Blind Date (6 page)

I glance at the dainty watch circling my wrist. Five to eleven. I should really make my presence known or risk being fired from the company I own thirty-three percent of.

Mom would too, just to teach me a lesson.

I approach the heavy wooden black door just to the left of the restaurant, per the email instructions Carlos finally emailed to me five minutes ago. Apparently the man has never mastered the art of preparation and his organizational skills resemble a toddler’s far more than mine ever could.

With a deep breath filling my lungs to the brim with oxygen, I clasp the thick sample book to my chest and rap my knuckles against the door. Two seconds later, I notice the bell, black too, and press it.

More horns beep as the traffic merges at the end of the block.

Slowly, the door opens. A young woman who can be no older than my own twenty-six years fills the space in front of me. Her blouse is perfectly pressed and well fitted, and her black pencil skirt leads down to skyscraper heels. Blue eyes peruse me as slick blonde bangs graze her eyebrows. “Can I help you?”

I force a smile. “My name is Bee Donnelly. I’m here on behalf of Donnelly Designs.”

Blondie purses her lips and grasps an iPad seemingly out of nowhere. “We have a Carla Donnelly on the schedule.”

“My mother,” I confirm. “Something came up for her. She said she’d called ahead and informed you I’d be coming.”

She rolls her eyes and sets the iPad down. Who the fuck knows where? Seems like any area behind her is made solely of darkness and possibly bitch-pill-fed demons. She produces an iPhone from the same blackness and scrolls. “Oh yes. I have a missed call from her. Two seconds please.”

I take a deep, calming breath as she turns away, the phone to her ear.

“For fuck sake, Joanna. Let her in. She’s hardly a terrorist.”

I’d know that voice anywhere.

Mostly because the last words I heard it say were that I’m a ‘fucking delight.’

“Sir, I’m simply confir—”

“Joanna. Escort her into the bar. Thank you.” A shadowy figure strolls behind her.

Blondie—apparently named Joanna, although I will assume her parents missed a damn good trick on the Barbie front—looks to the ceiling. Her cheeks flush as she takes a step back and opens the door wider. “My apologies, Ms. Donnelly. Please come in and forgive my rudeness.”

I wave it off. “Don’t worry, honey. I have a demon-boss of my own.”

Her lips twitch. “Your mother.”

“Ssssh.” I touch my finger to my lips. “Don’t say the word. You may just summon her.”

She glances down, fighting a smile, then sweeps her arm elegantly. “Follow me. Mr. Hughes is waiting for you.”

Yes. He sure does have that habit of waiting… Once you’re at his mercy, that is.

Holy fuck, Bee. This is not the kind of thought you need to be having right now. You’re here to design his—wait. No. I’m not here to design a thing. I already designed the man an orgasm for the love of fucking God.

The contract though.

Right. The contract.

Focus, Bee.

Sweet fuck. How can I? This wasn’t in my plan. Nowhere near it. Neither was the blind date, so really, this is Charley’s fault. The bitch.

“Take a seat,” Joanna offers, motioning to a black bar stool. “He’ll be right with you.”

“Thank you.” I set the giant portfolio down on the black glass bar. Another fact I missed this weekend. Holy hell, was I truly that wrapped up in Carter Hughes that I didn’t notice a thing about this… bar? Restaurant? Whatever it is he’s running here?

Yes. I was. Because I’m a slut and I’m proud of that.

And there’s a sentence I never thought I’d have to say to myself.

Judge me all you like. We all have an inner whore inside us.

Charlie Hunnam. Ryan Reynolds. Adam Levine. Julian Edelman. Jamie Dornan. Brad Pitt. Channing Tatum. Ian Somerhalder. Cristiano Ronaldo. Matt Bomer. Joe Manganiello.

If you can think of them and have dry panties, then you’re clearly an alien who has no place on this world.

I close my eyes briefly to center myself. Work. Consult. Give opinion. Be a real woman. Don’t be a puddle. I’m here to work and I need to remember that.

New York City might be crazy, but it isn’t that big. I should have guessed as soon as he told me he owned the restaurant that I’d see him again. You know. If I’d have paid attention to the restaurant in the first place.

Fuckity fucky fucker fuckit.

What is wrong with me?

A lot. Apparently a whole lot of stuff is wrong with me.

Goddamn it. I can’t be this flustered for this meeting. It’s like offering myself up as prey for him. If I continue to act like a teenager in the throes of her first crush I may as well just bunch up my skirt, sit my fine ass on this bar and just let him have his way with me.

Shit. That doesn’t help either.

Dammit. Why am I such a slut?

From right now, this very second, I swear that the next time I allow a man between my legs is if he’s either a doctor or my husband.

Okay. Husband is drastic. Way drastic. Who knows how long it’ll take me to find the one?

Still, it’s time for a battery-operated boyfriend. At least I know the next time I run into him I won’t have to make conversation—and there’s no chance of him coming before me. As long as you keep an eye on the battery level, of course.

All righty then. Deep breath, Bee. Let’s focus on the fact that the kind of escapade you just had with Carter Hughes is a thing of the past. What an esca—

No.

I touch my fingertips to the portfolio and take a deep breath. The sound of a throat cleaning has me looking up at the figure half-standing in the shadows. His dark hair is as slick and smoothly styled as I remember it. His suit is crisp and well-fitting, the fabric stretching easily over his shoulders without straining. It reeks of expense and of class, but I ignore that tiny fact as I lift my gaze to his face.

His jaw, sharp and angular and dusted with dark, perfectly trimmed stubble, is tight. Pink lips set in the tempting spread of facial hair are quirked to one side in a knowing smirk, and heat pools in my stomach as I remember exactly what those lips can do.

