“Warmer.”
Now I remember: she drove me crazy with that smart mouth of hers. “You’re going to have to help me out here.” I try not to snap. “Look, clearly I offended you by not remembering, but I’m sure we can be mature adults here and not play games.”
“You can be as mature as you want.” Lizzie shoots me a sunny smile. “I kind of like games. And I’ll be right here waiting for my apology when you finally remember what went down.” She smirks again, and I feel a surge of frustration. Dammit, I’m the one who usually has the upper hand with women, and it’s already getting under my skin that this girl knows something I don’t.
“Fine,” I drawl, acting like I don’t give a fuck.
Her phone chirps with a text, and she grabs it. A smile spreads across her face.
“Good news?” I ask.
She looks up, blank-faced, as if she’s forgotten I’m still here.
“Just some guy I had a date with the other night.” She shrugs as though it means nothing, but I can tell she’s excited, the color high in her cheeks. “Says he wants to treat me to a night of romance.”
“Romance,” I sigh. “We’re back to that again?”
“Oh, that’s right,” she says, snapping her fingers triumphantly. “I almost forgot. You’re the cynic. Romance is an illusion, blah blah blah?”
“Basically, yes.” I glare, remembering our fight. “Don’t tell me that you still believe in that stuff. After all that shit your ex pulled with you?
“Oh no,” she says with a tone tinged with disbelief, pointing at the cluttered walls. “People just keep leaving this stuff in my office for some reason! Who knows why?”
Her face looks so innocent and guileless that I have to laugh out loud.
“So whatever happened with Douchebro Todd, anyway?” I ask, trying to disguise my laugh with a cough and changing the subject, since for some reason I can’t stand letting her have the upper hand. “Did he show back up and apologize? Bring flowers? Get down on one knee like this poor sap over here?” I nod to the painting behind her on the wall.
Okay, so I know I’m being a dick, but I can’t help myself. Maybe it’s her eyes flashing at me behind her glasses, or the fact that I can practically see sparks fly when she crosses and uncrosses her legs.
“Nope,” she snaps, taking off her glasses and rubbing them on her sweater. “From what I hear he’s still very happy with Harmony. I’ve moved on. I met this guy on Tinder, and I think it could really be something.”
Tinder, huh? I’m picturing some Grade A meathead with zero manners and marginal social skills, whose idea of a romantic evening is probably watching the game on TV while intermittently ogling her tits. Hope she knows what she’s in for.
I give her a skeptical look, which she predictably ignores.
“Not every guy is a jaded oaf like you, you know,” she says.
“Oh yeah,” I chuckle knowingly. “I’m sure this guy will pull out all the stops tonight: a dozen roses, Dom Perignon—the works. And even if by some miracle he does come through, it won’t mean anything except for the fact that he wants to get you into bed.”
“Well, as long as it doesn’t turn out like our night together.” She smirks, and damn, now I really want to remember whatever the fuck happened.
“Odds are, you came your brains out and left begging me for another shot,” I say casually. “That’s what usually goes down on a night with me.”
She snorts with laughter. “Not even close, sunshine.” She grins over her glasses, the frames matching her red lips, and I have the worst urge to walk over there and pull them off and start kissing her, working my way down her neck until she lets out one of those throaty little moans that somehow, I remember just fine . . .
“Well, this has been fun.” She slams her laptop shut. “But I’ve got a lot of work to do with the show coming up, so why don’t you let me get to it and we’ll talk more tomorrow about strategy? There are a few key pieces I’ll need you to track down for me,” she says, waving her hand and dismissing me like I’m her fucking lackey. Which in a way, I kind of am, as much as it might annoy me.
“That’s it?” I ask, thrown.
“Is there something else you need?” she asks sweetly, batting her eyelashes at me in a way that lets me know that she wants me gone—immediately, if not sooner. Fine. If that’s what she wants I’m happy to oblige.
“Guess not. I’m sure it’ll be a pleasure working with you,” I say, sarcastic. She smiles.
“You too!”
I close her office door, pissed off, and fume all the way down the hall. OK, so maybe she has a point being mad that I didn’t recognize her, but what’s with the power play not telling me what happened with us that night? Fuck, I can’t remember, no matter how hard I try. I remember how hot she was knocking back whiskey in the bar . . . and gleefully destroying her ex’s apartment . . . and even in the cab to my place, with her skirt hitching up those incredible legs and her smart mouth just begging for a kiss.
Fuck, what did I do? It must be something bad to make her toy with me like this, and dammit if I’m going to give her the satisfaction of knowing she’s under my skin.
I don’t need this shit. I’m here to do a job, and I don’t need to take her crap. There are plenty of girls in this city who would be more than happy to relive their nights with me—and come begging for a repeat performance, too. Roses and champagne? Moonlit walks on the fucking beach? They’re for amateurs.
A real man doesn’t need all that window dressing to get a woman into bed. And at the end of the day, that’s what we’re all here for: no romance, no attachments.
No letting a woman break your heart into a thousand fucking pieces.
I’m waiting for the elevator when the doors open, and out walks this girl wearing a blue sundress that doesn’t leave much to the imagination—I mean, it’s molded to her curvy body so tightly that I can practically guess her cup size.
She’s holding an ice cream in one hand, and she swishes her long blond hair out of one eye, giving me a huge smile and narrowing her green eyes like she wants to devour me—along with her treat.
“You’re Jake Weston,” she breathes. “Aren’t you?”
“In the flesh.” I flash a smile, and this time it works, because she blushes from her head right down her chest.
“I’m so honored to be working with you, Mr. Weston. I’m Skye, Lizzie’s assistant.” She reaches out a hand, and I use my free one and take it. She hangs on just a minute too long before releasing, her finger rubbing against my palm.
“If there’s anything you need . . .” She leans a little closer, her ample chest rising and falling with her breath. “And I mean anything at all, do let me know.”
She gives me a little wink, but I drop her hand fast. Lizzie’s assistant? Oh hell nope. I know better than to shit where I eat—especially with Lizzie on the warpath.