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My hand lifts before I register the intention behind the action. I touch his rough cheek, feel the prickle of his five o’clock shadow against my fingertips.
Our gazes hold one another, and the breathless instant stalls, dragging out. The closet light cuts across his sharp jawline, highlighting the masculinity he bears. He’s…well-sculpted.
Beautiful.
My smile drifts away into the foreign quiet, and, once again, I find myself acting before I understand my intention when I say, “I could teach you.”
“To flirt?” His hand lifts, grasps mine, and returns it to my side. “I’d rather not learn.”
I giggle. “That’s fair. Knowing how to flirt might make you too powerful. And then what will I do with myself?” Wetting my lips, I regain an inch of space between us. “Well? What do you want me to wear?”
His harsh gaze slashes across my clothes, before his head shakes. “Whatever you want. You have no decent clothes, so it’s meaningless for me to pick something.”
A light bulb turns on in my head, and Rowan’s twitch is the only indication any deviousness reflects on my face. Pulling my phone out of a deeply hidden pocket in my pouncy skirt, I chirp, “If you wanted to take me clothes shopping, you could have just said so.”
“I didn’t—”
I lift my phone to my ear as I march out of the closet.
“Who are you call—”
“Hello, Corbin? Can you handle all Rowan’s meetings for tomorrow afternoon?”
Rowan goes board-stiff as Corbin responds, “Of course, but what’s the occasion?”
“He wants to take me shopping.”
Disbelief taints Corbin’s tone. “He wants to?”
“He said so himself,” I protest.
“I did not,” Rowan grumbles.
I shush my fiance. “He said I have nothing decent to wear.”
“Now, that I believe,” Corbin muses, chuckling.
You know what? I rather like Corbin. I’m glad Rowan appointed him as consigliere when everything turned upside down. It’s good to have reliable, upbeat advisors who know how to smile. Especially when that isn’t a certain someone’s strength.
“Briar,” Rowan hisses. “I did not suggest that—”
I put my finger to his lips, and for the splitiest of seconds, he twitches. Then he grips my wrist, reels me in, and grabs my phone. Pressing it to his ear, he says, “Cor—” His grip tightens. “Stop laughing.”
That makes me laugh, and distress rushes off poor Rowan in tsunami-sized droves.
A moment later, my world spins, and my back hits Rowan’s chest as his hand clamps to my mouth, muffling my laughter. A tickle of heat runs up my spine, and I could bite his hand. I could. Alternatively, I could lick it. Given this precarious position he’s put us in, I have such marvelous options. And he couldn’t blame me for a thing.
“Handle my meeting for tonight, too,” Rowan says, and I pause my deliberation. A few moments pass while I temper my piranha tendencies and listen intently. “I’m taking her to dinner.”
That makes my heart flutter. For some reason. Maybe I just like the idea of someone taking me to dinner. No one has ever taken me to dinner before.
“Stop laughing,” he growls. “I am perfectly capable of taking a woman to dinner.” His hold around me tightens shortly before he snaps, “Italian.” His fingers dig into my skin. “It is not for the sake of branding. Just take care of the meeting, you—” Swearing, he hangs up and heaves an exasperated breath.
I can still feel the coil of his arm around my chest long after he’s planted my phone back in my hand and released me.
Pacing back and forth in front of me a few times, Rowan rakes his fingers through his hair, then grumbles, “Why do you have Corbin’s number?”
“Networking is important.”
