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She stalled. “Am I…?”
His eyes crinkled. “Are you a Cosmo girl?”
She pretended to consider the question for a moment. “It depends. Are you a pickup artist?”
He laughed, his expression saying he was respectful of her parry even as his interest sharpened. “I don’t suppose you’d give a hint as to what the right answer is supposed to be?”
Pia played along. “Do you need a hint? Doesn’t charm get you the answer you want?”
His accent wasn’t easy to pinpoint—he appeared to be from here, there and anywhere—but she thought she detected a faint British enunciation.
“Hmm, it depends,” he mused, rubbing his chin and showing his dimple again. “Are you here with anyone?”
She knew he meant a man—a date. “I’m here with a coworker, but I seem to have lost track of Cornelia in the crowd.”
He looked momentarily intent and seductive beneath his easygoing veneer, but then his casual appeal took over again. “Great, then I can be as charming as I’m able. Let’s start with names. No woman as lovely and enchanting as you can be called anything but—?”
He quirked a brow.
She couldn’t help smiling. “Pia Lumley.”
“Pia,” he repeated.
The sound of her name falling from his chiseled lips sent shivers chasing over her skin. He’d called her lovely and enchanting. Her fantasy man had a voice, and it was dreamy.
“James Fielding,” he volunteered.
Just then, the bartender leaned in their direction and slid two drinks across the bar between seated patrons.
James handed the cosmopolitan to her, and then picked up his martini.
“Cheers,” he said, clinking his glass against hers.
She took a small sip of her drink. It was stronger than her usual party libation—a light beer or a fruity beach drink was more her style—but then again, she’d wanted to appear sophisticated.
She suspected that James was used to chic women. And she’d grown used to projecting a polished and stylish image when trying to drum up business for work. Potential clients expected it—people didn’t want an inexperienced girl from small-town Pennsylvania running their six-figure party.
After sipping from his drink, James nodded at a couple departing from a corner table near them. “Would you like to sit?”
“Thank you,” she said, and then turned and slid into a padded booth seat.
As she watched James sit down to her left, a little thrill went through her. So he meant to continue their conversation and further their acquaintance? She was happy she’d held his interest.
She hadn’t had many men hit on her. She didn’t think she was bad-looking, but she was short and more understated than bold, and therefore easily overlooked. She was cute, rather than one to inspire lust or overwhelming passion.
He looked at her with a smile hovering at his lips. “Are you new to New York?”
“It depends on what you mean by new,” she replied. “I’ve been here a couple of years.”
“And you were transported here from a fairy tale called—?”
She laughed. “Cinderella, of course. I’m a blonde.”
His smile widened. “Of course.”
He rested an arm along the back of the booth seat and reached out to finger a tendril of her hair.
She drew in a breath—hard.
