Page 274 of Manhattan Bossholes

I shrugged. “I think you could be convinced.”

“I like my drinks less…colorful.” His hand moved from my hair to my bare arm, leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake. I leaned into the touch, liking the way his knuckles ghosted my hip.

No one else had ever made me feel this alive with just a touch. Trent was a first—and that terrified me almost as much as it thrilled me.

“Let me guess…you’re going to go for something boring. Like rum and Coke?”

“First of all, I’m not boring. But second, I’m not into rum. Maybe I’m a blackberry vodka kind of guy. Have you considered that?”

“You’re definitely not a vodka guy. You probably drank too much of it one night in college and then never touched it again.”

He narrowed his eyes playfully, leaning toward me. “Which of the guys have you been talking to?”

My breath caught in my throat. “Maybe you’re just easy to read, Mr. Saunders.”

“I’ll take a Dark ‘n’ Stormy.”

“Of course you will,” I said, placing the order for that and a Whiskey Sour. Once we had our drinks, we sat down on one of the plush sofas, angled so close our knees bumped. I knocked into him teasingly, making his drink shake.

He sipped it. “Watch yourself, Hellcat.”

“Or what?” I said, blinking up at him innocently.

“You don’t want to know,” he said, his voice almost a growl.

I swallowed hard.

“Or maybe you do want to know.” He took a slow sip of his drink, and I suddenly felt parched. “Maybe you’ll like it.”

The look he gave me left me dizzy.

I think we both knew exactly where this night was headed once we left the club, and part of me wanted to hurry along and get there already. I couldn’t shake the image of dream-Trent and that damn chaise. I needed to see if the real thing lived up to the hype.

“Looking a little hot and bothered over there,” Trent said.

“I’m not bothered,” I said, trying and failing to seem unaffected by the stare he was shooting my way. Trent was peeling my dress off with his eyes. My gaze dropped to his hands again, and I wondered what it would be like to watch him sand a delicate piece of furniture down, layer by layer.

God, I wanted Trent to take me apart…layer by layer.

“What else would you like?” he asked, his hand skimming up my knee.

I reminded myself to thank Stacy for the slit she’d worked into this dress. My skin was on fire where he touched me.

Trent leaned toward me, his lips skimming my ear. My eyes fluttered closed for a moment.

“Wait, is that—” Trent started.

My eyes flew open. I twisted around on the couch. “Kyle Landing,” I said, spotting him across the bar—the A-list Hollywood guy who’d started the sustainable furniture craze. He was surrounded by an entourage of people.

My attention wasn’t diverted for long, drawn back to the feel of Trent’s hand on my thigh. “I wonder how long he’s been sitting over there.” I’d barely noticed anything outside of Trent since we’d arrived.

“Maybe I should go over there and thank him,” Trent said.

I frowned. “What for?”

“I sort of feel like he’s part of the reason we got together. Don’t you?”

“I think it had more to do with making furniture for Dee. Besides, I think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself,” I said. “We haven’t actually gotten together yet.”