Flustered when I don’t get flustered, I need to do something to right the confusion I feel and put us back on even footing. Without thinking, I fist my hands in his vest and step on my tiptoes, and press my lips to his. I meet his kiss match for match—in heat, in anger, in confusion, in curiosity.
When I break my lips from his and draw in a shaky breath, I love the bewildered look on his face. “Just keeping up pretexts,” I repeat his words with an innocent bat of my lashes and nonchalant shrug. Anything to hide the rapid beating of my heart and the fact that I may be brave and forward, but kissing Zane Phillips like that just made me super nervous.
“Yes. Of course.”
He nods almost as if he doesn’t trust himself to say anything more. He takes a sip of his drink and turns to face the party that was at his back. We stand in silence for a few beats, almost as if we don’t know what to say or where to go after that kiss . . . and maybe I should take that as a warning to step back, take his advice, and feign a problem so that I don’t have to take this job.
Maybe that’s what he wanted.
“Fine. You win. You’ve got the job, Harlow. It’s the least I can do for you helping me keep Robert happy.”
“Oh . . .” His sudden compliance startles me. And makes me skeptical.
“Besides, you’ll leave Monday for a multi-week promotional tour.” His smile broadens and he turns for me to see it. “We’ll only have to see each other once or twice before you leave so I can catch you up to speed and then after you return . . . the distance will have been too much for us to manage, being a new relationship and all.”
I chew the inside of my cheek as our eyes hold. “And you’re sure Robert is going to be okay with this?”
“No.” He shakes his head as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. “But considering you’re about to get a contract for one hundred and fifty grand for looking pretty and speaking nicely to promote SoulM8 . . . I think you’ll be fine letting Robert down.”
It takes everything I have for my jaw not to drop.
One hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Did he just actually say that?
And here I was complaining about how much money he spent on the shoes.
I stare at him, eyes blinking, feet shifting, trying to play it cool. But that cocky smirk of his plays at the corner of his mouth and he knows I’ll play the game for him.
“That’s what I thought,” he says, eyes roaming down my body and back up. “Nice shoes.” And with that, he walks off without another word.
I stare after him. Watch him. The way his perfectly tailored slacks highlight his ass. The way his vest hugs his broad shoulders and torso. The way his shirt hugs his biceps. And I remember the taste of his kiss.
That we won’t be together is a good thing.
Everything about Zane Phillips rubs me the wrong way.
Even when I’m thinking about how good he can probably rub me the right way.
I lean back against the brick wall behind me and take a deep breath. Then it hits me: I got a job. A real, legitimate paying job as a spokesperson. One that will give me more than enough breathing room for a while when it comes to bills and loans and living expenses.
I’m getting what I want . . . so why is it that my conscience hates that I’m lying to Robert?
And why am I disappointed that this promotion tour doesn’t involve Zane?
“I HAVE IDEAS, ZANE.”
“Ideas?” Christ. Ideas are never good when they’re Robert’s. The last idea he had was for me to sign up and try SoulM8 during the beta test, and look where that landed me.
When I look up from my desk to see him standing in the doorway of my office, a smile is on my lips. But in my head, I’m cursing my receptionist for letting him through without warning me.
He wrote the check, Zane, I remind myself.
“Yes. Great ideas,” he says.
His connections are already paying off. We’ve picked up five more media outlets to help highlight the platform’s launch, brought on fifteen new sponsored advertisers, and have a spread in People Magazine for next month labeled the hottest up and coming trend in dating.
“G’day, Robert,” I say to slow him down and set the pace. My office. My platform. My company. “Now what do you mean by you have ideas?”
He moves into my office with ease—his red shirt a pop of color against the dark mahogany wood and light grey walls—and takes a seat in front of me.
“How’s Harlow?”
His question throws me momentarily, but I reply without missing a beat. “She’s well.”
“And the photo shoot?”
“I was out of town for the day, but I believe it went well, too.” I lean back in my chair and fold my hands behind my head.
“What did Harlow say about it?”
“I haven’t spoken to her yet,” I say cautiously, walking the fine line I feel like he’s drawing to catch me in my lie.
“No?”
“No, we’ve both been rather busy, but it’s Harlow . . . how can the photos be anything other than gorgeous?” I add for good measure. “I should have mock-ups of the graphics shortly. We can go over them then and decide which avenue to take with the ad campaign.”