Bloody hell . . . Caleb Blackstone. Those pictures I’d looked at earlier on Google Images didn’t even come close to the actual man in the flesh. I hadn’t really taken a serious look at him that night we’d met. Yes, I’d thought him handsome, but there had been so many men hitting on me I’d been too distracted to focus on the details. Wow.
I separated my arm from his touch and moved toward my own chair, praying my legs wouldn’t fail me. “P-please have a seat.” I indicated the chair for him before I remembered to ask, “Shall I take your c-coat?”
“No, thank you, I’ll keep it.” He flicked open the buttons before lowering his big masculine body to sit in my pink velvet slipper chair. It was quite the contradiction of image, and I had the freakish urge to take a picture of him sitting in it. I wanted to kiss the damn chair when it didn’t creak as Caleb leaned back and relaxed into the seat as if he owned it. He did own it now actually, I reminded myself. His long legs encased in dark-gray silk trousers, showing the cut definition of his thigh muscles, seemed to take up all the space between the chair and my table desk. I didn’t know where to push myself in without being practically on top of him. Now that was an image . . .
Stop it. Stop looking him over like a piece of meat, tit-head.
I managed to get my arse into my own chair and give him my attention. Just barely.
“I’ve surprised you, haven’t I?” He gave me a half grin turned up on only one side, both charming and wicked at the same time. I was in very deep trouble here. As in Marianas Trench depth level of trouble.
“Caleb—please help me understand why you requested me as lead designer on your renovation. Surely you want a designer with more experience—”
“Brooke, I want you,” he said, cutting me off neatly. “That is all you need to know about my reasons.”
In what way do you want me? Because I’m getting all kinds of mixed messages here, Caleb Blackstone, with the beautiful and unusual eyes. “Well, it would help me to feel more comfortable with the situation if you might share a bit more with me. I’m—I am a junior designer and I’ve not the years of experience Mr. Harris or Mr. Goode could give to your project.”
“I told Mr. Harris I wanted a woman’s touch in the elements of the overarching theme for the penthouse. Didn’t he tell you?”
“No. He only said to make you happy in your design experience.” He smirked at that comment, and weirdly it didn’t appear cocky or arrogant—just rather mischievous.
“Well, you can start making me happy by accepting the project, Brooke.” His thumb tapped his knee where he’d rested his hand. It felt like he was waiting me out, playing his hand at a game of cards, all while keeping that cheeky smirk on his face.
I would never get a chance like this again. Renovating a billionaire’s Back Bay penthouse would be the making of my whole career. Jon agreed. If I turned it down, I would be a moron who didn’t deserve to be an interior designer and might as well go back to working for arseholes like Martin.
“Right. I accept the very generous offer of your job, Caleb.”
His smirk turned into a smile that made his blue-and-golden eyes twinkle. “This makes me very happy, Brooke.”
Caleb had a way of making a suggestive comment come off innocent and sweet. I could sense the double entendre in his answers, but they didn’t cross the lines of propriety, or make me uncomfortable to be around him.
He checked his watch, which probably cost the amount written on my retainer fee check, and rose from the chair. “It’s after five, and I promised you an early dinner. Shall we get going?”
Just like that he took charge. It was done smoothly and effortlessly on his part. The next thing I knew was the weight of his hands on my shoulders as he helped me into my coat. A minute later he was guiding me out the door with his strong fingers pressing solidly to my back. There was a strange mix of dominance and deference emanating from everything he did, whether I liked it or not.
“I’m afraid it’s raining pretty hard at the moment, but Isaac will take care of you,” he said as we stepped outside.
A distinguished gentleman with graying hair ushered me under a huge umbrella and into a black stretch Mercedes without one drop of water catching me.
Caleb slid into the seat beside me.
The door was shut behind him, instantly silencing the noise of the pounding rain drenching the city. We both turned our heads and studied each other. No words were exchanged, just looking.
Physical space had been used up by our bodies sitting very close on the seat together, so there was nothing left to do but experience it. I felt his body heat and smelled whatever scent he’d used. Spicy and masculine—drugging my senses from his closeness.
As his driver eased into traffic, Caleb took my hand in his and held it.
I didn’t pull away. I didn’t want to pull my hand from his because I liked very much how it felt, so warm and protective.
He sighed just slightly, but I caught it. It reminded me of an expression of relief from him.