* * *I rarely speak at conferences.
I’ll do it occasionally, sure, because it boosts credibility, it’s good PR, et cetera, et cetera.
Doesn’t mean I like it.
Normally at these events, I try to just listen to overconfident blowhards spouting their success stories. I take good notes—or rather, have them taken for me.
And then I do the opposite.
Their strategy, with few exceptions, sucks.
It’s an exercise in what not to do. Still, I like being up on all the approaches being marketed to marketers right now, so I can give my clients every single reason why they don’t work.
Adzilla is about finding weaknesses in my competitors and splitting them open like lobsters.
Usually.
This year, it’s not as cut and dry.
All because I can’t take my eyes off Sabrina Bristol.
Her black slacks could be painted on and the spaghetti strap blouse shows too much skin. Her ass is as tight and round as a plum, and in those pants, it’s impossible not to notice. The silk fringe around the low-cut neckline of her shirt dances under the air vent, tempting fate.
I want to yank that shirt down and find out if the hand-sized melons underneath are as perfect as they seem.
But part of me also wants to take my blazer off and button it around her. Because you can bet if I’m looking, every other male executive is, too, and men like this crowd are used to taking what they want.
Fucking Phoenix and its warm weather. It’s still in the seventies here.
The layers and sleeves she normally wears to the office are easier to ignore, but at least I’m not chilled to the bone here.
She pokes me in the side, a movement so unexpected I almost jump.
“What?” I roll my eyes and shift so I can whisper only to her.
“I just wondered if you needed a pad or pen,” she says.
“A pad?”
“He said to take out a pen and paper or your laptop,” she whispers. “Since everybody else is busy scribbling away or pounding on keys, I thought you might need help?”
I give her a smile. “I could recite this bullshit in my sleep.”
She’s right beside me. How has she not noticed me staring? Or has she?
Focus on the session and you won’t have to worry, idiot, I tell myself.
If only these speakers weren’t so goddamn boring.
Somehow, I manage.
“What’s the plan?” Sabrina asks after the session ends.
“We should probably get dinner, then go back to the hotel to clean up for the formal tonight,” I say.
“Oh, no.” She wrinkles her nose. “Fancy food again?”
I fight back a laugh. “You could call it that.”
Her head tilts back and her chin is in the air.
“So, finger foods. Right. I’m going for tacos soon so I don’t starve.”
At this point, I lose the battle and my laughter escapes. “Are you riding with the rest of the crew or with me?” I hope she says she’s coming with me. “If you want to come along, we’ll stop at Taco Colita.”
“Taco Colita?” She blinks.
“One of the finest taco joints Phoenix has to offer. It’s savory and spicy and delicious. Nothing fancy, just flavor that’ll knock you on your ass. I promise.” I do, and my mouth starts watering.
“How spicy?” I love the little wrinkle of concern on her face that kindles into a smile fit for the Valley of the Sun. “Never mind, sold. I like a surprise and I’m not the type who runs from a little heat. This is my first time here, so show me what’s good.”
I nod, this drumming beat behind my ribs.
She’s so different from any girl I’ve ever dated—curious, grateful, ready to soak in life without expecting everything to be handed to her.
Hit the brakes.
I’m not dating her. She’s my employee.
“I’ll crash first for a little bit if you don’t mind,” she says with a yawn.
“You’re not crashing. I just invited you to taco nirvana. You’ll thank me later. You don’t want to be groggy from a nap at the event tonight,” I tell her.
She smiles, thinking, and bites her bottom lip.
“Okay, Heron, you’re on.”* * *After a quick pre-dinner at Taco Colita—which she loves as much as I knew she would—Armstrong drives us to the hotel in the rental car. I watch Sabrina slide out of the car, the Arizona sun turning her hair into spun brown sugar.
When I make no effort to move, she leans back into the open door with a wrinkle in her forehead.
“Go on,” I tell her. “I have errands to run before tonight. I’ll meet you there.”
“Okay, see ya.” She bumps the door shut with her hip and walks away.
“Did you—” I start.
“No worries.” Armstrong lays his hand on the passenger seat and twists to face me. “It’s done, boss.”
I nod. “What did you get him?”
“Several fine tip pens—the really expensive ones you told me about, a calligraphy set, and half a dozen leather-bound journals,” he says.