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Chapter twelve
Cat
I’m saved from defining Reese as a stranger or otherwise when my cellphone rings and jolts me back to reality. “My agent. I was supposed to call her about that meeting with Dan. I’m sure he’s already called the publisher.” I try to roll away, but Reese doesn’t allow me such an easy escape.
He releases my hair but catches my leg. “You can call her back in sixty seconds. To be clear, we’re not done. We’ve barely gotten started.” He rolls off the chair.
I will my racing heart to calm and do the same, oh so aware of just how naked I am right now, and how my dress is a very long walk away. Actually, I really don’t know how far. I have no clue where it landed, but it’s nowhere I easily spy. My phone starts ringing again, which is a clear sign someone, most likely my agent, really needs to reach me. Reese hands me my purse and I grab it, also oh so aware of how naked he is. “Thank you,” I murmur, accepting my purse and retrieving my phone from inside.
“My agent,” I confirm, as Reese scoops up his pants and delivers me a view of his bare ass, so delicious that it could feed fifty nations.
“Hey, Liz,” I say into the phone as he covers the view with his pants, and I answer my call.
“Dan called the publisher and said you were a bitch.”
I scowl. “Did Dan actually say that I was a bitch, or did you add your normal colorful wording in the replay?”
“I’m quoting Dan, according to your editor.”
“He’s such a gentleman,” I snap sarcastically as Reese grabs a blanket from the couch and settles the soft gray material around my shoulders. I glance up at him, but he’s walking away, all loose-legged male swagger that was just pressed next to me in all the right ways.
“No comment?” Liz asks.
“I think he said it all for both of us, don’t you? It’s done.”
“What happened?” Liz presses. “I need details.”
“We can’t work together and I’m going to make this easy on all involved. I’m out. I’m not writing a book about this trial.”
“What? Are you insane? This is a six figure deal. In New York City, you don’t walk away from that.”
“This has never been about money to me,” I say as Reese reappears, a black T-shirt stretching over that incredible chest of his, another draped over his shoulder, and that loose-legged swagger of his is rather addictive to watch.
“No, but,” Liz says, snapping my attention back to the call, and sparing me the embarrassment of staring at Reese, as she adds, “smart people with money keep their money by never walking away from large sums of money. Especially when that money is a gateway to much more money.”
“You’re not getting it,” I say. “This is wrong for me,” and it’s then that Reese joins me, and I silently add: Just like the man now sitting on the coffee table in front of me, staring at me, only feels pretty right every time I’m with him.
“We need to meet. Where are you? I’ll come to you.”
“Now isn’t a good time,” I say, and sit up straighter. “I have to write my column.”
“Tomorrow, then. We’ll have lunch.”
I firm my voice and attitude, which is the only way to win Liz over. “I’m not changing my mind, therefore, I’ll call you Monday.”
“They’ll drop you if you shut this down,” Liz says of my publisher.
“I don’t like being bullied,” I say, my voice going from firm to angry. “And if you support me, then don’t participate in bullying me. I’ll call you Monday.” I hang up without looking at Reese, who is part of why I feel cornered right now, professionally and personally. “I have to write my column.” I start to get up, but I’m not holding the stupid blanket, and it slides away, straight to the ground.
I grab for it and drop my phone. I’m exposed and truly so very naked in every way with this man, but rather than looking me over, Reese produces that extra shirt he’d been holding. “I brought it for you,” he offers, his eyes meeting mine in one pulsing moment that steals my voice.
I nod my appreciation, but when I would take the shirt from him, he’s already pulling it over my head. It drops around my body and I slip my arms inside the oversized sleeves, which aren’t oversized for him at all, I’m sure. “Thank you,” I manage now, and dare to meet his stare, and that pulse is back, this charge between us that I’ve never experienced with any other man. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I’m so affected by him, I don’t know if I’m coming or going.
I’m falling for this man. I’m going to get hurt. “I need to go,” I say, but when I would move, his hands catch my legs, under his shirt, scorching me with the touch.
“Don’t go,” he says.
“I have to work.”
