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The smile slides from my face. “Oh.” It doesn’t happen all that much. When I was younger, right out of college, women who knew my last name would approach me hoping for the connections and lifestyle my name had come to represent. But it’s disappointing to realize that this fine woman is digging for mine or Moore’s gold.
“Yes. I got here early to do some recon on the store and saw you. Didn’t want to be rude.” She gestures between us, exposing one perfect nipple from under her soaked white blouse. “But apparently that ship has sailed.” She straightens her shoulders and drops her arms. The look on her face says she’ll be sorely disappointed if I can’t keep my eyes on hers and off her chest. Though I desperately want to be the perv Stan thinks I am, I never like to disappoint a lady. I meet her golden-eyed stare.
She sticks out her hand for me to shake. “I’m Campbell King.”
* * *
Bell
“As in King Marketing?”
“That’d be the one.” I have to give it to him; he isn’t looking at my chest. I mean, I caught him glancing earlier, but really, who wouldn’t? I’m probably high-beaming the man. And just to say, if he’d been wearing white pants and I could see his junk through them, I’d have looked too.
Dear lord, I’m thinking of his junk. Off to a great start with my new client.
I clear my throat. “Yes. I like to get a feel for the businesses I work with, especially those that have a tangible base of operations. As you probably know from the Forbes article, I’ve built a niche in the social media marketing world with businesses that deal in consumer goods. I like to think a lot of my success comes from doing my homework. Both on the ground and online.”
I’m trying desperately to act professional here. You know, like I didn’t just soak us both in hot coffee. I’m also trying not to notice that his face doesn’t just match his sexy voice, it surpasses it.
His crazy good looks aren’t a total surprise. The guy showed up in the papers frequently when I lived in New York. As soon as he said his name over the phone, I had a mental image to go along with his sex-operator voice. And after a mildly stalkerish Google image search, I also had a lot of recent photos of Chase Moore to go by as well. Photos I may have thought of while in bed. Alone. (Sigh.) But just as I like to think supermodels and celebrities don’t look as good in real life as they do in magazines, I’ve been hoping the same would be true of Mr. Chase Moore.
No such luck.
Not that I wish he’d been beaten by an ugly stick or anything, but trying to remain professional in the face of, well, his face, is quite trying.
“I appreciate your dedication. It’s no wonder Forbes wrote that article.”
Gone is the good-time-boy charm. His voice seems stilted, and his eyes are staring at some place over my shoulder. My nipples are making him nervous.
I giggle. Well, shit. That isn’t very professional either.
But my laugh makes his eyes return to me, and I like that. I like that a lot.
“And I appreciate your dedication to not ogling my boobs, Mr. Moore.” I’m treated to a full-blown smile at that. Holy hell. I cross my arms over my chest again, sure the traitors have cut through the thin cotton by now. “But I should probably head back to the hotel before security arrests me for public indecency. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Oh no you don’t.” Chase steps quickly between me and the door, tossing his empty cup in the trash. “I won’t let a little spilled coffee stand between you and your research. I think with the seven floors we have here at Moore’s, we can find you something to wear.”
“That really isn’t necessary. But thank you.” I try to move around him, but he shifts again.
“I insist. Especially if it’s going to help you build Moore’s a fantastic social media marketing plan.”
And that is how, three minutes later, I find myself in the women’s department, standing next to Chase while he explains to the very attractive, very put-together older saleswoman why I resemble a high-priced flasher. At least, I hope I look high-priced.
Because it isn’t lost on me that I’m in the women’s luxury department. The carpeted area, where they keep all the merchandise priced over a grand per item. Honestly, a T-shirt from the athletic department would’ve sufficed. But as the coffee has cooled and the air-conditioning is pumping, I’m not about to start an argument about cost while I literally freeze my nipples off.
The conversation finishes and Chase turns to me. “Susan will take care of you.” He looks down at the giant brown stain across the front of his dress shirt. “I’ll be back in a minute.” He winks and walks off.
I want to slap him when he winks. Not because I feel it’s chauvinist or insincere, but because it makes me want to jump him and ride him like I’m at the Texas Rodeo.
“Miss?”
Oh yeah. Susan. She’s looking at me in a friendly way. Probably way friendlier than I would’ve interacted with a stranger soaked in coffee and flashing some nip. But then again, it is her job. And when the boss says jump…
I clear my throat for what feels like the twentieth time today and say, “I really just need a T-shirt.”
This time, her smile is a mix of sympathy and condescension. “I’ll see what I can do.”
* * *
