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Because Enzo is a fucking genius.
Until then, I really need to start waiting until the weekend to drink. This grown-up, being responsible, morning meetings thing is a bitch.
I turn the corner, and . . . holy hell.
I’ve been to this office a handful of times to meet with the other RPM, and this is the first time I’ve glimpsed this particular backside. She’s bent over, having apparently found something on the floor. When she stands and turns around, it does nothing to quell the raging hard-on that I don’t have time for at the moment.
She looks at me the way most women do. With an appreciation I’ve come to love and expect. I’m not being cocky here. It’s just a fact of life. Or my life at least.
Her pale green suit is totally out of place, which tells me she’s not from the city. Or maybe she just doesn’t give a shit about fitting in.
It looks good on her.
This woman, late twenties I think, looks like a cross between Lauren Conrad and someone not as sweet. Not that I know Lauren Conrad personally. I’ve only met her in passing, but she seems kind of sweet. This woman, not so much.
Her eyes are hard. Her chin, raised. She’s a pit bull, this one.
Perfect, a challenge.
“Looks like you found something.”
As I walk closer, the smell that wafts toward me catches me off guard. I’d have expected flowers, not sandalwood.
She’s wary. Burned by a guy? More than one?
Reading women is a specialty of mine, but even for me this will be a quick turnaround. I have maybe four minutes to work with.
“A bracelet,” she says, attempting to clasp on the thin golden strand one-handed. I watch her struggle for a few seconds and then go for it. She’s not the kind of woman who’ll appreciate the knight on a white horse approach, but there’s no time for anything but directness.
“May I?”
Palm open, I convey the fact that I’m not a threat.
She’s about to refuse, but I don’t back down, staring straight into her mint green eyes. Something tells me they’d be a different shade if she weren’t in that smartI mean business but am still a womansuit. I’d love to know what color they are when she’s totally naked.
“Thanks.”
I grasp the delicate bracelet and wrap it around her wrist. Concentrating on the task at hand, I don’t get to look at her face, but I don’t need to. I already know it by heart. It’s like a bright pink tulip plopped in the middle of a bouquet of white carnations.
Her voice, just like the perfume she’s wearing, is surprising. I hadn’t expected it to be so deep. Very carefully, I avoid looking at her chest. Hard to see much anyway beneath that suit coat.
“I have to get to a meeting,” I say.
Her lips part, ever so slightly. An encouraging sign.
“But I’d consider today to be an utter failure if I left here without getting your number.”
Her only reaction is to blink. She may not be a New Yorker, but this woman clearly knows how to play the game.
“You don’t know a thing about me,” she counters.
It’s not a no.
“Au contraire.”
I maybe have three minutes left.
“I know you work here. You seem pretty comfortable, like it’s a familiar setting to you. Which means you’re smart, obviously. I also know you’re not from the city. And that you’re extremely beautiful. I can sense you’re a little leery of me, which you probably should be.”
