“Then what would you call it?”
I think back to that exact moment I saw him. After the jolt of recognition—and attraction—passed, I felt achingly aware of the compromising position I was in. But I didn’t want to feel bad for having fun, for letting loose, so I defied him by staring him down.
“You have quite an imagination.”
“Mmmm.” His throaty little sound is one I hope I never have to hear again. It reminds me very much of the sound of appreciation a man might make upon touching the bare skin of a lover for the first time.
“I’ll admit, Idohave a vivid imagination, Doctor Flemming.”
Bowing slightly, which is apparently a habit of his—probably chapter two in that handbook—Mr. Tanner turns to leave.
“Goodnight, Doctor.”
I’m left staring at the empty spot where he stood. The jerk doesn’t even bother to look back. Not once. He rejoins his friend, business partner, whatever, and sits his fine-looking ass on the barstool like he didn’t just saunter over here, play me like a fiddle, and then walk away.
For the second time this week, I’m really, really glad I won’t be dealing with him on a weekly basis. His account might be mine, but the much more friendly and less dangerous Mr. DeLuca is a man I can easily deal with.
Mr. Sexy Eyes, not so much.
8
Hayden
“Calm down.”
Easy for Enzo to say.
I pace the length of his temporary office, the location perfect for our purposes. It’s small, but neither of us spend enough time here to warrant anything bigger for now. Enzo gets the one private office, and I share a big open space with our four other employees.
Enzo is the one who needs privacy. He’s the inventor in all of this. His calculations are what will make or break us, and it’s harder for him to concentrate here than when he’s at the lab.
“I am calm,” I insist.
“Is that why you’re pacing around my office?” He rolls backward in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I can’t take him anymore.”
“By him you mean your dad?”
I don’t dignify his question with an unnecessary answer.
“What now?”
“I swear to God, Enzo, if this doesn’t get approved on time, if my father’s brought on as a partner . . .”
“Breathe.”
I’m not into all that crap. Enzo loves talking about clearing his head. Swimming. Even yoga. But I like to take out my frustrations on a few hundred-pound weights. Or with late nights and lots of alcohol.
But I do as he says.
In and out.
“Feel better?”
I sink into the chair across from Enzo’s desk.
“No.”