We spend a couple hours at the pool, and I spend most of the time flirting with the towel guy and the bartender, both of whom are hot, local, and eager to please. While I have no doubt they could scratch every itch I have, I can’t keep my mind from wandering back to that night in Toledo with Tate. Our presentation was a complete success, and we walked out of that boardroom confident we’d secured the multi-million dollar campaign. He wanted to celebrate, and arranged for a private table at the best restaurant Toledo, Ohio offered. That night we ate and drank, but we also talked and laughed. He hadn’t been lying when he said he knew a lot about me, like where and when I graduated, as well as what side of town I live on.
“Are you stalking me?” Two glasses of wine and I was leaning forward, licking my lips, and batting my eyelashes. Not that I needed wine to want to flirt with Tate, but it definitely made me forget the repercussions that come with fucking the boss.
“Since when is showing an interest in my employees stalking?”
“Oh, so you know which side of town all your employees live on?”
He smiles. “Maybe not all of them.”
“Just the pretty ones?” My fingers glide up and down the stem of my wineglass in a teasing caress.
He notices, his eyes flaring with heat. “Just the ones that make me hard.”
I suck in my breath. “Do I make you hard?”
“Give me your hand and find out.”
I shouldn’t have given him my hand, but the thought of him aroused by me was too tempting to deny. The man was deliciously thick and long through his slacks, and it took about eight-seconds for us to ditch dessert, pay the check, and be in the back of the town car making out like a couple of teenagers. That night had been the best sex of my life, but it never should have happened. I don’t want to be known as the girl who slept her way to the top. My coworkers can never know I fucked our boss.
So, I ditched him in the morning, and when he called—which of course he did, the man isn’t used to hearing no—I told him what happens in Toledo, stays in Toledo.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, might be the lamest campaign slogan ever.