But as always, it’s his eyes. His emerald green eyes are dazzling, invasive in their scrutiny as they trawl across my face and my body, from the gentle curls of my dark hair and down to my Louboutin-clad feet.

He’s as hot as ever.

I need a handyman. I’m screwed.

“Ms. Donnelly.” Carter approaches me with one hand stretched out. I slide off the stool and hold my own out. He clasps it firmly, his fingers wrapping around mine. The grip is steady, the sizzle of his skin hot against mine. He pulls me into him, and with one hand resting against my side, he whispers, “So good to see you again.”

So we’re playing this game. “Mr. Hughes,” I reply, my voice leaning to the seductive side. I pull back and take my hand from his. “How are you?”

His eyes flash with the recognition that just hit me. “Very well. Yourself?”

“Couldn’t be better, thank you.”

He waves toward the stool I just vacated, and I lean back, retaking my seat. He sits on the one next to me. “Shall we get started?” He reaches one strong hand up and adjusts his tie.

Oh boy.

I fight the squirm that tickles through my lower body and respond with a smile. “Absolutely.” I adjust my skirt so I can cross one leg over the over. His eyes drop to my legs as I smooth my skirt back out. “Tell me more about what you have in mind.”

The slow, purposeful lift of his gaze burns through me. Damn, those eyes. They’re intense and calculating, but not in a cold way. They see right through me. He knows I’ve seen his game and raised him. I get the feeling I won’t be the only one lifting the stakes.

He leans against the bar and rests his forearm against it. His fingers tap against the glass surface one by one, making no more than a quiet tap. “Joanna?” he calls, his eyes still focused on me. “Could you get me and Ms. Donnelly a cup of coffee?”

“Of course,” she says from somewhere behind me.

“And hold my calls.” He tilts his head to the side, his lips twitching. “I don’t want to be disturbed.”

My eyebrows shoot up at the sound of a door closing. A shiver also dances down my spine, but I’m not going to focus on that. I’m going to focus on the assumption that I want coffee and he doesn’t want to be disturbed.

“Presumptuous,” I remark, removing a notepad and pen from my purse.

“Which part?”

“Both.”

“Depends how you take it.” His smile simply grows.

I look to the ceiling and inhale sharply. Resolutely, I place my notepad and pen on the bar and meet Carter’s gaze. “Mr. Hughes, I’m here on behalf of my mother and our company. Whether you arranged this consultation before or after our previous meeting isn’t something I, quite frankly, give a shit about. What I do care about is coming here, doing my job, and going away to design something that will give Donnelly Designs a chance to be hired by you. I would appreciate that whatever happened in the past stay there.”

“Your company?” he asks, still not dropping the smirk. “You own it?”

Not seeing what this has to do with anything, but whatever. “Partially. It’s the brainchild of us both. I have the minority, but one day I’ll own it all, so…” I shrug one shoulder. “It’s important to me that we have a good, honest portfolio.”

“Are you suggesting that I’d hire you simply because I enjoy the way your mouth feels when it’s around my cock?”

I choke on my own saliva. “I can’t say that’s the way I’d have worded it.”

“In my experience, you’re a straight to the point woman, Bee Donnelly. Answer the question.”

Fine. “Yes.”

“See?” He leans forward, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Wasn’t too hard, was it?”

I glance at his pants. “Nope.”

The action stills him. “I booked this before we met,” he says in a low voice. “I assumed it were merely coincidence that you had the same surname. Donnelly isn’t exactly unique or rare.”

If I didn’t want to know where he was going, I’d be offended.

“But to address your inaccurate opinion, I don’t hire people based on how well they fuck. If I did, we’d be having a very different type of consultation.” His jaw tics as heat floods my cheeks. “Let’s move through to the restaurant and we can talk.”

He gets up and turns away. My heart is twisting in both annoyance and embarrassment. I grab my things and follow him.

Sorry, Mom. I both fucked and offended a prospective client. My bad.

God she’s gonna kill me. And she’s gonna make it painful.

Carter leads me through the bar and opens the door to the restaurant. I take a succession of slow, deep breaths as we step out into the bar, and I won’t lie, I’m thankful to leave that part. I know that on the other side of the room is the booths.

A place I really, really hope he doesn’t want redesigning.

I adjust the waistband of my skirt and take a step up next to him.

“The restaurant.” He runs his finger along the leaf of a bushy indoor plant. “I want it redesigned more in line with the bar.”

“The style and scheme?” I question, my mouth going dry. I hope he doesn’t mean the… environment. Can you imagine digging into your salmon or steak to the sound of a sexual rendezvous?

He cuts his eyes to me, and his lips do that twitchy thing again. “Yes, the style and color scheme. The bar is a… newer addition to the space. It was part of my former living space. When I moved out, I decided to convert it and the upper floor.”

“What’s in the upper floor?” I swallow. The way this place is going, it’s probably whips, chains, and shackles.

As if he can read my mind, Carter turns his whole body toward me and meets my eyes. “Joanna’s apartment.”

Ah.

“Don’t worry yourself, Ms. Donnelly. I don’t have a secret sex lair where I whisk young, hot women away to. Unless, of course, they ask.”

“You just have a semi-public sex bar?” I lift an eyebrow, setting my purse on a table.

“I told you before—I have a very elite clientele with specific tastes. Some people relish knowing they’re fucking with other people walking past.”

“Is that really all it’s used for?”

“Of course not. Sometimes people book them for private dates, business meetings, or simply time alone. But, I’d suppose… Ninety percent of the time they’re booked for solely sexual purposes.”