Chloe thinks I’m talking about the striptease in front of me and slows everything down. Marie is in some guy’s lap, being fed chocolate-covered strawberries and having Champagne poured into a vial between her breasts and sipped by another man.
Maybe that’s what she means about ‘the girls’ doing more work than anyone ever imagines.
“Is it?” he asks softly. “Is tonight too much?”
“No!” I say a little too quickly.
“Yes!” Marie calls out as the music quickens and she’s lifted into a—
“Is that a sex swing?” I call out.
“Oh, come on,” Andrew mutters. “My work day involves discussing currency exchange rates and spreads—”
“This involves some, uh, spreading too,” I mutter. And plenty of currency, I imagine.
“Amanda,” he growls.
“I think I have to get off the phone before Marie commits a felony or three in front of me, Andrew,” I say, trying to stay calm. “Or does something so unforgivable Jason leaves her. I am pretty sure standard wedding vows don’t allow for—”
“I want you off this account. Immediately.”
“You don’t get to decide that,” I say, laughing. He has no idea that I would love to be taken off all these sex toy shops. I tried to pawn them off on Carol but she wouldn’t bite.
Now I’m watching Marie bite.
“If Anterdec’s the client, I most certainly do get to decide that. See you tonight.”
Click.
Oooooo.
Was that jealousy?
My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Andrew:
Is dinner at my place tonight too much, too fast?
I text back:
No.
He replies:
How about asking you to pack an overnight bag?
A zing runs through me, and not because of the sudden appearance of Henry in my face, his eight pack inches from my forehead. He’s an afterthought. I only have eyes for my blinking blue phone screen.
I type back:
Wait. You cook? You’re cooking me dinner?
He replies:
You dodged the question.
I text back:
So did you.
He replies:
Then we’re at a standoff.
I answer:
Yes, we are.
And he says:
The only way to break a standoff is to figure out the other person’s weak point.
And I reply:
That could take a very long time. I should pack an overnight bag just in case.
He texts back a smiley face.
Hold on.
I think I just lost this standoff before it even began.
Chapter Eighteen
Andrew’s loft is one story below the penthouse level and right on the water, about a five minute walk from where we had dinner last night. I’m looking out at a wall of glass that shimmers from the reflection of the moon on the water and the city lights bouncing like disco balls. He has a small balcony with two wrought-iron chairs on it and a large, mesh umbrella.
“You live here?” I gasp, stunned by the location. “In a waterfront loft? Why were you buying a boat on the marina the other night when you live right on the water?” I can look out his living room window and see the marina in question below. Way below.
“Business investment. A way to entertain clients.” He’s in the kitchen, fussing with food on plates. The apartment smells amazing, but I know that the scent is fake.
“You didn’t actually cook for me, did you? You used that old onion trick.”
He looks up, face tight with concentration as he arranges food on white, square plates. His hands are big and skilled, moving as if he knows what he’s doing. And yet from what I know from Declan, Andrew’s got the cooking skills of a preschooler.
After he wipes his hands on a towel, Andrew grabs two wine goblets and pours generous glasses of a lovely white wine. I peek at the label. Domaine Leroy Corton-Charlemagne...something. When rich people put famous historical figures on their wine labels, you know it’s going to be expensive.
He hands me one glass.
“What old trick?”
“You fried some onions in olive oil right before I came over. It makes the apartment smell like you slaved away over a hot stove when what really happened was a private chef came by earlier and prepared everything in advance.”
Another one of his tells. He blinks slowly, the motion too controlled. His face betrays him.
I take a sip. Great wine. Then I laugh.
“You’re good,” he says.
“Busted.”
“Consuela sends her regards.”
“You hired her just for our dinner?”
“Yes. Is that a problem? Would you prefer a different chef?”
“I am fine with a burger and fries.”
“Too bad. You’re getting filet mignon and cauliflower roasted in avocado oil with a jicama...something.”
“You can’t even fake cooking well.”
He pulls me to him, ending the space gap between us. His mouth tastes like wine and smiles. He’s wearing an open-collared business shirt in a shade of blue that makes the grey of his apartment seem crisper. Bolder. There’s a black t-shirt underneath, which only serves to mold to the contours of his torso, pecs, and shoulders, outlining his body.
The loft is decorated in shined stainless steel and open support beams, with wallpaper that looks like old black-and-white photos of industrial-age factories. The door to his bedroom is open and I see a nautical theme in there, with the bed covered in a white and blue-striped duvet.
Bed.
His bed.
I shiver and Andrew pulls me ever closer. I feel how much he likes me. Like this. His arousal triggers my own, the tête-à-tête fueling a kiss that leaves me on tip-toes, reaching for the soft hair at the back of his head, my hands groping and grasping to bring him as close as two people can be while fully clothed.