that I’m feeling. All this longing and heat and thirst.
But part of me wants to imagine what if? What if he was undressing me with his eyes right now? What if his throat tightened at the first glimpse of me, like mine does when I see him? What if the sound of my voice made his thighs tense with need?
I shouldn’t even go there. I know better than that. But right now, all I want to do is imagine that it’s a possibility.
He lifts his tumbler in lieu of a greeting, gaze still sizzling on me as I approach. On the bar beside him sits the leather-backed portfolio of matches I gave him earlier today. One of them is his future wife. I need to focus on that.
“What do you want to drink?” he asks me.
“Chardonnay.”
A brow lifts. “No hesitation.”
“Are you going to micromanage my responses tonight?”
His jaw twitches. “That was my attempt at conversation.”
“Ah. Good to know.” I set my purse on the bar and begin sliding my jacket off. Once I’ve got it in my hands, Dom sets his drink down and quietly takes it from me. He effortlessly slings it over an arm and continues sipping his drink.
“You don’t have to hold it,” I say.
“But I will.”
I squash the grin threatening to take over my face. Thank God the bartender chooses that moment to appear. I open my mouth to speak, but Dom sweeps in and orders “the most expensive Chardonnay back there.”
“It doesn’t need to be the most expensive,” I tell him. “I didn’t even look at the wine list. How much do you think it is?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Well, I mean, it matters a little,” I tell him, though I don’t exactly want to air how tight things have been these last few weeks with the relocation and the client lull. I’m not hurting, but I should be strategic. And ordering a $50 glass of Chardonnay doesn’t exactly seem fiscally wise.
“I’m paying.” He watches me from over the rim of his glass as he tips more of his drink into his mouth.
“Actually,” I say, straightening my back, “I’m paying. This is part of the match selection process. So it falls in my domain.”
He laughs a little, setting the tumbler down. “No.”
I narrow my eyes, cocking a hip. “You hired me to do a job, and this is part of it.”
“I suggested we come here, so it falls on me.”
The energy between us spikes, and I can tell he’s not going to relent. He’s probably the type to pay off the server so that he never brings the bill to the table. The bartender returns with my drink, and I receive it gra
tefully, the chilled wine glass sticking to my fingertips.
“We’ll figure this out later,” I say, trying to sound firm. Like I mean it, which I no longer do.
“It’s already figured out.”
“Do you always critique the way people in other industries do their jobs, or is it a special service you reserve just for me?”
His cheek twitches, and that’s when I realize what we’ve been toying at this whole time. Where the pushing and meanness and critiquing is truly headed. God help us, we’re flirting.
I purse my lips at him before taking a cool sip of the wine. My eyes flutter shut, an inadvertent moan slipping out.
“Good?” he asks, as if he needs to.
“Worth whatever price tag it has on it.”
The corners of his mouth curl as he swirls the drink in his glass. “Then we’ll never know how much it was.”
“Aren’t you at least curious?”
“Not when knowing the price would make you stop drinking it. And you don’t interfere with anything that makes a woman make the noise that you just did.”
I almost choke at his words, and the smug smirk on his face sends heat to every corner of my body. I can’t tell if I’m aroused or mortified. Scratch that—I’m both.
The host arrives, telling us in hushed tones that our table is ready. Dom turns, and I follow him, clutching my purse and chardonnay, watching the bob of my jacket over his arm as if it’s the only life vest in this vast sea of sexual repression he just acknowledged.
I don’t know what to say. How to react. Whether or not I should leave now feigning food poisoning, even though we haven’t eaten a bite. The chardonnay was bad, I’ll tell him. Too expensive, which irritates my colon.
No, that won’t work. I smile at the host as he leads us to a small table set for two. It’s intimate. I mean, we’re sharing a lone half-moon booth facing outward toward the rest of the restaurant, and there are no other tables around.
The host offers to hang my jacket on a nearby hook, and I wonder if maybe I should ask for a stool. Just so I can sit a few feet away from Dom’s overpowering testosterone. If I have to sit inches away from him for the duration of this meal, I’ll crack. I know it. I can already feel the fissure erupting inside me, the hot gush of desire ready to break free and drown both of us.
Dom lays the leather portfolio down on the farthest point of the table away from us before gesturing for me to sit down. It feels like a trap, even though I agreed to it.
I ease into the high-backed banquette, spending too much time arranging my wine glass on the packed table of elegantly folded napkins, carefully placed silverware and stacked plates for all the upcoming courses. The seat sinks as his weight meets the cushion, and I try to ignore the goosepimples that flare along my forearms. It’s a normal reaction I have to sitting in half-moon booths—nothing to do with Dom, that’s for sure. The heat of him burns at the edges of my composure, so I reach for my water glass and sip and sip and sip.
“I requested this booth so it would be easier for us to go over the matches.” The rough bass notes of his voice make me cross my legs even tighter. All I can focus on is the heat of his thigh hovering dangerously close to mine. His hand finds the white tablecloth as he toys with the fork handle.
I can’t look away from his hand. Veiny, powerful somehow, and huge. This hand handles hearts and saves lives on a daily basis. I can already imagine the rough palm pushing over my bare belly, the way his fingertips would find my nipples beneath my bra. I squeeze my eyes shut and turn my head. Focus on the job.
