Leaning back in my seat, I cross my ankles. “My job is pretty much my life, and I love what I do. Taking an old run-down building and turning it into luxury units that rent for top dollar is awesome. It never gets old. I love seeing the transformations.”
“That’s amazing.” She nods. “What else . . . surely there has to be more to you than just work.”
“You want to know something deep, huh?”
She nods, eager.
I think about it for a second, and memories of my checkered past flash through my brain. But rather than watch her expression turn to one of sympathy when she learns of my past, I’d rather see her face light up with a smile. “Blow jobs are my spirit animal.”
She rolls her eyes at me, but laughs.
Mission accomplished.
“You seem normal enough. What in the hell did you do to piss off Roxy?” She chuckles as she says this, and suddenly all the blood in my veins turns to ice water.
I scrub a hand across the back of my neck. “Roxy and I . . . it’s a long story, and not one I care to discuss right now.”
She pouts. “Fine. Regardless of your history with Roxy, you didn’t deny what she told me about you.”
“What exactly did she say?” Now I’m actually curious.
She shrugs, playing with the long strands of hair from her ponytail that rest on her shoulder. “She just warned me to stay away from you. Told me about your man-whore background.”
“Well, your virtue is safe. I made a deal with my business partner. No more sleeping with tenants.” I’m not sure why I’m telling her this, maybe because it’ll be easier to enforce the friends-only rule I’ve set for myself if she knows that she’s off-limits to me.
“So sleeping around in general is still fine?” There’s a mocking tone to her voice.
“Absolutely. This will be just friends.” I gesture between us. “Unless, you naughty girl, you’re trying to tempt me.” I give her a flirty wink.
She frowns and shakes her head. “Not a chance in hell. I told you. I’m done with men, and you, Hayden Oliver, by all accounts are a piece of shit.”
“Excuse me?” I cock an eyebrow at her.
“I’ve dated guys like you before. And I classify all men who think with their dicks under S for Shitty.”
“I do think with my cock on a regular basis, so I can’t argue with you there. But he’s so much more fun than my brain.”
This gets a small smile from her, and my heart beats just a little faster.
“Seriously, why would I take a chance on you and have my heart broken again?”
“Because I have a nine-inch cock and I know where the G-spot is?”
Her cheeks turn pink, belying her cool, confident tone. “Tempting, but not good enough.”
I shrug. “Then I guess I’ll settle for just being friends.”
“Do you even have any women friends?”
I think it over. I have Dottie and Susan, but they’re more employees than friends, and of course Beth and Gracie, but they’re my sisters, and I doubt blood relatives count. “Of course I do,” I lie.
She narrows her eyes, obviously on to me. Nothing gets by Emery. She’s going to be a kick-ass attorney. Of course I don’t tell her that. Her self-esteem is robust enough. She doesn’t need me overinflating her ego.
“Just relax, princess. I won’t try to get in your panties unless you ask nicely, and I’m serious about the friends thing. I’ll show you around town. It’ll be fun.”
Her mouth presses into a line, but she doesn’t say anything else.
Our bantering has left me with a half hard-on I’m trying to conceal under the table. Emery doesn’t need to know that I’d like to fuck her six ways from Sunday until she’s clenching around my cock and screaming out my name.
Chapter Six
Emery
Monday morning at seven thirty sharp: the first day of the rest of my life.
I stride into the law office of Walker, Price, and Pratt, refreshed after my usual morning workout and a Greek yogurt smoothie for breakfast. I feel sleek and confident in my long black pencil skirt and matching blazer, powder-blue buttoned shirt, and sky-high nude pumps. I spent almost two hours yesterday obsessing over my wardrobe and makeup, wanting to make a professional first impression, and I think I’ve nailed it. Even if my walk from the parking lot was a race against time and tottering on my barely manageable heels.
I approach the sleek wraparound marble desk in the lobby’s corner, and take a deep breath. Here we go. The receptionist looks much younger than I would have predicted, maybe even around my age. Her thick black hair is pulled back tight in a ponytail to avoid tangling in her headset. She wears tortoiseshell cat-eye glasses? a loose rose-colored pullover blouse, and khaki slacks, which makes me wonder if I should have wasted so much time and energy on my own outfit. Her plum-painted fingernails fly over the keyboard, tackity-tacking like a train rattling over railroad tracks.