The guy who’s getting to his feet and shooting me a grin that’s nothing short of appreciative is so hot he might just melt the panties right off me. I have a hazy recollection of asking Gen to come up with a Theo James clone all those weeks ago, when this felt like a pipe dream.
The Theo James thing was supposed to be ajoke.
It looks like she took me at my word.
I’m uncharacteristically flustered, so I anchor my attention right on Gen. We’ve exchanged tonnes of voice notes and a couple Zoom calls since our first meeting, to the point that I feel at ease with her.
I like her a lot, actually. She’s my kind of gal. Smart. Articulate. Warm.
Badass.
I’ve teased her about the fact that she’s now dating The Big Bad Wolff, aka Anton Wolff, billionaire extraordinaire.I’ve interviewed him a couple times, and he’s the real deal. It makes me happy to know the mystery guy she mentioned during our last in-person meeting is the most eligible billionaire in the UK.
She’s glowing. She’s tan and golden and gorgeous. Mr Wolff is clearly good for her. I wish I could fixate on her longer. I wish I could ignore the other person in this meeting—the guy who’s taking up way too much oxygen in this gorgeous, airy space.
But I can’t.
So after I kiss Gen on both her fragrant cheeks, I mentally pull myself the fuck together, like I’ve gotten accustomed to doing over the past two decades in my field, and turn to him, game face firmly on.
I’ve interviewed Gaddafi, for God’s sake.
I’m better than this puddle of nerves I’m in danger of becoming.
‘Aida,’ I say, thrusting out my hand. My tone, my pose, my demeanour, are all those of a woman who’s used to battling for power with alpha males as soon as she walks into an interview room. It’s essential, I’ve found, to make it immediately clear to these guys which of us will be calling the shots for the next thirty minutes.
My interviewees may be the most powerful people in the world, but when I’ve got them in the chair, I’m the boss.
This guy isn’t biting, though.
‘Cal,’ he says, reaching for my hand and swallowing it up in his. His grip is firm, but his demeanour is relaxed. The way that mouth of his curves up at the corners makes him look amused, like he finds it funny that I’m attempting to rut horns right out of the gate.
But there’s nothing amused in those deep brown eyes of his. I always thought the concept of bedroom eyes was somelame cliché, but clearly I was suffering under a misapprehension. Because the lazy, appreciative way those thick-lashed eyes flicker down my body before landing back on my mouth should be fucking illegal.
Before I know what I’m doing, I run my tongue along my lower lip.
He smirks.
I hate myself.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Aida,’ he says. ‘I’m looking forward to working together.’
His voice is deep. Smooth. Cultured. It’s what I’ve come to recognise as that perfect public-schoolboy drawl (because of course the Brits call their fanciest, most revoltingly elite private schoolspublic schools).It’s not quite as posh as my ex-husband’s, but it’s perfect in its studied casualness. Think Prince Harry. His voice saysI’m old money but I don’t live in a total ivory tower.
A decade or more of observing this particular subset of British male tells me that, usually, it also saysI’m a dirty bastard.
(Case in point: my ex-husband.)
I absorb all this information in the blink of an eye or, more accurately, the swipe of a tongue. I’m used to sizing up my prey in milliseconds.
Because you can research a subject till you’re blue in the face, but you can’t actually size them up for real until they’re shaking your hand and looking you in the eye.
Or, in this case, looking at your mouth.
‘You two finally meet,’ Gen says. ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t make it happen sooner.’
‘Gen’s beenbusy,’ Callum—I’m not sure I’m ready forCalyet—says. He releases my hand and shoots her what Iinstantly identify as a pesky-little-brother smirk. It puts me at ease, and I allow myself a smile.
‘So I heard,’ I say.