I find myself smiling. “Yes, sir.”
It feels strange this new course I’m plotting, and my insides are still shaking from excess nerves. But for the first time the future excites me. For the first time everything feels just as it should be.
* * *
IvyMac: It is done. Parents are okay with my change of plans. I’m going to try to work with my dad. Tell me I’m not crazy.
GrayG: Not crazy. You’re my girl. So proud of you, Special Sauce.
IvyMac: Come over?
GrayG: Better idea. Go to Red Room Lounge at 8 p.m. Wear a skirt (panties optional but greatly discouraged). Head for the bar. Hot blond dude will be there. Let him say hello first.
IvyMac: ?? And what’s with the cryptic text? Are you on something?
GrayG: No more questions. You’ll like what I have planned. Trust me.
IvyMac: Ok. But only because it’s you.
GrayG: Don’t forget: No questions. Wear a skirt. And a hot top too.
IvyMac: Grumble
Twenty-Four
Ivy
The Red Room Lounge isn’t the kind of place I’d usually frequent—at least, not on my own. The decor is tasteful, moody, the walls a deep, lush red. Low-slung cream leather couches are arranged in intimate seating groups. Votive candles flicker on glossy wood tables. For all the style, it’s clearly a meat market. Not in the lively college-age way of Palmers, but for serious businessmen on the prowl.
Eyes follow me as soon as I give the hostess my coat and walk in. I’m aware of every step I take, the way the black-and-white striped A-line skirt I’m wearing slides over my bare legs. On an average-height girl, it would probably rest a few inches above the knee. On me, it’s mid-thigh, and I’m far too aware of my panty-less state.
The thought of flashing the bar with a flick of my skirt fills me with horror. It’s also oddly arousing. I feel naughty, sexy. A rarity for me—I usually either feel a bit like a giraffe or I act like one of the guys.
If I wasn’t looking for Gray, I might have missed him at first glance. He’s standing at the bar, his back to me. I know it’s him because I know every line of his body, the way he likes to plant his feet slightly apart, as if he’s waiting for his next play, and how he always sets his broad shoulders ruler-straight. But he isn’t dressed like the Gray I know. He’s wearing dark dress slacks that cup his fine ass and a soft, gray knit sweater that hugs his muscled torso.
As if sensing my gaze, he turns. Holy hell. His hair is combed back from his brow, highlighting the strong bones of his face, making him appear older, sharper. But how he looks at me sears my skin and has my heart kicking against my ribs. He knows the effect he has on me. It’s there in his eyes and the way the corner of his luscious mouth slowly kicks up.
He’s smiled at me dozens of times, but never like this. It’s pure sex, no tenderness, no familiarity. I should be offended. I’m hot instead, slippery between my legs as I walk towards him.
That assessing stare travels over my body, and the tip of his tongue flicks out to swipe his lower lip. “Hey,” he says when I stop at the bar. “I’ve never seen you around here before.”
He’s not even looking at my face but leers at my chest. My nipples stiffen, and he sucks in a sharp breath, a little grunt rumbling deep in his throat.
My lips part, but no words come out. He’s treating me like a stranger. Like he’s Gray but Not Gray. And I remember the text. Head for the bar. Hot blond dude will be there. Let him say hello first. Not “let me say hello,” but him. My heart starts pounding, and flutters fill my belly. I think about the sexual fantasy I told him that lazy morning in bed.