by HELEN HARDT
“You’re a coffee drinker, then?”
She nods. “Absolutely.”
“Me too.” I stare at her again, unable to shift my gaze from that appealing mouth. “Care to go for a cup…”
Her eyes widen.
I glance toward her desk where her nameplate sits. I remember then, from the phone recording Cindy sent me. Skye Manning.
“…Skye?”
“It’s almost six.”
I don’t miss a beat. “Dinner, then?”
She looks down at her wrinkled silk blouse and skinny jeans. Her gorgeous brown hair is falling out of its ponytail. Again, I imagine it unbound and free, gloriously curtained over her shoulders and back.
She eyes Addison’s closed door.
“You don’t need her permission,” I say.
“I wasn’t—”
“Sure you were. Your boss doesn’t particularly like me, so you were wondering if going to dinner with me would somehow cost you your job.”
She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.
“Are you good at your job, Skye?”
Skye. I love the way her name sounds as it rolls off my tongue—like a caress.
Her cheeks redden. Again. It’s off-brand for me to push a woman who’s not interested, but this one is interested. She’s just not admitting it.
More importantly, I’m interested. Really interested.
She licks her lips. “Well, I—”
“Let’s attack this from a different angle. How long have you been working for Addison?”
“Almost a year.”
“Then clearly you’re good at your job, or she would have gotten rid of you long ago. Addison might be a pain in the ass, but she’s smart. She won’t let a good thing go.” One corner of my mouth twitches slightly. Man, I want to smile. This woman really makes me want to smile. I’ve perfected my poker face over the years, to the point where I use it not only in professional situations but also personal ones.
But then I let go.
I smile.
I fucking smile like I’ve never smiled before.
“I’m not dressed appropriately,” she says, meeting my gaze.
“I didn’t say we were going to a black-tie affair.”
“I don’t think—”
I interrupt her. “You look fine. It’s dinnertime, and I’m hungry. I don’t feel like eating alone for once. Don’t make more of this than it is. Your job will be safe.”
She opens her mouth, and her stomach lets out a famished growl. Adorable. Freaking adorable, this woman.
“You’re obviously hungry,” I say. “Let’s go.”
She walks toward the door of the office. “Okay. Where are we going?”
I hide my enthusiasm at her acceptance. Why do I feel like jumping for joy? Sure, I haven’t had sex in a while, but I’m never this eager.
“I feel like oysters,” I say.
“Sounds good,” she says as I open the door for her. “Wait,” she adds.
“What?”
“I don’t even know you. I… I’ll meet you there. What restaurant are you thinking?”
Smart of her. I like her more already. “Union Oyster House. You want me to get you a cab?”
“Sure. I guess.”
“Or you can drive with me. It’s not far, and I personally guarantee your safety.”
She pauses a few seconds before turning to me. “As long as you personally guarantee my safety.”
“Absolutely.”
I lead her to a black Mercedes parked in front of the hotel. My driver emerges and opens the door. The back seat is lush with a cream-colored leather interior. I get in next to her.
“Union Oyster House, Christopher,” I say to the man who’s been my driver for the past several years.
“Yes, sir.” Christopher closes the car door and takes his place in the driver’s seat.
We don’t talk at first, which is fine with me. Personally, I hate forced conversation. I got enough of that early in my career at events where I had to schmooze my way into what I wanted. I’m good at it, but like social media, I dislike it. After the day I’ve had, forced conversation sounds akin to torture.
And I’m never in the mood to be tortured.
So I’ll wait. I’ll wait for her to relax a little bit. Loosen up. I want to know this woman, and it’s not because knowing her will piss off Addie. That’s merely a fringe benefit. I rarely concern myself with Addison Ames—this afternoon notwithstanding—and as I regard Skye Manning, her tense countenance and her luscious lips, I don’t give a rat’s ass what the consequences will be.
Addie knows a lot of secrets.
But my desire—fuck, it’s more than desire—for her assistant outweighs all of that.
I relax next to her. My knee touches hers, and she tenses even more. I expect her to say something, but she doesn’t.
With Skye Manning, I may not always get what I expect.
And I find that realization thrilling.
The car stops, and Christopher opens the door once more. She takes his gloved hand as he helps her out of the vehicle.
“Thank you,” she murmurs.
“You’re welcome, ma’am.”
She cringes slightly at Christopher’s use of “ma’am.”
I hold back a smile.
“Mr. Black,” the maître d’ says as we walk into the restaurant, “we’re thrilled you’re joining us tonight. Your usual table?”
“That’ll be great. Thanks, Marco.”
Marco personally leads us to my preferred table. It’s near the back—a bit more isolated and a bit less noise. I sometimes do business here, so I prefer the additional privacy.
Skye sits when Marco pulls out a chair for her. “Thank you,” she murmurs again.
“Sometimes I like to sit at the bar,” I tell her once I sit down across from her. “Those shuckers tell the most amazing stories.”
I’m not sure why I mentioned the shuckers. For some reason, I felt like I needed her to know I don’t have a habit of bringing women to my usual table.
