Page 5 of Under His Touch

She takes one deep breath, lets it out slowly and lowers her pen. “And that’s exactly what it is, a history.” The chirpiness

is her voice contrasts the visible pain in her eyes. “It’s all in the past, where it needs to stay. We’re both adults and both professionals and it comes down to this—you’re not the only one getting something out of this. You see, Alec, once I find you a wife and throw you the best damn wedding Manhattan has ever seen, I’ll be the talk of the town. It will get my business off the ground in a crowded market and skyrocket me into prominence.”

“I guess we’re both doing this to get ahead, then?” I say.

Her brows knit together. “When you put it that way.” She casts her eyes downward for a second. “Looks like we’re not so different after all. I’m scratching your back and you’re scratching mine, so to speak.”

“Tit for tat.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, my gaze once again goes down to take in the curve of her breasts. I catch a hint of white lace, and my dick thickens. I want her. I’ve always wanted her. But am I going to do anything about it? No fucking way. Being around her might just kill me, and I’m going to need a drink, or an entire bottle, by the time we’re done here. Because now that I know what’s in it for her, I can’t walk away and find another event planner. I clear my throat. “Is there anything else you want to know?”

She instantly switches back into professional mode and pulls a laptop from her bag. She sets it between us and boots it up. “Are there any particular dating sites you prefer?”

“Never been on one.”

She clicks a few buttons. “I’ve not had much luck myself—”

“You use dating sites?” Why the hell would a woman like Megan need to use a dating site? She must have men falling at her feet.

“I have in the past,” she admits.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, and glance at the barista, anything to keep my mind off Megan in bed with another man. I have no hold on her. She can date any guy she likes, but goddammit, the thought of any man’s hands but mine on her still bothers me. Eight years later.

“I see the ads for that Match Made in Heaven site all the time,” I say. “Should we try that?”

“It’s a good jumping-off point. If we don’t get any matches, we can set you up elsewhere. Although I’m sure you’ll have a million matches in the first hour.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Look at you,” she blurts out. Her gaze moves from my chest to my face. “Ah, I mean, you’re not bad to look at, and you’re successful. All we need is a catchy bio. Let’s have a look at it, see what other criteria I might need before I set you up.” She points to the seat beside her. “Why don’t you sit here, so we can look at the screen together.”

“Coffee first. We might be here for a while. Do you want something?”

Her gaze slides to her empty cup. “I guess I’ll have another mocha latte.”

She reaches for her purse, but I hold my hand up to stop her. “I got it,” I say and walk away, needing a moment to pull myself together before I sit close to her.

I order our drinks, and as the barista makes them, I grab a lemon-filled doughnut and a piece of cheesecake. I press my Apple Watch to the payment terminal and hold until it vibrates. After the charge goes through, I carry the sweets to our table.

She shakes her head. “I didn’t want—”

“They’re for me. I came here straight from the gym and I’m starving. The barista will bring our coffee over.”

I lower myself into the seat next to her, and her sweet scent reaches my nose. I devour her with my eyes and throw up a silent prayer. Sweet mother of God, give me strength. Her gaze goes from the pastries, to my fork. Her eyes narrow in on the silverware, and her fingers curls into fists.

“You got something against my fork?” I ask.

“No.” She shakes her head as if to clear it. “I was just remembering my mom’s Philly cheesecake,” she adds, and I get the sense she’s redirecting the conversation. “Best in the world, and that’s not a very healthy choice for after the gym,” she says.

I grin at her. “Yeah, I know, Mom.”

“Not funny,” she says, and crinkles her nose, those cute freckles bunching together.

“I know but remember when we used to go to my place after school and raid the fridge before dinner. Mom used to—”

“Chase us into your bedroom with her broom, warning we were going to ruin our appetites,” she pipes in, finishing my sentence, much like we used to do years ago. “But we were always hungry back then.”

We both laugh, but it sizzles out fast, the space between us going perfectly quiet.

“Yeah,” I say after a moment, breaking the silence.

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