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"Let’s say hi to the Flores," Sarah says, pulling him away. "I need to find out the name of Elli's designer."
I smile. All I need is twenty uninterrupted minutes to show them my vision, and I'm in. I bet they'll be open when he runs the idea by his partners. I hear Beck is good at his job, and anyone with solid marketing skills will get the gist. Besides, this first meeting went better than I expected. I squeeze Hazel's hand, excited.
I need to celebrate this small victory with her, but not here, in front of anyone who may see us. Not when I have to act cool and not too eager. I've been in the business long enough to know the difference.
I thread my fingers with hers and lead her through the terrace to the back of the garden. It’s filled with manicured bushes cut in different shapes, exotic plants in various colors, and rows of trees in the corner. The area is dim, with fewer backyard lights than the others. Perfect for a discreet conversation.
The moon glints over the trees so I can make out Hazel’s features. "Did you know who she was? Sarah?"
She lifts one shoulder. "Nope. Our run-in was innocent and accidental. She's friendly."
Accidental is even better. Then I remember the spot I saw on her dress. "Is your dress okay? I'll be happy to buy you a new one. Or new ones."
"The dress is okay, I think. I had to take it off and slip on a robe. Long story, but the stain is mainly gone. It’s just a bit damp."
Moisture evaporates from my throat the second the image unfurls in my mind. The dress was off.
"And hopefully, the deal will be on," I say. "You were perfect."
She crosses her arms over her chest. "Is that the first compliment I get from you in a year?"
I step back and peer at her face. Her expression is severe, and a touch of sadness crosses her face. "I didn't know you were fishing for them."
She drops her arms to her sides and lets out a long sigh. "I wasn't. It's nice to have your work recognized once in a while."
A twinge of guilt twists in my chest. Shit. I've been too harsh with her. Out of everyone I've wronged in life, she's not deserving of any of it, even though a small part of me is worried about her journal and how she plans to use it against me. This woman is committed. She came tonight and showed up. And what did I do? I left her alone a second after we arrived.
I run my fingers down my face, searching for the words to make this right. "According to you, it was accidental. You were just being yourself," I start, closing the distance between us. I shouldn't, but fuck it, I can't stay away.
"Yes." She lifts her chin, and my gaze locks with hers.
I dip my head, entranced by the rings of gold around her hazel irises. My heart thrums in my chest, my blood thickening in my veins. I touch her jaw, and she leans into the caress.
"So I was right," I say, desire coating my voice. "You're perfect."
8
Hazel
Perfect.
His compliment leaves me so lightheaded that I can barely stand. My knees buckle. I don't know if I reach for Archer or if he takes me in his arms, but somehow, that's where I land: surrounded by his muscly arms, snug in his embrace, inhaling his masculine, woodsy scent.
The air around us shifts, and I can barely breathe. My heart beats staccato, each thump louder than the last, until my ears buzz. I part my lips, unsure about why or how this is happening but dead set on seeing it through.
He's a jerk. He's my boss. He's also impossible to resist, and I want to kiss him more than I want anything.
He tugs me closer, our bodies glued to each other. His cock nestles against my midsection, so hard and large that the little oxygen I have left threatens to leave my brain. If he doesn't kiss me, I may pass out from anticipation.
The moment his lips finally cover mine, a ball of excitement rolls through me, every part of me achingly aware of his manly, powerful presence. He swipes his tongue over mine, and it's dynamite—he takes what he wants, stroking my tongue, teasing it, making it succumb to his dominance.
My body is at war with itself. The desire pounding through me is so powerful that it leaves me dizzy and lightheaded. At the same time, it catapults me into a bolder version of myself—as if I've always been that person in my core but needed help to bring out that side of me.
I put my hands on his chest, feel his rock-hard muscles, and slide them over his shoulders to the back of his neck. He's all solid lines and sharp edges. He nips my lower lip, and a shot of red-hot lust travels through me with the urgency of a bleeding wound.
I scratch my nails on his skin, eager to have him closer, naked, fucking me.
My purse drops on the floor, its contents sliding out—my cell, lipstick, and a tissue pack. I don't care. I bunch his collar in my hand, trying to bring him even closer. He parts my thighs with his leg and intensifies the kiss. Wow. His legs are solid, muscly, and thick.
