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Was he trying to drive me crazy? That had to be it. Mind fucker. Fantasy maker. I hated him for both and wanted him for both.
He made nothing easier by pressing his big hand into the sweet spot at the small of my back. Yeah, that sweet spot. The halfway point between innocent and illicit. Of course he knew exactly where to find it, then push hard enough to make me yearn for him to travel lower. Much lower.
I persevered until he guided me toward a huge, plush leather couch, then my thoughts exploded. My mind filled with a vision of us making out on those cushions. How would he taste? How would he taste me in return? Slow and sensual? Hot and dirty? Maybe both. God, I could only pray.
Holy shit.
It was time to pray, all right.
For the thoughts of a nun.
I perched at the edge of the cushion, grateful the leather was as firm as it appeared. The hard surface helped me pretend my thoughts hadn’t turned into a horny hothouse. I even went for the virginal-hands-in-lap thing, though closing my knees only made a lot of things much worse—very fast. Do not think about your throbbing clit. Do not think about anythingelse throbbing either.
I whipped my laptop out of my satchel. It was never the action I liked opening with, especially during a first-time meeting with a client. A wedding was one of the most intimate acts of a person’s life, whether they were an academic, an acrobat, or an Academy award winner. The journey toward making those dreams come true began with conversation and eye contact, not tapping on a keyboard.
But there was nothing normal about this client.
This client.
The only way I’d save myself—and Expectation’s chance for this gig—would be remembering that.
As in, tattooing it on my brain.
I closed my eyes for two seconds, mentally inking the words across my forehead. Yes. Perfect. Hard-dialing Shiraz Cimarron into the client zone was like the friend zone only better. Number one, that was exactly where he belonged. Number two—
Screw number two. Whatever the hell it had been.
The moment I reopened my gaze, he wiped it away. The client zone tattoo? Yeah, that too—along with virginal hands, clamped knees, and attempting to ha-ha-ha my way out of this, all obliterated as he consumed my sights again, his big body lowering to the couch too.
His mien was the polar opposite of mine. Not completely opposite. He was on a high alert of his own. I felt that attention like pinpricks on the air, despite his outward air of smooth indolence, hooded eyes, and lazy leisure. And getting an accurate read on him through the contradiction? Might as well toss that notion out the window. Funny, because jumping through the panes behind his desk seemed a fantastic option right now. Though the dark wood shutters were only half-cracked, they exposed enough ocean, cliffs, and palm fronds for me to crave a chaise, a book, a cocktail, and several hours of peace.
Hewas nowhere on that list.
Nor would he be.
I pulled in a deep breath. Forced the calm down my limbs, ordering it to loosen my nerves. The man—the client—across the couch remained the same. He was a giant body of relaxation armed with a thousand darts of attention. He hadn’t even brought his phone over. His suit jacket was gone, slung across one of the chairs by the desk. When had he shirked his tie too?
Thank God he hadn’t done the rolled-up shirtsleeves thing on top of it. I bet his forearms were dusted by hair that’d turn my composure inside out. It would probably match the thick, luxurious waves on his head. The umber-onyx mess was another subject of fascination for the press—at least the female members of it—and now I understood why. In person, it literally caused sweaty palms and itchy fingers from just the thought of tangling in the strands. It was that perfect length too: somewhere between a corporate lawyer crop and a guitar god mane, tickling the curve between his neck and shoulder, catching the light so some of it turned a deep cinnamon hue…
“Miss Fava?”
“Hmmm?”
“Are you ready to discuss the proposal?”
“Cinnamon.”
“Excuse me?”
Mortification, party of one.
“Sorry,” I stammered—a word I’d be repeating over and over to Ez in a few hours, if I didn’t get my shit together. “Jet lag. It’s the middle of the night for New York right now.” And thank God for that. If I blew this, there were still a few hours before Ezra rolled out of bed. Surely that would be enough time to form an excuse other than I was so fixated on his hair, I blew the presentation.
“Of course.” His tone soothed but his gaze narrowed. Just like that, I was back in what-the-hell-does-he-mean mode. I didn’t feel judged or scrutinized, not in the traditional sense of the words, but he was definitely…
Watching.
Waiting.
