Page 20 of Sin Bin

“It would seem that way,” he murmurs, and I can hear the laughter brimming just beneath thesurface.

“Are you going to stare at my chest for our entiremeeting?”

“Open your eyes and you’ll see I’m not looking at yourchestnow.”

With a deep breath for strength, I glance up to find that what he says is true. Heisn’tlooking at mychest.

His gaze is on my face, and for a moment, so brief that I swear I imagine it, I feel like I’ve jumped back to that second before he first kissed me. In the vacuum of time, I recall his hands lifting to my face to cup my cheeks. His breathing rustling the top of my hair, we stood so close. His mouth moving, expelling the words, “I need you, Zoe,” before he closed the distancebetweenus.

Now, in my brand-spanking new office, I’m highly aware of my altered breathing, and also of the way that I’m squeezing my pen so tightly that I’m surprised it doesn’t snapinhalf.

Worry skits through me.Can Idothis?

The reminder that I’m on a trial run with Golden Lights Media kicks me back into gear. I’ve submitted so many job applications in the last year, gone on so many interviews that end up with a rejection letter, leading off with, “Thank you for your interest, but we have found another candidate who better suits ourneeds. . .”

I’m not arrogant enough to believe that I’m the best publicist in existence—I’m not. But during my half-decade of work in Detroit, I certainly made a name for myself within the business. I got stuff done. I made miracles happen to the unlikeliest of clients. But no one wanted to give me another chance in Detroit, which led tomymove.

If it doesn’t work out with Golden Lights Media . . . I honestly have no idea what will be mynextstep.

I flatten my hand across my day planner, grounding myself for what’s to come next. “We should probably getstarted.”

His wide shoulders lift in a casual shrug. “I’m yours for thenexthour.”

The words send my brain on a tailspin. “Technically, you’re mine for the next twenty-eightdays.”

He grins, and it’s such a rare thing that I almost sit back in my chair in shock. “Who’scounting?”

I am—not that I’ll ever admit that out loud. “We both should be. I want this job and you want to keep your career. We both benefit from this partnership if we can just worktogether.”

He’s silent after that, as if pondering my words. His dark eyes flit to my planner, and then to the document I have pulled up on the shiny new desktop computer that arrived this morning—a white one, because obviously Walter Collins has some sort of weird obsession with thecolor.

Andre sits back in his chair, and though I can’t see his legs beyond the desk, I know his knees must be splayed in that typical hot-guy pose. He looks relaxed, at ease, though his gaze remains sharp. “You’re looking mightycomfortablehere.”

“I want tobehere.”

“WhyBoston?”

At the abruptness of his question, I narrow my eyes. “I’m not stalking you,Andre.”

“I didn’t say thatyouwere.”

“Youimpliedit.”

“Well, if thestalkerfits. . . ”

Reflexively, I cross my arms over my chest. “My dad lives here, if you remember. He ownsVittoria.”

Slowly he nods, ignoring my not-so-subtle jab at our past, and a lock of his dark hair falls over his forehead in a ridiculously distracting manner. It’s like a calling card for me to push it back, to run my hands through the thick strands. “Ah, so that explains yesterday’sappearance.”

I don’t want to think about yesterday. I don’t want to think about last year. I want to focus onthenow.

“Let’s get back to this, shall we?” I tap my pen on the desk impatiently. “I think we need to start with a bang, something big to let sponsors know that you’re keen on changing thingsaround.”

Andre scrubs a hand over his unshaven jawline. “We talking about charity donations?” he asks, dropping his elbow to his knee as he shifts forward. The new position stretches his gray T-shirt across his broad chest, and I check back the need to salivate. Andre might be an unfeeling jerk, but he is, without doubt, asexyunfeelingjerk.

It’s unfair, I tell you, sounfair.

Gathering my wits, or trying to anyway, I select a sheet of paper from Andre’s case file and slide it across the desk with the tip of my finger. “Not exactly. Providing assistance to others via charities has never been yourproblem.”

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