“Great idea,” I lie. “I take it you had a chance to look over the matches?”
He nods slowly, his gaze bouncing around the restaurant as he swirls ice cubes in his now-empty glass. “Of course.”
“Any standouts?”
He frowns, shrugging. “Not particularly.”
I deflate next to him, not bothering to hide my dismay. “Are you serious?”
“They all look fine,” he begins, pausing just long enough to imply that there’s something seriously missing.
“But,” I encourage.
“But nothing,” he says.
I’ll be honest—I was really expecting more fanfare than this. But then again, he doesn’t know how hard I worked on this. How proud I am of the matches that I conjured. Not just because of who he is as a person, but because of where I’ve been as a person. Starting over. In a new city. Accessing a newly growing network. I wish he’d have had some amount of excitement, but no.
And the fact that he’s not impressed by anything I put out there makes only one thought swirl perilously close to the surface. The one thought that I will do literally anything to avoid, ignore, and squash:
If you don’t like any of them, why don’t you try me?
Chapter 9
DOM
I’ve never wanted to do anything less than I want to review these matches.
Not when London is at my side, smelling like a floral wet dream, the living definition of sleek and smoky seductress.
It’s like she has no idea how stunning she is, except I’m pretty sure she has some idea. She came out tonight looking hotter than any woman I’ve seen in the flesh, knowing that she was going to be meeting me.
And maybe that’s the part that drives me the wildest. She made these choices with me in mind. Even after my conscious and repeated attempts to push her away. To show her just how little she should want me. How little I deserve someone like her. She still has that sparkle in her eye when she looks my way, and dammit, I’m not strong enough to resist it.
With this amount of whiskey in my system, I can’t stop thinking that we should throw this portfolio out the fucking window and see what might happen between her and me. Sure, maybe it’s because my fingers are curling as I try to repress the urge to touch her, and every time she presses a hand to her chest with a laugh, I get a little hard. My rational mind could list a thousand reasons why digging into this attraction is a bad idea.
But my rational mind isn’t in the driver’s seat tonight. I’m at dinner with a gorgeous woman on a Friday evening for the first time in years. Dear lord, I’m a normal human being. And a normal man would know how to end this night. By whisking this woman away in a flurry of French kisses that segue into so much more, topped off with a late-night pepperoni pizza delivery to replenish all the calories burned.
London is tapping her finger against the table, frowning at something I can’t see. “So none of them spoke to you?”
“No,” I admit, “but then again, I’m not in the market for any of them to speak to me.”
She looks disappointed by this, running her finger around the base of her wine glass. “I know. You’re right. I just…kind of thought I’d cracked the code.”
A humorless laugh escapes me. “Trust me. There is no code.”
Except as soon as I say the words, I know they’re a lie. There is a code, and she’s the woman who knows it. She’s the first one to awaken this interest in me in fucking years. It’s not just sexual interest either, though I’ve got that in spades. I want to invite her back to my place so we can fuck and talk about life.
Exactly the type of distraction I’m supposed to be avoiding.
“No, there’s a code,” she insists, crossing her arms over her chest, which just makes her breasts look more delectable. I can’t stop my gaze from sliding downward for a tantalizing moment. A smile creeps across her face. “And you know what? I just remembered what it is.”
“What?”
She shakes her head, that curious smile still splayed across her lips. “No. It’s nothing.”
“Now you have to tell me.”
London draws a deep breath, then finally drags her gaze up to meet mine. “You totally just checked out my tits.”
Hearing her refer to them as tits is somehow hotter than expected. I can’t fight the grin, though, even though my cock is aching. Honestly, I’m at a loss. She called me out. “That was a clinical assessment.”
She lifts her palms, as if to say See? “This is my point. Once you meet these women, you’re going to be enthusiastic. You will clinically assess the shit out of them. I promise you.”
“So you’re saying they all look as good in a black dress as you do.”
Something unreadable settles over her, and our server chooses this exact moment to arrive with a bubbly introduction. I squeeze my hand into a fist, offering her a tight smile while every inch of my body is focused on London.
I shouldn’t have said that to her. But dammit, I couldn’t control it.
“So is there anything else that I can bring you two right now?” The server wraps up after a spiel that I missed entirely.
“An appetizer,” I blurt, eager to get her out of our hair. “Whatever the most popular one is. We’re feeling adventurous.”
When the server starts to talk about the menu, I interrupt her. “We’ll take some time to look at the menu. When you come back, we’ll be ready.”
Our server takes the hint and glides away. London has a suspicious smile waiting for me.
“What?” I finally ask.
“You know.”
“You’ll have to refresh my memory.”
“I’m not including little-black-dress assessments in the client package,” she says, and I can’t help but drink her in again, from her narrow shoulders down to the hint of thigh that I can glimpse before the table obscures my view. “Lest you accuse me of inflating your invoice again.”
“Fine. Besides, that would be”—I struggle to find the exact word—“lecherous.”
She snickers. “You are a different man once you get a little alcohol in you.”
Her words rock me, because she’s right, but also she’s not. I am this man all the time. But what I allow the world to see is a different story. Something about her begs me to push the envelope.
