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Formula-47 used nanotechnology to heal scars and reduce wrinkles. There were thousands of ways to market such a brilliant product. She should have two presentations by now.
That’s what she had to focus on, not the two-word text message from Logan McLaughlin.
I’m in. Nothing else. No let’s meet for coffee and hash this out. No here are my conditions and expectations. What? Was she supposed to do all the dirty work and organize everything? He had a stake in this, too.
By Thursday, she was ready to bite off the head of the next person who poked their toe into her office. When her phone beeped, she nearly shut it off. But then she saw Logan’s name blinking at her. Eyes narrowed, she thumbed up the text message.
Charity gala tomorrow night. Guaranteed to have lots of cameras and press. Formal dress. Pick you up at 8.
Men. Logan had his share of nerve, assuming she could pull a formal ensemble together in less than thirty-six hours, not to mention she’d have to beg Franco for a last-minute appointment to get her hair done. Her regular nail girl was out of town, too. Trinity groaned and pushed back from her desk to go spend the rest of the afternoon shopping for the perfect dress to drive a man wild.
Logan McLaughlin totally deserved to spend the entire evening in the most painful state possible for springing this on her at the last minute. And if she secretly wanted to kiss him for getting her out from behind her desk and away from the reminders that her career might be circling the drain—she’d keep that to herself.
Miraculously, Franco had a cancellation, he personally found a replacement nail technician for her, and the most amazing dress fell into her lap. Logan might get a pass after all, but strictly because he’d stepped up when it counted.
When Logan knocked on the door of Trinity’s penthouse loft in the Arts District, she was dressed and ready to go. Except for her lipstick. She swiped on a layer of Bohemian Rhapsody with a lip brush and dropped both into her clutch.
It was a ritual she’d always performed back when she’d dated more. Wait until he knocked and then apply lipstick, which left the guy on her doorstep for precisely the right amount of time. Enough that he’d start to wonder if maybe she wasn’t dressed yet and was even at this moment throwing on clothes. Never hurt to dangle a visual in front of a man.
And then she would open the door to give him the real visual—her, dressed to the hilt in this smashing and sexy dress with cutout sides that displayed all her best features.
Except when she opened the door to Logan...in a tux...her tongue went numb and she dropped her clutch. Which he picked up for her.
Good God, did that man clean up well. The suit from the other day? Merely an appetizer to the main course of this gorgeous hunk of masculinity in a tuxedo that had clearly been custom-made for him.
Thank all that was holy that he didn’t dress like that on a daily basis. The luxurious dark fabric spread across his shoulders, emphasizing the broad, dense build she shouldn’t like as much as she did. Logan was too big. Too solid. Too...squeaky clean.
But the pièce de résistance was the single long-stemmed pink rose that he held out to her.
“Pink?” She took it and held it to her nose, trying not to be pleased but failing. A whole bouquet would have been overkill and completely unnecessary given that they weren’t really dating.
One rose was classy. And well played.
“You wore a pink suit on the show,” he said gruffly with a shrug and ran his now vacant fingers through his hair, sweeping it away from his face. “The association with that color and you is pretty much stuck in my head.”
Her insides melted. She didn’t know what to do with that or the best behavior vibe wafting from him. It was almost as if he’d lectured himself on the way over to remember he had a reputation for being a nice guy and maybe he should act like one.
She cleared her throat. “Thank you.”
“Are you ready to go?”
Her brows rose. After three hours at the salon today, that was his comment? This sedate, boring version of Logan needed to vacate the premises, pronto, or they’d never heat it up enough for anyone to care about taking their picture.
“Don’t I look ready to go?”
It would not kill him to compliment her dress. Her hair. Her punctuality. Something.
“You look like you should be spread across the floor of a Mexican restaurant,” he said bluntly, with a once-over that totally contradicted his words. His gaze was more I want to rip that dress off you than I want to eat tacos.
Her hackles rose as she glanced down at her mosaic tile dress that nipped in so far at the waist it was almost two pieces. The large cutouts left her waist and hips bare, which meant when they danced, his palms would be on her bare skin. Something more along the lines of thank you would be highly appropriate here.
