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“And for the seasonal flavors we’ll be presenting?” J.T. joins the conversation. “What about those?”
“You’ll have to give me somewhere to begin, Mr. Reese, considering I am not privilege to that particular information.”
He lets the corner of his lips kick upward at the same time he scoots to the edge of the booth seat. “Okay. Berry. Let’s say black or cran.”
“Davidoff Royal. They’re extensively aged, robusto shaped, with citrus notes that will most likely be brought out more by the beverage.”
“Origin?” Aleksei questions, creeping a little closer.
“Dominican.”
“I appreciate things that dark,” his frame slides into a position that has me slightly rotating towards the man in the room I actually know, “and vibrant.”
“Price?” the other male in the room inquires, regaining my attention over my shoulder.
“More.”
An impressed hum precedes another round of being tested by Aleksei, “How about chocolate or coffee?”
“Rocky Patel Conviction.” My hands plant themselves firmly on my hips prior to meeting his hungry, brown gaze. “Toro shaped. Has cocoa and espresso notes. And is from Nicaragua.”
“Also dark…” The licking of his lips occurs between proclamations. “And I imagine also delicious.”
“You imagine correctly.”
He suddenly places his pointed index finger on my lower torso. “How about I do more than imagine, Miss Winters?”
There’s no time to take in so much as a breath before his touch is snatched off my frame, twisted ruthlessly behind his back, and pinned in place. The other glove covered hand of my hero clamps down malevolently on his left shoulder while his mask cloaked face cranes over his right. “How about if you ever touch my woman again, I’ll have you blackballed figuratively and literally, Mr. Faulk.”
It’s impossible not to smirk at the promise along with his presence. “Like Mr. Reese did his best to make clear just moments ago, I am not a high-class escort and Mr. Wilcox does not take kindly to such implications.”
“I. Do. Not.”
“Un-un-un-understood, sir,” Aleksei instantly cowers.
“Good.” Wes growls and violently shoves him towards the open doors of the club. “Go.”
His event designer doesn’t hesitate to haul ass out of the room without risking another glance in our direction.
Which is honestly for the best.
I’m not entirely sure he’d survive through the night if he had.
“Evening, Boss,” J.T. juvenilely taunts during his approach. “Out for a stroll?”
The mismatched pair of eyes that would be making my panties wet if I were wearing any immediately cut to the man beside me and harshly glare.
“We have the room for the entire night,” he informs and guzzles the last of his beverage. “Enjoy.” Rather than wait for Wes to say something, he swings his attention to me. “Faulk probably doesn’t have a job, but you definitely do.” A pride-filled beam is executed alongside an impressed nod. “You’ll do well with the clients. You were educated and professional regardless of the…obstacles.”
Low gnarls seep from the other man in the room.
“I’ll stop by your boss’s office on my way to the bar to ensure you’re scheduled.” Yet again he smugly smirks at his best friend. “Want me to shut the door behind me?”
An almost animalistic growl is attached to his response. “Yes.”
More chortles bounce around the room, dangerously fusing with the budding tension that’s clearly ready to denotate the second we’re sealed alone inside.
Or at least I think we’re alone.
