Page 8 of Think Outside the Boss

I turn toward him on the couch, and he responds in kind, his free hand landing on my thigh. The touch is casual, but the racing of my heart it sets off isn’t. “You think I’m about to make you an offer you can’t refuse?”

“You’re welcome to try. But it’s exciting not knowing, don’t you think?”

“It is. Do I have a European princess beside me? A young Hollywood actress? A surgeon who works at a children’s hospital?”

“We’ll never know.”

“A complete mystery,” he agrees.

“I like it. Although it does feel odd not to have a name to call you, or even refer to you in my head.”

His eyes flash with heated amusement. “There are a ton of things you can call me.”

I shift closer, leaning against the back of the sofa. “You know, you came over to talk to me. Even though you weren’t allowed to.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I did. But I waited for you to speak first.” His voice grows deeper, something I should hear from a Jumbotron, narrating a movie, reading me my favorite audiobook. It slides over my skin like a dark caress.

“Despite all the women who approached you. Despite the… fascinating performance currently on display.”

His hand slides an inch higher on my thigh, the only place we’re touching. A thumb brushes across the hem of my black dress. “Is there a question here somewhere?”

“I’m not sure if I’m ready to ask it.”

“I’m perfectly comfortable where I am,” he murmurs. “So no need to ask me anything.”

“I could rephrase it, actually. So it’s more like a hypothetical.”

His lips quirk again. “A hypothetical? Sure.”

“Considering you approached me, and considering what you usually do at these parties, I—”

“What you think I usually do at these parties,” he interjects. “I have the feeling a lot of it is conjecture.”

“You’re telling me you don’t participate?”

His smile turns wolfish, an eyebrow raised. “I participate.”

Nerves mixed with heady, dizzying want sweep through my stomach. What would his hand feel like higher up my leg? His lips on mine?

Am I brave enough to do this?

“Of course you do,” I say. “You’re probably in high demand.”

He reaches up with a free hand to run it through short, dark hair, thick through his fingers. “I’m rarely complimented by women.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

Shaking his head in disbelief, he takes my champagne glass out of my hand and lifts it to his lips. There’s amusement in his eyes as he takes a large sip.

“Stealing my drink?”

“I think I need it more than you do.”

“I’m that challenging?”

“No,” he says, his thumb moving in a circle on my knee. “And yes. This conversation isn’t anything like the ones I’ve had at the Gilded Room before.”

“Oh.” I narrow my eyes at him. Are they all discussions about sex, then? Although I suppose that’s what we’re talking about as well, but not very directly.

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