Skye takes the menu Marco hands her and stares at it as if it’s the most interesting thing she’s ever seen.
I already know what I’m about to say. I’ve said it to many women before, but never have I meant it as much as I’m about to.
“Skye.”
“Yeah?” Still staring at the menu.
I lift the menu out of her hand. “Look at me.”
She meets my gaze.
“I want to take you to bed tonight.”
Chapter Three
She freezes.
I stare at her, dare her to break the invisible force between our gazes. She doesn’t.
And damn, it’s hot.
Just when I think she may never speak again— “Excuse me?” comes out.
“I’m pretty sure I didn’t stutter.” I again resist the urge to smile, even though I’m sure my eyes are giving me away. “And I’m also sure there’s nothing wrong with your hearing.”
She clears her throat. “I’m not going to bed with you, Mr. Black.”
Yeah, she is. Already I see the signals. Her gaze darts from my eyes to my mouth, and her lips part when she eyes my shoulders. She’s interested.
“Call me Braden.”
She squirms slightly in her seat. Her brown eyes darken slightly to an almost smolder, and I can’t resist creating the image in my mind of her gaze meeting mine right as she climaxes.
It’s difficult, but I resist the urge to adjust my tightening groin.
I stay in control.
Finally, she speaks. “Are you always so blunt?”
“I find it useful in negotiations to lay most of my cards on the table outright.”
“I guess I didn’t realize this was a negotia
tion.”
“Everything’s a negotiation, Skye.”
She looks down, the first to break the laser focus between us. Nice. Her first act of submission. Where there’s smoke…
“This is dinner,” she says, “not a negotiation.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Think about it. You have a reason for everything you do. You may not think it through, but your subconscious does. For example, you have a reason for accepting my dinner invitation.”
She returns her gaze to mine. “I do? Other than being hungry?”
“You didn’t have to accept my invitation to sate your hunger.” I lick my bottom lip, my mouth suddenly dry at the thought of her sating her hunger on me.
Her eyelids flutter slightly. “What other reason would I have?”
“You tell me.”
“I don’t know. Maybe I want to be seen with you.”
“That’s a crock.” I hold back a scoff.
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re working for Addison Ames. You work behind the scenes. You’re not interested in being seen just for the sake of being seen. You’re interested in furthering your career, and you’re willing to put in the time.”
She clears her throat. “Maybe I want to—”
“Stop this game, Skye. There’s only one reason you accepted, and we both know what it is.” I burn her gaze with mine. “You want to go to bed with me.”
I’m not wrong. I expect resistance. Appreciate it, even. This isn’t a woman who’s interested in my money or my prestige. This is a woman who’s willing to do what it takes to get ahead by working, not fucking. Why else would she have taken a job with Addison Ames? Scrubbing toilets would be more pleasant.
She draws in a breath. “You said you lay most of your cards on the table up-front. Most, not all.”
She impresses me even more. Not everyone would catch that. “True. I usually keep an ace up my sleeve.”
“What’s that ace tonight?”
I lower my eyelids slightly, measuring my next words. “I’d be a shitty negotiator if I gave that up so early.”
She draws in another deep breath. “I’m still not going to bed with you, Mr. Black.”
“Braden,” I say again. “And you are, Skye. You definitely—”
A server appears. “Hi, Mr. Black. I’m Cory, and I’ll be taking care of you and your lady this evening. Would you like to begin with a cocktail?”
“Absolutely, Cory,” I say. “Skye?”
“Vodka martini,” she says. “Extra olives.”
“Any particular vodka?”
“Grey Goose?”
Cory nods and then turns to me.
“Wild Turkey on the rocks.” All the bartenders here know I mean one rock.
Still my favorite, even though I can afford the top-shelf brands now. I guess a guy never really leaves his roots. Coming of age in South Boston, I was lucky to be able to afford a six-pack on a Saturday night.
“Very good. Any appetizers?” Cory asks.
“Yes. A dozen of your best oysters on the half shell, please.”
“Any particular ones you want to try tonight?” he asks.
“Three of the Blue Point, and you choose the rest.” I nod to Skye. “Do you want anything else?”
She shakes her head. “I love raw oysters.”
I smile—a big one. A woman who loves raw oysters. Not that a person who loves raw oysters is hard to come by in Boston, but I can’t wait to eat oysters with Skye Manning. Already, I know it’s going to drive me wild.
I say nothing. I like silence. I’m comfortable in silence. Most women—at least most women who date me—aren’t. Except for Skye Manning. She doesn’t try to make the dreaded forced conversation, and I appreciate her all the more.
A few silent minutes later, our drinks arrive.
I lift my glass to my lips and take a drink. The bourbon is smoky and slightly harsh, and I love it. I let it sit on my tongue for a few seconds, let it glide over every inch of my mouth before it trickles down my throat.
And I wonder how my cock will feel jammed up against the back of Skye Manning’s throat.
Later, I’ll find out.
