We’re intelligent, and we have a good business plan started. I can do this. Once I’m finished with him, PJ will have no choice but to see how important this is to us and want to help. It’s not like I’m actually thinking about doing what Ariel suggested. I’m not riding any frickles tonight, no matter how good the man looks who owns said frickle.
I’m wearing sexy clothes and I’m in a strip club. That’s about all the loosening up that’s going to happen tonight.
Chapter 13: Just Sit There and Look Pretty
“So, once we get the website set up and running, and word-of mouth gets around, I think this will really take off. Right now we just really need to concentrate on the actual stripping part,” I finish, giving PJ a smile after twenty straight minutes of rambling on and on about our home stripper-party business while he just sat quietly, taking it all in.
I have to say, I’m quite proud of myself for remaining professional and talking in a clear, concise manner to this man when he’s done nothing but sit a few inches away from me, with his arm still flung over the back of the booth, brushing against my bare shoulders every time one of us would shift in our seat. Even when his eyes would leave mine and stare at my mouth as I spoke, or would subtly glance down at my legs when I would cross and uncross them, I never once tripped over my words or giggled like a fool. Even though I wanted to. I really, really wanted to let a nervous laugh fly out of my mouth and cover it up by snuggling in closer to him so I could take a nice big whiff of his cologne. Every time he shifts in his seat, that spicy, woodsy scent hits my nose, which is the cause for all the crossing and uncrossing of my legs. I’ve never been turned on by someone’s smell before. But I’ve also never sat so close to a man who couldn’t take his eyes off me as I spoke. Having someone so interested and invested in what I was saying was a huge turn on.
Brian always interrupted me when I’d talk about things that excited me. Or he’d stare down at his phone the entire time, half-listening and distractedly muttering words that had nothing to do with what I was saying, just to pretend he was paying attention.
It’s refreshing and it’s invigorating to have a businessman like PJ so fascinated with what I’m telling him. It also doesn’t hurt my confidence that he just won’t stop looking at me. Even when half-dressed strippers wander by our table to say hello and wave at their boss, his eyes never leave mine when he politely responds to them.
I hold my breath when he opens his mouth, unable to contain my excitement at all the praise he’s going to give us about our business idea, but letting out a frustrating huff when a waitress stops by our table and interrupts all the wonderful things he was about to say.
“I’ll have another one of those,” PJ tells the scantily clad waitress, pointing to an almost-empty glass of amber liquid sitting on the small table in front of us. “And Cynthia will have . . . a glass of Moscato.”
The way he studied me for a few seconds and immediately decided I should have a glass of sissy, girly wine is like a bucket of cold water tossed over my heated skin. Of course I love Moscato, and a nice, cold, refreshing glass of it sounds wonderful right about now, but it’s the principle of the thing. Who is he to just take one look at me and decide I need a sissy, girly drink?
“Excuse me, Jennifer?” I call to the waitress, who has started walking away to fill our order. “Forget the Moscato. I’ll have what he’s having.”
She gives me a nod before hustling away through the crowd. I turn my head back toward PJ to find him staring at me again, one corner of his mouth tipped up into a smile.
Leaning over without taking my eyes off of him, I grab his drink and swallow down what’s left of it, my eyes immediately filling with tears and the burn . . . oh, sweet lord the burn . . . it’s like someone just lit a match inside my throat.
“My apologies. I didn’t take you for a Johnnie Walker lover.”
PJ’s lips twitch with the need to laugh while I do my best to blink the tears out of my eyes and remember how to swallow as I smack the empty glass back down on the table.
Whiskey. Disgusting. It’s no wonder I want to throw up right now.
“Of course, I’m a Johnnie Walker lover. Who isn’t?” I tell him with a raspy voice, wanting nothing more than to break down into a coughing fit to make the pain go away.