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She impresses me even more. Not everyone would catch that. “True. I usually keep an ace up my sleeve.”
“What’s that ace tonight?”
I lower my eyelids slightly, measuring my next words. “I’d be a shitty negotiator if I gave that up so early.”
She draws in another deep breath. “I’m still not going to bed with you, Mr. Black.”
“Braden,” I say again. “And you are, Skye. You definitely—”
A server appears. “Hi, Mr. Black. I’m Cory, and I’ll be taking care of you and your lady this evening. Would you like to begin with a cocktail?”
“Absolutely, Cory,” I say. “Skye?”
“Vodka martini,” she says. “Extra olives.”
“Any particular vodka?”
“Grey Goose?”
Cory nods and then turns to me.
“Wild Turkey on the rocks.” All the bartenders here know I mean one rock.
Still my favorite, even though I can afford the top-shelf brands now. I guess a guy never really leaves his roots. Coming of age in South Boston, I was lucky to be able to afford a six-pack on a Saturday night.
“Very good. Any appetizers?” Cory asks.
“Yes. A dozen of your best oysters on the half shell, please.”
“Any particular ones you want to try tonight?” he asks.
“Three of the Blue Point, and you choose the rest.” I nod to Skye. “Do you want anything else?”
She shakes her head. “I love raw oysters.”
I smile—a big one. A woman who loves raw oysters. Not that a person who loves raw oysters is hard to come by in Boston, but I can’t wait to eat oysters with Skye Manning. Already, I know it’s going to drive me wild.
I say nothing. I like silence. I’m comfortable in silence. Most women—at least most women who date me—aren’t. Except for Skye Manning. She doesn’t try to make the dreaded forced conversation, and I appreciate her all the more.
A few silent minutes later, our drinks arrive.
I lift my glass to my lips and take a drink. The bourbon is smoky and slightly harsh, and I love it. I let it sit on my tongue for a few seconds, let it glide over every inch of my mouth before it trickles down my throat.
And I wonder how my cock will feel jammed up against the back of Skye Manning’s throat.
Later, I’ll find out.
“Tell me,” I say after swallowing, “a little about Skye Manning. You must be something to be working for Addison.”
“I have a degree in photography and media from BU. She hired me for my photography skills.”
“For her influencing?”
“Yeah.”
“But those are selfies.”
“Actually, they’re not. I take the pictures, and she positions her arm so that it looks like a selfie to the untrained eye.”
