And I want to make this woman moan under me as much as I want her to perceive me in the same light as Enzo. A nice guy, not some rich asshole who can’t pull it together long enough to stop harassing her.
Unfortunately, mission accomplished. Now I guess it’s just a matter of continuing to tame the beast. Because as much as I adore the guy, always honorable, always a gentleman . . .
I’m no Enzo.
11
Ada
The spark between us should have guttered out in that first meeting, when Hayden strutted in late like an entitled prick. But it didn’t, not totally, and then Mr. Sexy Eyes watched me dance. Yes, it was with another man. A mostly naked one who does that sort of thing for money. But in that moment, the only thing that mattered was catching Hayden’s gaze and holding it.
Since then, the dirty thoughts have been pretty much constant, and now a cruel twist of fate—or his partner’s busy schedule—has shoved us together.
Still, it might not have been a big deal if I hadn’t agreed to that dinner. Now, I’ve seen a different side of him. A human side.
Cocky? Yes.
Entitled? For sure.
Off-limits? Most definitely.
Sexy as hell with a panty-melting stare? Unfortunately, very much so.
Which is why I should never have texted him. Although texting is a perfectly acceptable way of communicating with clients, it’s a line I shouldn’t have crossed with Hayden. At the time, it seemed like no big deal, just an easy way to confirm the square footage of their factory, which was somehow missing from my reports. His answer was completely professional, just like he was for the entirety of our three-hour dinner meeting.
OK, maybe there were a few times on Thursday night that flirty Hayden peeked out of the businessman shtick, but they were few and far between.
The problem?
He answered the text, and I followed up. Asked another question. And now this.
Missed your message! It will just be me and Paul, the plant manager.
Which was fine and perfectly professional, but then he added:Crap, realized it’s Sat. & you’re off the clock. Sorry.
The sensible thing to do would be to accept his apology. Or maybe wait until Monday to answer, but instead I answer:No problem. I work 24/7.
Which I immediately curse myself for. I might as well have told him to text anytime.
Two hours later, just as I’m walking into Pazzo’s to meet Karlene for lunch, I get his response:You sure?
As soon as we’re seated at our usual table on the sidewalk, I shove the phone in front of her.
“What is it?”
“A text. Look at the name.”
The waiter knows us and fills our glasses with tap water. Usually I love to people watch, especially when I don’t have piles of work waiting for me at home. But today my attention is all focused on my phone.
“Um, what the hell?”
She knows about everything, from his failed attempt to pick me up to the dinner meeting. Except for my late-night fantasies, which are mine alone to be ashamed of.
“I texted him a question yesterday.” I reclaim my phone. “And we kind of started corresponding.”
“Corresponding?”
I move my phone to the side of the small table and open the menu even though I already know I’m getting the Strawberry Fields salad. With extra pecans and blue cheese, of course.