Page 7 of One Weekend in Quebec City

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to rush you. Ican call back if you’d like.”I don’t like it, not really. Forsome strange reason, I want to keep talking to her. Ilike the sound of her voice.

“No, no that’s fine. Whatcan I do for you, Mr. Hollis?”

“I thought we could meet for a drink, dinner maybe, get to know each other in a more casually setting before tomorrow’s business meetings.”And interview. She’shere to interview me. Ineed to remember that.

There’s a pause, a beat of silence that stretches out, filled with the faint hum of the hotel’s air conditioning and other guests milling in the lobby.

“I... ah... um... sure?”

“Is that a yes, or you’re not sure.”I chuckle at her confused hesitance.

“I’m sure. Yes. That’sa great idea. Justlet me quickly change, and I can meet you downstairs.”

A wave of relief, surprising in its intensity, washes over me. “I’ll grab us a table in the bar.”I resist the urge to add something flirty, somethingthat might break the professional barrier we’re supposed to maintain.

“Okay. Giveme ten minutes.”

The line clicks dead, and I stare at the phone, entranced once again by a single word—okay—and the sizzle of awareness it sent through me.

Ten minutes. Itfeels like an eternity.

The lounge, as always, exudes understated elegance. Softlighting, plush armchairs in muted tones, the gentle clink of glasses.Ichoosea spot near a large archway and expansive window to have a clear view of the entrance.

This is work, I remind myself onceagainwhile ordering a whiskey.Imightas wellhave it painted on a placardandpostedin my line of sight.Thisis about changing beliefs, proving I’m more than a headline. Morethan a man with a large bank account. Morethan my father’s son.

The glass feels heavy in my hand, the amber liquid swirling as I take a slow sip, the familiar burn a welcome distraction while I wait. Thankfully, the ice has barely begun to melt when I spother.

I’ve never seen her before, yet I know at once it’s her.Shepauses just outside the archway to thelounge entrance, her gaze scanning the room.Ican tell she’s trying to exude confidence, and most would probably believe it. ButI also see a smidgeon of doubt in her expression.

My breath hitches yet again. Mypulse pounds so heavy in my chestthat Ifeel as if anyone within six feet can hear it.She’snothing like the carefullycurated,glamorouswomen I usually date. Everythingabout her seems… real.

She’sshorter than the models I’ve been photographedwithand has generous curves that fill out a simple, knee-length, summery yellow dress in a way that makes mythroat,and mygrointighten.It’snotform-fittingbut flowy, swinging gently around her knees when she moves.Herdark blonde hair isn’t quite shoulder length and contains subtle waves. She has it pinned back, but a few strands have escaped, framing a face that is… perfect. Andthose glasses. Theblack frames should make her look serious. Still, instead, they draw attention to eyes that sparkle with intelligence and mischief.

Yes, I can see all that from where I sitbecauseeverybody elsedisappearedthemomentshe appeared.Shebecame my focal point.

I force myself to look away and take another sip of whiskey, the ice clinking against the glass a sharp counterpoint to the sudden heat pooling in my gut because this is ridiculous.Idon’t get flustered by beautiful women. ButI’m also not simply tossing around clichés when I can admit there’s something about this young woman. Icould tell from her voice on the phone. She’sthrowing me off balance.Andit’s… refreshing.

And incredibly distracting.

I make sure my breathing stays steady while I wait. Agentleman would stand and raise his arm, catch her attention,and wave her over. Iguess I’m not the gentleman I claim to be because I want to watch her for a moment longer before she catches me watching her.

Andthen,when she turns in my direction and spots me, I want her to know I’m noticing. Iwant her to be intrigued as much as I am.

Like I knew her, she somehowappearsto know me. Shesmiles and starts strolling toward me, gliding almost rather than walking. Atleast,that’s what it seems like. Shemoves with a grace that belies the sensible shoes she’s wearing.

I watch the subtle sway of her hips, unable to drag my eyes away fromthe waythe soft fabric of her dress drapes over her curves.

She’sstunning.

Notyour typical runway model beautiful.ThankGod.

Whichmeans she’s more dangerous.

I take a slow sip, the cool liquid sliding over my lips.

Suddenly, a hand enters my field of vision. “Mr. Hollis?”All traces of the breathlessness I’d heard on the phone earlier are gone from her tone. Herentire persona is focused, professional, andreadyto get to work.

When our palms meet, electricity shoots up my arm. It’snot the polite, fleeting touch of a business handshake. It’s charged. Mynerve endings spark to life. Everythingaround me ceases to exist. Andyet, I don’t pull away. Instead, I instinctively wrap my fingers around her hand and squeeze gently.Herskin issoftand warm, and the brief contact sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the air conditioning.“Please, call me Spencer.”

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