Addison says simply, “Stay off my Instagram.”
“I’m not sure you should be telling me what to do,” I say, forcing my voice to stay calm, “but I’ll play it your way for now.”
“Good.” Addison stomps back into her office and slams the door.
I stand still for a moment and stare at her closed door, running my fingers through my hair. Then I turn and face her assistant. Her brown eyes are the color of my favorite bourbon, Wild Turkey, and right now, they’re wide with surprise.
“She hasn’t changed,” I say.
“You mean she’s slammed a door in your face before?”
I keep myself from smiling. She’s…something. Challenging, in her way. “Many people have.”
She smiles, her whole face lighting up like something out of a song. “I suppose it’s better than someone being nice to your face and then stabbing you in the back.”
“I get my share of that, too,” I say. “And I agree. It’s always better to know where you stand.”
I stare at her then. Really stare, taking in everything about her. Those lips, those bourbon eyes. The embarrassed blush on her cheeks and neck.
Her rack.
Yeah, the woman has an amazing rack. Even bound up in the work clothes she wears, it’s impossible to miss.
She looks down for a few seconds and then looks back up and meets my gaze. “I guess you know where you stand with Addie,” she says.
“Pretty much everyone does.”
I allow my lips to bend ever so slightly upward. I suppress a shiver.
“I couldn’t help myself,” I say. “She hates coffee.”
She smiles. “I know. She threw out the latte after the shoot. Perfectly good and hot. I’d have happily drunk it.”
“You’re a coffee drinker, then?”
She nods. “Absolutely.”
“Me too.” I stare at her again, unable to shift my gaze from that appealing mouth. “Care to go for a cup…”
Her eyes widen.
I glance toward her desk where her nameplate sits. I remember then, from the phone recording Cindy sent me. Skye Manning.
“…Skye?”
“It’s almost six.”
I don’t miss a beat. “Dinner, then?”
She looks down at her wrinkled silk blouse and skinny jeans. Her gorgeous brown hair is falling out of its ponytail. Again, I imagine it unbound and free, gloriously curtained over her shoulders and back.
She eyes Addison’s closed door.
“You don’t need her permission,” I say.
“I wasn’t—”
“Sure you were. Your boss doesn’t particularly like me, so you were wondering if going to dinner with me would somehow cost you your job.”