I looked up into her eyes, wondering why she was really here. A few months ago she’d insisted on having our lunch date in my office, but we’d never eaten. She’d walked in, pulled up her skirt, and straddled me in my chair.
And while I’d enjoyed it, I was simply wondering now if the five minutes I’d told Corinne to give us were up yet.
I let out a breath and cocked my head. “You haven’t been waiting around for me to call,” I challenged.
“No,” she allowed, pulling back with a smile. “But I would’ve canceled any plans I’d made if you had.”
I grinned, appreciating her candor. She was useful, and I’d rather keep her on my side if I could. We’d enjoyed each other, and there was mutual respect for the other’s position and connections in the city.
But the thing was… I’d never craved her.
And I no longer wanted her.
It’s not that I was callous or that I thought women were disposable. I only involved myself with women who knew the score and wanted the same thing as me.
Easy fun.
Now everything felt different.
Because of Easton.
Her sharp tongue spouted words that cut, but it also tasted like a cool lake on a hot day.
I remembered her whispers in my ear, waking me up Wednesday morning before she slipped a leg over my stomach and climbed on.
I inhaled a sharp breath, refocusing on the current situation.
“It turns out,” I confided, “maybe I do want to complicate my life a little.”
Her eyes widened, and she smiled big. “Dish,” she demanded.
I let out a bitter laugh. “Not a chance.”
“It’s off the record,” she assured me, holding up her hands in innocence.
“You’re never off the record.”
“Oh, come on.” She waved a hand at me. “You’re bound to take her to dinner sometime. The press would kill to see someone unknown on your arm. You can’t hide her away forever.”
That’s exactly what I wanted to do. If anyone found out, we’d be done, and I wasn’t ready.
I let out a sigh. “I can do whatever I want,” I replied, aware I sounded a little cocky.
She pursed her lips in a plotting smile. “I’m intrigued.”
“But not disappointed, I see,” I shot back.
“Psh.” She laughed and hopped off my desk. “I would be disappointed if I thought it would last.”
I narrowed my eyes, watching her walk back around the desk to the chair and pick up her jacket and handbag.
She cocked her head, looking coy. “But you, Tyler, are a bachelor for life,” she asserted. “I only hope you marry her. It’ll make our little interludes all the more fun.”
And with a confident smirk, she spun around and walked for the door, calling one last time over her shoulder, “You’ll call me when you’re done with your shiny new toy?” But she didn’t wait for an answer.
Swinging the door open, she disappeared, and I let my eyes fall closed as I pinched the bridge of my nose. I wasn’t quite sure if there was a man alive in this city who could match that woman’s set of balls.
“Jesus Christ,” I breathed out.
“Well, that was quick.”
I looked up to see my brother strolling back in, his attention half on me and half on his phone.
“She’d make a good politician’s wife,” he hinted. “No matter what, she always looks cheerful.”
I cocked an eyebrow and stood up, getting ready to sort through what I needed him to handle today.
Cheerful. And then I snorted, thinking how much that word and Easton would never go hand in hand.
My phone buzzed, and I immediately stopped, reaching into my top drawer for it.
Since Easton’s little lesson to all of my VPs the other day, I’d set out to prove her wrong by leaving my phone out of reach at certain times. There was no such thing as an information addiction. It was simply an excuse so she could manage attention in an easier way.
But when I saw a text from her, liquid heat rushed in my veins, and I couldn’t possibly ignore her like I did others when I was busy.
How many politicians does it take to change a lightbulb? she’d texted.
How many?
Two, she answered. One to change it, and one to change it back.
I laughed, causing Jay to peer up from his phone with an inquiring look.
Tweet that, she ordered.
I shook my head but did it anyway.
“What are you doing?” Jay pried as I clicked on my Twitter app and began typing.
“Tweeting,” I said in a low voice.
“Oh,” he said, sounding surprised. “Good. Your breakfast tweet earlier this week was exactly what I’ve been talking about. People eat that shit up.”
I finished the tweet, tossed my phone down on a pile of folders at the edge of my desk, and ran my hand through my hair.