Page 41 of One Sweet Lie

“Are you drinking on the job?” he asked, looking at my glass. “Better yet, tell me, what type of wine is it?”

This man isn’t going to put on a towel?

“It’s a merlot,” I said. “1986.”

“That’s a good year.” He grabbed the glass from my hand and sipped slowly. “Very good year…”

“I agree.” I said, ignoring the fact that his cock was brushing against my thigh. “I thought you were hosting a party tonight.”

“I was. I left early.”

“Can you please put a towel on?”

“Why?” He smirked. “Don’t you like what you see?”

“There’s a stack of towels right there by your foot.”

“That’s not what I asked you.”

“Your children are with your mother.” I tried to navigate our conversation to someplace safe. “She said she’d mention it to you.”

“Answer my question,Harlow Hawthorne.” The way he said my name sent a rush of warmth through my body. “Do you like what you see?”

“I seetowels.”

Smiling, he bent down and grabbed one. He didn’t wrap it around his waist, though.

Instead, he wrapped it around my hips likeIwas the stark-naked one.

“It looks like your hair is caught on my favorite sconce,” he said. “Would you like me to help you get off?”

“Getitoff?” I said. “As in, my hair away from the sconce?”

“You heard me.”

“I would like you to put on a damn towel.”

His dimples deepened as he fluffed the towel a few times and slipped it behind his back. He eyed me as he brought the ends together as slowly as possible.

“Thank you,” I said. “And yes, I would appreciate your help. I’m hoping to use your salon to get a deluxe makeover before the end of the night.”

“Hmmm.” He leaned closer and threaded his fingers through my hair.

He was wearing a different cologne today, with a scent even more intoxicating than usual.

Sliding his hand behind my neck, he pulled strands of my hair away from the sconce. His lips moved closer with every release.

Kiss me. Please fucking kiss me…

“Mr. Dawson?” someone called from the hallway. “Mr. Dawson, are you still in there?”

Focusing on me, he freed the last strand and ran his fingers through my hair one more time.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“By the way,” he said. “You don’t need a makeover and you don’t need makeup. That’s a waste of your time.”

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