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 seehisjunk 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 theForbesarticle, 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 wonderForbeswrote 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 appreciateyourdedication 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’sluxurydepartment. 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, itisher 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.”
Apparently,what she can do is set me up in the largest dressing room with a plethora of blouses, dresses, pants, and even lingerie. I know they don’t sell bras and panties on this floor, so I wonder what exactly Chase had instructed Susan to do.
That’ll teach me to stare at his ass while the adults are talking.
I spent the better part of ten minutes sitting in a robe after Susan took my clothes, including undergarments, and said she’d be right back. I really didn’t see why she needed my panties, but as the robe was warm and fluffy, I hadn’t cared.
And now, with a multitude of choices before me, all beautiful and made in sumptuous fabrics, I decide to spend my recent tax refund on a new wardrobe. Who needs to deposit into their retirement account when La Perla lingerie and Stella McCartney blouses are staring you in the face?
I’ve just put the first outfit on, complete with neon-pink lace panties, when Susan returns with a knock on my door.
