“Griff isn’t my friend. He’s my brother.”
“No way.” She looks taken aback, though not horrified. That has to be a good sign.
“I’m not certain if that was meant to compliment him or me.”
“People who fish for compliments don’t deserve them.”
“Holland,” I mutter, fighting my feelings and my rising temper, swallowing them down like bitter medicine. “I meant it when I said it was a surprise to see you tonight. I’m sorry we weren’t more truthful with each other, and I’m sorry to hear you’ve had issues with your employment. But if you’ll just stop trying to goad me for one minute, you’ll find that I might be able to help you.”
“You mean like your brother wants to help?” she retorts with more than a hint of accusation.
I could, I suppose. Except that she deserves better and that I demand better from myself. My needs are my own, and there are other ways to have those needs met without embroiling the innocent.
“There’s no need to be suspicious.” Because, unlike some people, I don’t act on impulse to the thoughts running through my head. Slipping Griffin’s card into my inside pocket, I take out my pen. My jaw clenches as I resist the temptation to ask for her number because I know the temptation might prove too great. I could give her mine, but then she might call. And I might answer. And that sounds like the beginning of a disaster. “Call this number tomorrow.” Taking her hand in mine, I jot my assistant’s number down on the back of her hand, ignoring how small it looks, the delicacy of her wrists. And how they looked manacled by my fingers. “George will be expecting your call.”
“What kind of job are we talking about?” As if her expression wasn’t enough, her tone drips with suspicion.
“One with children, I believe.”
“Teaching?”
“I don’t believe so.” Because I don’t know anyone who owns a school. But between us, my friends and I do own a great deal of businesses, buildings, and estates. And better still, some of them are in very remote locations. The kind of locations that are out of Griffin’s reach.
And out of sight, out of mind, I hope.
For both of us.
11
Holly
I wasn’t going to call.
Yes, I need a job—a decent job—but why would I involve myself in anything to do with those two. Alexander, I know, is too hot to handle, and his brother seems like he could be a handful, too. Singularly they are trouble. But getting in between them sounds like a health risk.
I so wasn’t going to call that number inked into my hand by Alexander’s hand. Especially not the way my skin had reacted to the brush of his and how I’d swallowed a sigh when he pressed his palm to mine. Under the warmth and protection of his jacket, I’d inhaled lungsful of his scent and my stomach had twisted itself into needy and complicated knots. Not that he would’ve guessed any of that, not the way I’d coolly handed back his jacket. Not the way I’d walked back to the kitchen without even a backward glance. And who cares if my knees were knocking because I could feel his eyes on me the whole time, because I’ll never admit to it.
In the kitchen, I’d borrowed a pen from Mo to jot down the number on a scrap of paper. Now that I think about it, it was kind of odd that Mo didn’t give me a hard time for forgetting to bring in the box from the van. She just kind of looked at me warily, I thought.
Though I’d washed the ink from my skin that night, I’ve been unable to wash away the recollection of what it felt like to be near him again.
I was absolutely not going to call. Not after being up close and personal with him again. Okay, so maybe not quite as up close or even as personal as I would’ve liked—I mean, as the first time we met—but close enough to smell his cologne again. Spice and earth and all kinds of wonderful. And I can’t believe I got all handsy with his chest again. The damn thing is like a magnet, even when he was being all formal and stiff, the cause of which was probably the way his ass was pinching around that stick he seemed to have shoved up there. He was so different this time. Frosty and aloof. Okay, not all the time, but it’s not like he let his guard down intentionally. More like the thing exploded.
I’ve thought about you, Holland. Thought about you more than I’d care to admit.
Even now, the memory of his voice makes me shiver. I’ve thought about him, too. Lots of times. Mostly at night with my hand sunk into my pyjama pants.