Hookup

by Anne Marsh

  Harley glanced at her watch. The man wasn’t even on time. He was ten minutes late. Was reading him the riot act even worth the wait? Or was he assuming that because she’d been let go of her job, she had nothing but time on her hands? Well, she didn’t, as a matter of fact. Since she couldn’t write her column anymore, she’d need to work on drumming up more life-coaching clients, more people in need of sex advice to pay her bills. And, maybe, at long last, she could finally finish that couples’ therapy book she’d been dabbling with over the last few years. Maybe if she finished it sooner rather than later, she might be able to land an advance. Maybe. She needed the cash. Her Brooklyn apartment sure as hell wouldn’t pay for itself.

  Forget this, she thought. She’d waited long enough. She grabbed her purse from the nearby burgundy leather chair and made her way to the door. Just then, the massive oak study door cracked open and Harley jumped, backing away from it only to see Wilder Lange stride in, all six foot four of him, oozing confidence and an easy charm. His broad shoulders seemed to brush the door frame as he passed and Harley Vega felt rooted to the spot. She wasn’t short, at five six, herself. But he was so...tall. And...damn sexy in that well-tailored light gray suit. Since when were billionaire communications magnates so hot? She took him all in: his carefully combed dark almost jet-black hair, rolling back from his forehead in waves, strikingly dark eyes framed with thick lashes, his athletic build telling her that the rumors that he hit triathlons in his spare time weren’t rumors at all. She seemed to remember one of her Google searches of the man told her he had Irish, German and Armenian heritage, but the combination right at this moment made her head spin.

  “So sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, easily, with just the right amount of contrition, and for a full second she just stood there, probably mouth agape like an idiot. What was wrong with her? As if she’d never seen a good-looking man before. She’d almost completely forgotten she was supposed to hate him.

  Wilder flashed her his famous dimpled smile and she felt her stomach lurch. This could not be happening. Why hadn’t any of the online photos of him done him any damn justice at all? He was just 100 percent sex, his charisma like an ocean wave crashing over her and temporarily stunning her senses. Now that damn song didn’t seem so ridiculous after all. Women probably stood in line for their chance to worship him.

  He closed the minimal distance between them, hand out for a shake. She took his massive paw and felt her own delicate hand enveloped by his. What was it they said about a man with big hands? Although, she knew hand size had very little to do with other parts of the anatomy. Still, her mind couldn’t help but wonder. His hands seemed to be too strong for a businessman’s. He exuded a raw kind of power, something primal, something that didn’t belong in the expensive suit he wore. He looked the part of a rich tycoon, but the bent of his sensual mouth told her that looks were deceiving. Her hand felt tiny in his, and she was distinctly aware of the power dynamic, of how he held back his strength when he clasped her palm gently. She realized that she hadn’t said a word so far, as she’d been too focused on the man’s eyes. Sharp, mesmerizing and so very, very dark that she could only barely make out the outline of his pupils. “So nice to meet you. Thank you for coming.”

  Why was he being so nice to her? That was the shocking part. Why on earth did he seem pleased to see her when he’d just fired her from the job she loved? He had to have read her columns and found them lacking. Why else hadn’t she made the cut? But he seemed damned pleased to see her, like maybe the man was flirting with her. He was, after all, known to be a famous womanizer. But then she thought better of it. Get a grip on yourself, Harley. This man might be sex on a freakin’ stick, but he wasn’t any friend and he certainly wasn’t interested. Harley wasn’t his usual model type. That was just her projecting her want on him. Stop thinking with your clit and try using your brain.

  “Well, it’s not nice to meet you,” she said. “Can’t say I’m excited to meet the man who fired me.”

  There. At least she wasn’t going to swoon all over him now. She got a tiny bit of satisfaction to see the man’s dark eyebrows raise in surprise. He probably surrounded himself with sycophants. Get used to it, she thought, I’m not here to kiss your ass. What was the point? Harley didn’t beg. She wasn’t going to plead for her job back. Her parents would drive all the way up from Miami to lecture her on not giving in. Vegas are proud, her father always told her.

  “You are as blunt as people say, I see.” A slow smile played at the corners of his mouth. Why did he seem amused that she was pissed off? That just made her...more pissed off. “And, technically, I didn’t fire you. You were laid off.”

  “Right. Let me just tell my landlord that. I’m sure she’d be just fine with me not paying my rent. Seeing as how I wasn’t fired for cause.” She’d gotten the second eviction notice today as a matter of fact. If she didn’t pay her rent in two days, she was going to be kicked out. She stuffed down the temporary panic that rose in her throat. And then what? Maybe crash on a friend’s couch. Except that most of her friends were at the magazine, and most of them were in the same predicament she was. She could go home to Miami. But that would be admitting defeat. Her mother never approved of her moving to Manhattan.

  She hated the fact that her mother’s prediction—that she’d be scraping by in New York—had come true. Sure, she was professionally successful, but living on her own in New York on a modest columnist’s salary only worked if she got the salary. She’d been living paycheck to paycheck for some time.

  She noticed the gleaming Rolex on Wilder’s wrist. That man had never had to worry about making rent even once in his whole silver-spoon life, she thought.