“Tell me,” I say after swallowing, “a little about Skye Manning. You must be something to be working for Addison.”
“I have a degree in photography and media from BU. She hired me for my photography skills.”
“For her influencing?”
“Yeah.”
“But those are selfies.”
“Actually, they’re not. I take the pictures, and she positions her arm so that it looks like a selfie to the untrained eye.”
Why am I not surprised? I grin. Another big one. I’ve got to watch myself. I never smile this much. “Sounds like classic Addie. Everything has to look perfect.”
“How do you know Addison?” she asks.
Now there’s a loaded question. The party line is that Addison Ames and I dated briefly when she was eighteen and I was twenty-four, and the relationship didn’t end well. The party line is correct. But another several layers exist to the story—layers we don’t talk about.
Not ever.
So I’m curious about what Addie may have said to Skye. She knows better than to say anything other than we had a thing ten years ago.
“She didn’t tell you?” I ask.
“Not really. I’d love to hear it from you.”
“But you witnessed the interaction between us.”
“Yeah. You weren’t overly friendly.”
Does Skye mean the plural you? Or is she referring specifically to me? I don’t bother to ask. I don’t care, and also, Cory arrives with the oysters.
“No,” I say simply.
“A dozen of tonight’s best.” Cory sets the tray between Skye and me on the table. “Starting here”—he points—“and going clockwise, we have the Katama Bay from the east coast of Martha’s Vineyard, the Moondancers from Maine, the Molly Qs from Mashpee, and then of course the Blue Points from Long Island Sound. All nicely sweet and briny, and I agree, sir, my personal favorites are the Blue Points. Did you have any questions?”
I shake my head, take out my phone, and snap a photo of the oysters that arrived. As I was interrupted earlier, I owe my social media team a post.
Skye raises her eyebrows.
“Got to keep the followers happy,” I say.
“How many followers do you have?” she asks.
“Not as many as Addison, but enough.”
“I never would have thought you were the social media type.”
Boy, is she right on the nose. “I’m not, really, but people seem to want to know what I’m up to. Probably only because I’m richer than God, which still seems a little unreal to me. I’m definitely a self-made man. I wasn’t born into money like Addison and her sister.”
I’m not quite sure why I added the part about my being different from Addie. Though it shouldn’t, what Skye thinks of me matters. I don’t particularly care what people think, so this realization settles in my stomach with a weird jolt.
“Anyway, I never really got out of the habit,” I say, not quite willing to tell her I only post because my team tells me to. “You on Instagram?”
“Yeah. Of course.”
“What’s your handle?”
Her cheeks pink up again. “@stormyskye15.”
My lips twitch slightly. I can’t get over how much I want to smile a lot around this woman. I’m not sure whether that’s a good or bad thing yet. “Stormy? Why not sunny or blue? Or even cloudy?”
“Because I like stormy skies. They’re a lot more interesting than blue or sunny skies, don’t you think?”
Yes. Stormy Skye. It fits her. “I suppose I never thought about it,” I reply. “What’s interesting to you about them?”
“The colors. The gray that turns almost to green. The cumulonimbus clouds that stretch for miles but are fluffy on top.”
“Cute,” I say.
But I don’t mean that cumulonimbus clouds are cute. I mean that she’s cute. Her. Skye.
Damned cute.
“Why fifteen?” I ask.
“Because fourteen was taken.”
Damn. So fucking cute! “I’m tagging you.”
“On a photo of oysters?”
“Sure. We’re sharing them, so why not?”
Nothing like oysters at my favorite place with a new friend. #oysters #dinnerout #bostonsfinest
Good thing I’m not paid to influence like Addison is. My post-writing skills suck. I tag Skye and the restaurant and then put the phone away and nod toward the oysters. “Ladies first.”
She chooses one of the smaller Blue Points and squeezes a few drops of lemon juice on it. Then she scoops it expertly on the fork and into her mouth and takes a sip of her martini. Damn. I was looking forward to watching her slurp the oyster directly onto her tongue.
Fuck.
“Just lemon?” I ask.
She swallows. “Yeah. It’s perfect.”
“I like a little cocktail sauce.”
“Amateur,” she says with a slight teasing tone.
I meet her gaze as I take one of the Moondancers, dab it with cocktail sauce, and hold it an inch from my lips. “We’ll see who the amateur is by the time this night is over.”
Chapter Four
Before I can fully appreciate the look of surprised awe on her dropped jaw, Cory returns to take our dinner orders.
Skye quicky closes her mouth and scans the menu. “I’ll have the pan-seared haddock with mashed potatoes and fresh veggies.”
“Salad?” Cory asks. “Or a cup of our amazing clam chowder?”
“No thank you.”
“Great. And you, Mr. Black?”
“I’ll have the fried oysters with a mixed green salad.” In my opinion, you can’t eat too many oysters.
“Dressing choice?” Cory asks.
“A balsamic vinaigrette.” I hand him my menu. “And bring us a bottle of your best white Burgundy.”
“Very good.” Cory nods and leaves the table.
