Page 3 of Trouble for Hire
“Jeremy’s a friend and I need someone on the front desk.” He shrugged and turned, leaving her to follow him.
O-kay.
Unease settled in her stomach.
Fine. Everything would be fine. Jeremy wouldn’t arrange an interview with someone he didn’t trust. Or who was an ass.
Well... That last one was debatable. Considering the company Jeremy kept, very debatable.
But this was Rose Bend, Massachusetts. TheCheersof towns. Y’know, the place where everyone knew everyone’s name. A place of eternal politeness and community. Erik Mann wouldn’t have lasted in business long in this picturesque, southern Berkshires town if he was an asshole.
She clutched hard to that as she trailed him down a hallway, past a huge area with tall, gray cubicles to a fairly large office.
And yes, she’d been correct. The bottom half most definitely was as impressive as the top. Faded black jeans hung off slim hips and clung to thick, powerful thighs and an ass worthy of a religion. Hell, she might build a temple in its honor.
She dragged her gaze away from him, guilt pumping through her. What was she doing? Inappropriate wasn’t just a word in the dictionary between... Well, whatever came before and after it. She had no business ogling this man like a slab of beef. A particularly delicious slab of beef...
Babe, get it together. The Plan!
“Have a seat.” Erik waved toward the armchair in front of his wide, scratched to Hades and back cedar desk as he shut the door.
Rounding the furniture, he took the battered, black leather chair behind it. Her heart fluttered under his sharp blue gaze. Fluttered. Such an anemic description for the frantic drum solo happening behind her rib cage. Still, she ignored the pounding in her ears as she lowered onto the seat across from him.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” she said, smoothing her palms down her black pencil skirt. Then, realizing how the gesture probably betrayed the nerves twisting her belly into knots, she clenched her hands together on her lap. “Especially since Jeremy called in a favor to you.”
“Yeah, he did,” he said bluntly.
Ouch. Obviously, prevarication wasn’t one of his faults.
“Well, thank you anyway.”
Erik tilted his head, and that bright gaze carried out another pass over her, and she stifled the shiver that tried to work its way through her body. But all of a sudden, the sleeveless, green-and-white polka dot blouse with the voluminous bow tie at the throat, the pencil skirt and green stilettos didn’t feel like adequate covering. Maybe sackcloth would.
Maybe.
“I’m going to be honest, Camille.” He leaned forward, propping his forearms on the desk and pinning her in her chair with his unwavering stare. “If Jeremy hadn’t called me, I probably would’ve told you at the door this wouldn’t work. It’s only because he’s a good friend that I’m doing this interview.”
“I’m glad you’re being honest.” The dry retort popped out of her mouth before she could corral it, surprising herself and him if the flash in his eyes was anything to go by.
And here she’d believed that sarcastic, impulsive part of herself had been snuffed out over the past five years. Being the future wife of a domineering politician had taught her to be seen not heard. To smile pretty, look pretty and be pretty but don’t speak unless she’d been told exactly what to say. Bradley Luck hadn’t physically abused her, but she had been controlled, dominated, her personality smothered. In the last few months, she’d started emerging from that emotional fetal position, discovering herself again.
But this? Her reaction to Erik Mann shook her.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “What I meant to ask is what are your concerns?”
“Don’t apologize for speaking your mind. I don’t need pleasantries. I want the truth.” He arched an eyebrow. “As for my concerns, it’s mostly one. You don’t belong here.”
You don’t belong here.
His words struck her like a wildly swung blow to the chest. That could’ve been her mantra for the past few years. She hadn’t belonged with Brad. Hadn’t belonged in his world. And in the end, he’d kicked her to the curb because of it. He’d gifted her with jewelry, clothes, cars and other material things over their time together. But he’d never offered her the one present she’d craved: acceptance.
“Considering we barely met ten minutes ago, I don’t see how you can make that assumption.”
“Look at you.” He did another visual sweep of her and, God, she felt it. Felt it graze her throat, brush her breasts, her stomach. Felt it between her thighs. What did that say about her? She was pretty sure he sat here insulting her, and she was getting wet. Damn. She really might be screwed up.
“You look like you belong at garden parties, not a tattoo shop. We curse, blast rock music, wear jeans and T-shirts, and politically correct is a phrase that hasn’t made its way through our door. Any of those things seem like they would hurt your sensibilities.”
“I take it my brother told you a little about me,” she said, trying very, very hard not to be offended. And failing. Miserably.