  “It was a business decision. Nothing personal.” He motioned to an oversized leather chair near the corner window. “Please, Ms. Vega, sit.” She hesitated. Did she even want to stay? Part of her wanted to tell him to go to hell and run out of his penthouse. Another part of her was curious as to why she was here at all. Even though he made her furious, she still wrestled with curiosity. What the hell was she here for? Maybe he planned an apology. An apology would be nice.

  “Please,” he added. He nodded at the chair, and she noticed how perfectly symmetrical his features were: eyes, nose, mouth. Fending off his charisma felt like a full-time job. Something about Wilder Lange made everything seem off center. It was the way he was looking at her, she realized, and more than that, the way his gaze made her feel.

  Eventually, she sat in the leather chair, sinking into it and struggling to keep her skirt at her knees. She’d worn one of the outfits she typically wore to the office: dark pencil skirt, trendy spring top in a pastel pink that complemented her almond skin. She dressed conservatively, because she knew that people sometimes assumed a sex advice columnist would show up wearing garter belts and a bustier. Nervously, a hand went to her dark updo, as if reassuring herself her twist hadn’t come loose. Then she wondered why she’d done that, why she cared so much about looking put together at this moment. She knew that somewhere deep inside her, she wanted Wilder to find her pleasing. That was a dangerous hope, a stupid one. What then? He’d be attracted to her and give back her old job? Harley wasn’t here to bargain for her job. She wasn’t going to trade favors with any man to save her career. No matter how powerful—or how damn delectable—he seemed.

  Wilder sat at the edge of his massive desk, and she was well aware that he was hovering above her. Sitting, she still had to crane her neck to meet his eyes.

  “Why am I here, Mr. Lange?” Her tone was sharp, annoyed. Good.

  “Are you always so to the point?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “Most of the time,” she said. “I don’t believe in wasting time.” Unlike Wilder Lange, it seemed.

  “Would you like a drink? Iced tea? Scotch?” He flashed a wicked grin. Harley felt ire rise in her. Why did she feel like he was the cat and she, the mouse? What he didn’t know was she wa
s no mouse.

  She crossed her legs at the knee, and very much wished she’d brought a leather-bound ledger for notes. Anything that she might use as a shield against Wilder’s penetrating gaze. She didn’t know why she felt so...vulnerable. Since when was she ever intimidated by money or power? Never.

  “Do you have tequila?” she joked.

  “I do. Reposado? Blanco? Anejo?” he asked, as if he had an entire bar hidden under his desk. Hell, the man might.

  “Extra Anejo if you have it.” She might as well sample some of his expensive liquor. Might as well get something that would be worth the cost of the train to get here.

  “Of course.” He slid off the end of the desk moving with the ease of a man comfortable in his body. He walked to the small glass cart tucked away near the chrome shelf, produced a small crystal tumbler and poured two glasses of amber-colored liquid. He handed it to her and she took a small sniff. It smelled aged and expensive, the kind of sipping tequila her father would fawn over at special occasions. Her mother had always wrinkled her nose and asked for a mojito, her drink of choice.

  Wilder slid into the seat across from hers, deftly opening his suit jacket button with one hand, revealing a very defined waist beneath, his bright white starched shirt lying flat against the belt buckle bellow his belly button. She was strangely glad he didn’t offer a toast. She took a tentative sip of the drink and it felt like caramelized butter on her tongue. Definitely expensive. Definitely delicious. Nothing to slam here. This was meant to be enjoyed. Slowly. Her hopes of slamming the drink and stalking out of his office faded.

  He watched her drink with that damn amused quirk of his lip twitching. She felt the urge to toss the drink in the man’s face. But her father would never forgive her. Tequila this good should never be wasted. She took another sip, the tequila already doing its job as it warmed her belly. Meanwhile, Wilder wasn’t talking. He was studying her. As if trying to figure out a puzzle. She wished he’d just get on with the damn meeting already, so they could part ways and she could get on with her life.

  “Is it too much to hope for that you’re giving me my old job back?” She meant it as a light-hearted joke, but realized she’d failed miserably in her delivery. She sounded needy. Desperate. Dammit.

  He frowned. “I’m sorry, no.” He shook his head.

  The disappointment hit her harder than she would’ve thought. Why had she thought he’d give back her old job? A corporate shark like him didn’t gut staff and then have second thoughts.

  “I’ve asked you here because I need your help.”

  She laughed out loud, a blunt bray. “You need my help?” She couldn’t imagine with what. And also, footnote: what the hell was he thinking? What kind of gall gave him the right to ask for her help? He’d fired her and he was asking her for a favor?

  “Yes, I do.” His expression was entirely serious as he took a small sip from his glass. Her laughter bounced right off him as if he were immune to ridicule. Probably the zeroes in his bank account made him impervious to shame. “You give advice. I need...advice.” He rolled the liquid around in his glass.

  “You need advice?” Had she fallen into an alternate dimension? Did she find herself in the upside down? Why was one of the most powerful men in Manhattan asking her for advice?

  “Yes.” He met her gaze, his dark eyes deadly serious. “I need advice...about sex.”

  Copyright © 2020 by Cara Lockwood

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  ISBN: 9781488062049

  Hookup

  Copyright © 2020 by Anne Marsh

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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