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Thatcher managed to glare sideways at me without slowing down. “I don’t need you to manage me, Reagan,” he grumbled, exactly like a person who needed to be managed. “I’m not a child.”
I tried, mostly unsuccessfully, to hide my smile, but I could do nothing about the way my chest squeezed. It simply wasn’t fair that a man as sexy and compelling as Thatcher should be low-key adorable, too, and I hated that I knew this about him.
“Of course you’re not,” I said in a fake-soothing voice that conveyed exactly the opposite. “You’re a successful billionaire. A titan of industry. You don’t care what the media says about you.”
The glare intensified, and he finally slowed. “You’re right. I don’t allow their speculation about my personal life to bother me. But I also don’t trust them, and I definitely don’t like relying on them. There’s a reason I only gave this reporter fifteen minutes last time we spoke.”
“You sound like my mother talking about vulture journalists,” I noted, amused… and then further amused when Thatcher scowled at the comparison. “Chris is a decent guy. The only reason Patricia doesn’t like him is because his article about my father suggested that the Senator wasn’t conversant with aspects of his own political platform as laid out on the Wellbridge campaign website.” I shrugged. “That was accurate, unfortunately.”
“I read that piece,” Thatcher said. “Your father made some errors, and Chris Acton jumped on them. He’s ambitious. Wants to make a name for himself.”
“Don’t we all?” I said easily. “It’s not a crime. He was just doing his job. In my experience, Chris is thorough and very focused on transparency. If someone has something to hide, he’ll want to ferret out the story, sure. But don’t forget, Layla and Alena set up this interview. I expect a bunch of softball questions that you, being your charming self, will hit out of the park.”
Thatcher stopped entirely, forcing the crowd to veer around us, and raised an eyebrow. “My charming self.”
I shrugged again. “Sure. Last summer in Honeybridge, you charmed every person you met.” Including me, without trying at all. “Tap into that. Smile a little when you’re making small talk. Don’t do the commanding-and-grumpy thing you sometimes do when you’re talking to someone you dislike.”
His eyes turned flinty as I spoke. “How do you know when I’m talking to someone I dislike?”
I scraped my upper lip with my bottom teeth to hide a grin. “Uh… because you become grumpy and commanding?”
His gaze met mine, the warm brown as deep and impenetrable as mahogany. “Sometimes I’m commanding with people I do like.”
The memory of his deep voice shot through me like the unexpected and overwhelming zing from a live wire.
Come for me… Now.
I opened my mouth to respond… somehow… but thankfully, the rapid clip-clip-clip of footsteps on the industrial tile floor behind us reminded me that we weren’t alone.
“Thatcher! Excuse me, Thatcher?”
We turned at the same time and found the thirty-something brunette woman Thatcher had been seated next to at lunch nearly sprinting in her sky-high stilettos to reach us. To reach him.
“Thatcher. I’m so glad I finally caught you.” She panted like she’d run the entire length of the exhibit hall, but that didn’t stop her from smiling with teeth white enough to sear my retinas. “I just happened to see you passing by, and I… had a follow-up question from our conversation at lunch.” She tossed her hair lightly. “About industry trend forecasting?”
I was irked by the interruption but stood patiently while he responded to her questions with his usual calm assurance, and I tried not to roll my eyes when she nodded vigorously after every word he spoke, her eyes shining with admiration that wasn’t solely professional.
Who could blame her, really? Thatcher Pennington was magnetic. He also didn’t seem to notice the effect he was having on her. At least, not the way I did.
“Boost to the ego, hmm?” I said lightly after he managed to extricate himself from the conversation, and we continued on past the next few exhibits.
He side-eyed me. “Being solicited for my opinions on industry trend forecasting? Always thrilling.” He smoothed down the pine-green polo McGee had purchased according to the list and color swatches I’d texted him and looked around the space. “Where’s this meeting room?”
“Over there.” I pointed left, and he headed in that direction so quickly I found myself hurrying like the brunette again in order to catch up. “And you and I both know that’s not the only thing she was interested in. She gave you her business card.”
“People often do.”
“With her personal cell number on it,” I countered. “She offered to buy you dinner.”
“To discuss?—”
I grabbed his arm and pulled him to a stop outside the meeting room. “You’re not that naive. If you’re not interested in her, fine, but at least acknowledge?—”
Thatcher turned toward me, face set. “What are you doing, Reagan?” he asked softly.
I blinked up at him and swallowed. What was I doing? I didn’t have the faintest clue. It was not professional in the slightest.
“I’m just saying, she gave you fuck me eyes under her lashes.” I demonstrated the look, and Thatcher’s own eyes narrowed. “She held on for a whole minute when you shook hands. And she’s pretty—not my type, but you go for women, too, right? So…” I swallowed. “Is she the kind of person you usually go for? Because she was definitely flirting with you. She was playing the game. And I bet if you wanted?—”
