Page 16 of My Escort (A Different Kind of Escort)

I do, though. Not wanting to scare him off, I clamp my free hands together in front of me. Forbidding them what they want.

What’s going on in my head isn’t his dilemma. My lack of interest in men, up to this very moment, is not his problem.

“I won’t mention it again,” I whisper. “Please, don’t leave.”

His long, masking dark eyelashes lift. The storm lurking in them, no doubt that pushed that damn ship into the room, crash into me.

“Please, sit.” I wave my hand.

I came for two reasons. The first one is done. I wanted to tell him I was okay and thank him.

Now, I need to convince him to take the job.

After a visible jaw clench, he sits down.

I plant my ass back in the chair and pull up my briefcase.

Time to get to business.

“GrandMark would like to hire Daxon Construction for the job.” I pull out the paperwork. “We added a few things to the contract. I’ve highlighted them.” I hand it to him.

He stares at it as if unsure if he should reach out and touch what I’m offering.

I wait, holding it in the air. I refuse to allow him to back out of this. “It’s a good contract, and any contractor would be crazy not to take it.”

His hand clenches on the table.

He gradually lifts the other one and takes the contract.

Oh, those fucking hands! Why do I want them all over me? I must stop fantasizing about what they’d feel like, especially if he takes the job.

He sets the contract on the table. Goes for his drink and downs the remainder of the golden whiskey.

“If everything looks good, when do you think you could start?”

His eyes remain on his glass. “Do you have all the permits in order?”

“Yes.”

“Monday,” he tells the glass.

“Really? That soon?”

His eyes rise to mine. “Yes. To meet your projected date, we’d start gutting the building on Monday.”

“Oh.” I wasn’t expecting that. I grab my business card and jot down my address. “Here.”

He looks at it as he had the contract, reluctant.

“Review it. If you and your brothers are satisfied with the contract, you can drop it off at this address by Sunday.”

He takes my card, and without looking at it, he shoves it into his suitcoat pocket.

He stands.

“You’re going? I thought we’d have dinner?”

His eyes move over me. The slow and deliberate undertaking prickles my heated flesh. “I didn’t come for dinner.”

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