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“Perfect.” I stood and lifted my arms to the ceiling, stretching my back. Somehow, the morning had flown by, and it hadn’t been nearly as torturous as I’d expected. In fact, spending time with Reagan had been surprisingly easy.
At least until I noticed that his eyes had locked onto the strip of bare skin at my waist where my shirt rode up.
His gaze slammed into mine, drowning me in blue, and my cock stirred.
One of the bunk curtains slid back noisily, and McGee’s feet dropped to the floor of the bus with a thud. “Oh, man, I needed that,” he groaned. “Bus sleep is the best sleep.”
I dropped my arms to my sides, and Reagan focused on his laptop screen like his email was a matter of life or death.
McGee wandered into the kitchenette, rubbing his eyes blearily with tattooed fingers. His face was covered in pillow creases. “Morning, boss. Morning, princess.” He looked back and forth between us. “All good?”
“Yep,” I agreed. “We got a lot done this morning.”
McGee nodded. “Good, ’cause we’ll be in Kansas City in twenty.” He reached for a coffee mug with a yawn. “I was planning to wake up a while ago, but listening to you two talk was like having one of those white noise machines on, and I zonked out again. Whrrrr… algorithm targeting… whrrrr… click ratios… whrrrrr… I should’ve recorded it as a public service for people with insomnia.”
“It’s good that you take sleep seriously,” Reagan said without glancing up. “Just a single sleepless night can make a person’s skin cells age faster and lose elasticity.”
McGee ran his tongue over his teeth, clearly amused. “Still not wrinkly, princess.”
“Hmm?” Reagan glanced up, all innocence. “Oh, no, of course not. Yet. Though, gosh, what would happen to your tattoos if you did get wrinkles? Would they wrinkle, too? Huh.” He shrugged and gave McGee a beatific smile.
I pushed McGee’s shoulder before he could retort and directed him toward the back of the bus. “Do me a favor and check my suit while I freshen up. See if it needs a steam.”
“Yeah,” he grumbled. But I noticed that he paused to check his reflection in the mirrored door to the bathroom as we passed and ran a hand over his tattooed arm as if checking for elasticity. And when I shot him an amused glance, he ducked his head and grinned.
I was dressed by the time the bus pulled to a stop at the convention center, and I hustled back to the kitchenette. “Reagan, you have my notes, right?”
“Yep. Right here.” Reagan tapped his work tablet. “Nataly also sent me three different logins already for our accounts…” He trailed off as he assessed my outfit. “Nice suit, but are you sure that’s how you want to play this? You’re speaking to textile executives in Missouri, not Wall Street power players.”
“Executives wear suits, Reagan,” I explained patiently.
He pursed his lips as if he was going to argue but then held up his hands. “Okay. I’m sure you know better than I do. Carry on.”
It turned out… I did not know better than he did. When we entered the convention center, it was filled with more pairs of cotton khaki pants than I’d ever seen outside of a Dockers commercial. I stuck out like a sore thumb.
It had been a while since I’d been at an industry event outside of a large city like New York, Boston, or Chicago. Apparently, things were different in Kansas City. I couldn’t even imagine how much more so it would be in Des Moines or Wichita.
As I was being introduced as the next speaker in one of the sessions, I pulled my arms back and tugged off my jacket before rolling up my sleeves and loosening my tie. Reagan chose this moment to lean over and whisper in my ear, “Don’t worry. McGee is zipping over to Walmart to get you some less embarrassing pants before our next stop. I’m so sorry. I feel like it’s my fault. I really should have said something.”
I stretched my neck from side to side, fighting off the effects of his warm breath on my skin. I was tempted to remind him that nobody liked a know-it-all… except I wasn’t sure that was true. Certain parts of me liked Reagan far too much.
The speech went better than I’d expected. After a luncheon with several of the other presenters and local industry executives, we walked through the vendor area and stopped to speak to several key contacts. And I meant we.
I’d mentioned to Reagan earlier that I hated small talk, and he stuck by my side the whole time, effortlessly smoothing my way without ever talking over me or trying to make himself the center of attention. He was charming and informative, polite and gracious. He even had the rare ability to code-switch and sound less like a yacht owner from Maine and more like a textile factory manager from the Midwest.
It took me a while to remember that he’d grown up doing this with his politician father. Reagan Wellbridge had practically been raised in front of the press. Granted, it had been small-scale early on, only local media in and around Honeybridge, but then Trent had moved up to a state senate position. Now, as an influential politician with an eye on the governor’s office, he and his whole family, including Reagan, were under a larger national microscope.
It was no wonder Reagan was a master at glad-handing.
As we carefully extracted ourselves from the crowd and headed back to the tour bus at the outer edge of the convention center lot, January called, so I waved Reagan on ahead before answering.
“Good timing,” I told her. “Just finishing up here.”
January’s voice was dry. “It’s almost as if I have a way of knowing your schedule. How’d it go?”
“Great. I feel like we did a good job, and we met almost all of the people on Layla’s key contact list. How’s the flu situation?”
“Two more people down, but so far, it seems mostly contained to PennCo. I authorized people to work from home, as you suggested. And personally, I’m pushing supplements and fluids, just like I’m sure you’ve been doing. Right?”
