Jo laughs. “Did he actually say that?”
“Yes.” No choice now but to continue. And it’s dangerous, because thinking about the porn star makes me think about porn, which then makes me think about sex.
“He must not love his job as much as I love mine, then.” The corners of her lips lift, and humor sparkles in her eyes. Why does the sight of that smile make me feel a hundred feet tall?
“I absolutely adore my work,” she continues. “What I do isn’t just shopping, it’s helping people realize their true potential.”
“How so?”
“Well, just to give you a corporate example, would you hire somebody who didn’t dress right for the job, even if he was, I don’t know, the Einstein of the energy sector?”
“An energy Einstein? I’d hire him.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Let’s say it’s before he became famous.”
“Well… I’d like to say yes, but most likely no. He wouldn’t even get an interview.”
“Exactly. And I like your honesty.” She beams. “Some people like to pretend they’re beyond such superficial things, but of course they aren’t. Besides, you can tell a lot by the way somebody dresses.”
“Like how rich they are?” That should be easy. All you’d have to do is catalogue how much they spent on clothes.
“Well, yeah. But also about their personality.” She leans closer and lowers her voice conspiratorially. “Of course, if they hire me… Well, they can project whatever they want.”
“What are you trying to project right now?”
She winks. “Don’t know, do you?”
I have to admit that she’s got me. I’d say she’s going for sexy, but I doubt there’s anything that could hide that simmering sexuality. So that’s out… “Soigné at the soirée?”
“Oh, humor. And cultured humor at that.” She gives me a small, silent clap, but still waits for my assessment.
I can’t think of anything else. Fashion isn’t my forte, but maybe I can turn this around. “Okay, I haven’t hired anybody to pick out my clothes, so tell me what you think I’m like.” Even as I say it, I wonder why. It isn’t like me to care that much about what people think. Or ask a woman I just met how she views me. It’s too much like begging for approval, or worse, affection.
I, Edgar Henry Clayton Blackwood, do not need or seek out affection.
“You?” Jo pulls back a bit and gives me a slow once-over from head to toe.
Since I can’t think of a good way to take back my question, I just stand and wait for her verdict. Her gaze sweeps over me again, and it feels tangible. Like gentle strokes. My skin prickles.
Shit. Don’t get hard—or, more accurately, don’t get any harder.
“Hmm.” She taps a finger against her lips.
I take a long swallow of my drink. I might as well be drinking water, though, since I can’t taste a thing. Why does it feel like the fate of the world rests on her opinion?
“Responsible,” she says finally. “Dependable. Controlled.”
I nod. “Perceptive.” They’re all good qualities. And I’ve done my best to embody them. But her saying that about me makes me feel flatter than a forgotten glass of Coke. I wanted her to say…what?
Sexy?
Fuckable?
Hot?
Before I can decide, Yuna clears her throat loudly for attention. “Thank you all for coming. I wanted to host this party to congratulate my amazing roommate Kim’s bonus. Apparently she was perfect at her job for the last five years, so it is well deserved.”
Jo makes a fist with her free hand and pumps it in the air. “Yeah!”