“Why is Steve there? And speaking of people I would sleep with before I’d ever touch your ex, Dr. Jorgensson looks damn fine compared to him.”
“Hey! I slept with Steve and that’s really insulting.”
Silence.
Then: “I’d still choose the colostomy bag over that piece of – ”
My phone buzzes with a text. “Gotta go. But we got the account!” I say in an excited voice.
“That is awesome,” she says, not ready to let me go. “But what is STEVE doing there?”
“He and his date”—bzzzzz—“appeared out of nowhere.”
“Where are you?”
I tell her.
She emits a low whistle. “Your car’s Blue Book isn’t close to the bill Declan will have for dinner.”
“I know.”
“And Steve brought—who’d he bring?”
“Some chick named Jessica Coffin. Boston Barbie.”
“Jessica Coffin?” Amanda says her name like I’m supposed to know who she is. “Oh my God. Steve is fishing in big waters.”
“Well, she clearly thinks his fishie is little.”
“What?”
“Never mind.” Bzzz. “I really have to go.”
“Call or text me later!” Amanda says.
“Tell Greg the good news!”
“And you have fun, too. Let loose. Be wild, Shannon. It’s about time.”
Click. I tap over to messages. It’s Steve:
I think fate brought you here tonight.
Oh my God.
Chapter Twelve
And then he writes:
I’ve never seen you so vibrant. In command. You’re perfectly poised and professional. I just want you to know I’m proud of you.
Huh? This is the guy who spent two entire days of a conference berating me for using the wrong fork at dinner and now he’s saying this?
Shannon? He texts immediately, as if the handful of seconds have been far too long for me to pause before replying like an eager dog catching a bone.
I type back: Nice to see you, too, Steve. Jessica seems like a great woman.
Gag.
Another text, except this one is from an unknown number.
I have a cold spot on my thigh. It needs your hand to keep it warm.
I type back: Sorry, honey! I’m at a business meeting. The kids need a bath and Johnny’s homework needs to be signed. I’ll be home late! <3
And then texter’s remorse kicks in, because it seemed funny when I wrote it, but now, as entire nanoseconds stretch into cavernous eternity, I eye the exit and wonder if I can actually walk that far with four glasses of wine (it’s definitely four) and a heart that is attached to bungee cords that stretch two hundred yards with each adrenaline surge.
That’s fine, Declan texts back. I like to role-play, too. How about you wrap yourself in Saran Wrap and I’ll get a pound of chocolate-covered strawberries and we’ll see what we can do with that after the kids are in bed?
Dark or milk chocolate? I text back, heart now attached to the back of Evel Knievel’s motorcycle on a jump.
There’s only one right answer.
Silence.
Silence.
Silence.
Both, he replies.
“Goal!” I hiss, like an Italian football announcer, only quiet.
“You okay, miss?” A waiter walks past me with a frown on his face, brow creased with concern.
I hold up my phone screen. “Just reacting to a business text. Clinched a deal I’ve been waiting to land for a long time.”
He smiles and walks away.
I look down to find a new text from Steve:
Can we do dinner tomorrow night? I’d like to catch up.
I don’t want to answer that, so I lean against the thick, oak-paneled wall and take a deep breath.
“How long?” says a warm baritone attached to a (near) billionaire.
“How long what?” My frantic mind rushes off to erotic places all too quickly. Bad girl. Good, bad girl…
“How long have you been waiting to clinch a deal…” Declan repeats, closing the space between us through sheer will. I swear his body doesn’t even move, but then it’s there, warm and pulsing against mine. “…like this?”
His lips taste like grapes and hope, full and respectful, pressing against my own with a lush connection that makes me eager for more. Stepping in to the kiss, his body meets every inch of mine from thigh to shoulder, one hand sinking into my loose hair, capturing the back of my neck as if I am about to fall, his other hand around my waist, splayed against my hip.
Instinct makes my own arms wrap around his waist, sliding under the fine wool of his jacket to find cotton as finely spun as silk, my fingers dancing on it as they ride up. His knee nudges my legs open as he pushes me into the wall, searching for every spot on our bodies that we could touch without being charged with a crime.
The feel of his cheek against mine, his hands everywhere, his groan mingling with my own gasps transports me. Nothing else matters. No one else exists. The insanity of the day, from how we met to our business meeting to this business dinner…
We are getting down to business, all right.
I break away and meet his eyes, wanting to see that this is real. Real. Not part of my imagination or something I read in a book and transposed onto my life. That Declan isn’t kissing me out of pity, or a cheap booty call, or for any of the rare reasons men used on me as their own drive and baser natures made them view me as a tool.
No. What I see in his eyes reflects what I feel, and then I am the one kissing him, reveling in the starbursts of ignited recognition that something truly unique—life altering—thrives between us, nurtured only by this shared joining.
Our embrace is so strong, so tight, the slant of his mouth commanding and fiery, tongues communicating through touch in a way his fingers had earlier, but with more urgency and so much passion I think we might break the wall if we push any harder against it.
“Shannon,” he murmurs, pulling away. The withdrawal of his mouth feels like a kind of mourning. He looks at my chest. “I crushed your corsage.” That’s not the only reason he looks at my chest.
I laugh, a throaty sound of delight, so genuine that my mind feels blank with a kind of clarity that seems unreal, even as it grounds me. I open my mouth and pure joy comes forth:
“You are the best prom date ever.”
He dips his head down and our foreheads touch. His eyes turn to green triangles with his own genuine smile. We must look like complete idiots, and the idea that this is a business meeting went out the window a long time ago. Actually, I think that idea was flushed from the start.