“Water’s fine, thanks.”
“Get a drink,” Andrew commanded.
Andrew was in a mood, so I asked for a glass of house red. Alcohol might grease the tension between us. It couldn’t hurt.
After the server disappeared, I turned to my brother. “Should we just get on with it? You clearly don’t want to be here, and I don’t want to be here. Pull out the papers and I’ll sign them.”
“That’s not why I wanted to have dinner.”
I frowned. “But the only reason we ever see each other is because of—”
“I know that,” Andrew snapped. “But if I told you the real reason why I wanted you here, you wouldn’t have come.”
He was correct—preservation of my self-esteem was important, so I went out of my way to avoid Andrew. I hated that he’d manipulated me. “So why am I here?”
“Business dinner with a potential client.”
“Oh, let me guess; a fat, old Southern gentleman who likes young, pretty things. Which is why you were glad I changed before I came.”
“Not Southern. Scottish. Flynn Campbell.”
“Great, so now you want me to charm some gruff old Scotsman. I’ve had a long day, Andrew. I don’t have the energy to be charming. So, if you’ll excuse me—”
“You can’t leave,” Andrew said, standing. “Campbell’s here.”
I held in an annoyed sigh as I rose and turned my attention to the man striding toward us.
He wasn’t old. Not in the least. Mid-thirties, if I had to guess. And unlike anyone I’d ever seen.
Flynn Campbell wasn’t just tall—he was massive. He made the grown men he was walking past look small. He strode with purpose and confidence. The three-piece charcoal gray bespoke suit molded perfectly to his large form—it was nothing more than a polished veneer, like he deigned to wear it to appease society. His face wasn’t classically handsome, but rugged, like the wild beauty of the craggy Highlands. Blue eyes a unique shade of cobalt sat above a sharp nose. His dark hair, almost a bit too long, was styled with product and swept off his face.
I’d never seen a man like him before. He was out of place and time. He would’ve fit in with the stars from the Golden Age of Hollywood. Flynn Campbell could’ve held his own against a young Sean Connery or Clint Eastwood.
Campbell’s gaze found and dismissed Andrew all in the span of a moment. When Campbell looked at me, my breath caught in my throat and my vision narrowed, shutting out everything except him and his beguiling blue eyes. Andrew introduced me, but it sounded like he was speaking from very far away. Flynn Campbell took my hand in his. He didn’t bring it to his mouth, nor did he shake it while continuing to survey me. He just held it in his strong, warm grip.
“Ms. Schaefer.” The man’s voicerumbled. He had a low, intoxicating brogue, which I found pleasing to the ear.
“Please, call me Barrett, Mr. Campbell.”
“Flynn,” he corrected.
“Flynn,” I said, trying out his name. I liked the feel of it on my tongue, like heady scotch.
The return of the waiter with our drinks forced me to break my gaze from Flynn’s. I suddenly needed to inhale a deep breath, take a minute, and regain my wits. Flynn helped me with my chair and then took the seat next to me, so I was barricaded on both sides.
“Sir, may I get you a drink?” the waiter asked Flynn.
Without taking his eyes off me, Flynn answered, “Balvenie DoubleWood 17 year. Neat. Thank you.”
I smiled without thought.
Flynn’s cobalt-blue eyes gleamed. “My drink order amuses you?”
“No. I’m wishing I ordered that instead.” My own glass of red wine sat untouched, and I didn’t want it anymore. I wanted potent.
“You can share mine,” Flynn said, his voice deep and sensual.
The waiter returned almost immediately and set down Flynn’s glass of scotch in front of him. Flynn lifted the glass in his large hand, bringing it to his mouth. He savored it a moment before holding the glass out to me. Our fingers brushed as I took it from him. Smooth, elegant flavors lingered on my tongue. I swallowed.