Page 10 of Beni

Fucking perfect, huh?

As her mother once said … work twice as hard.

“He’s great,” she lied to her father. “I will call you back tonight, okay?”

“Everything good?”

“Yep. I just have to get back to work.”

“All right. Try to make it to dinner tonight, yes?”

“Absolutely. Love you, Dad.”

“Love you, too, August.”

Ian’s smile became impossibly wider after August hung up the phone, and gave him all her attention. That’s what this man seemed to want the most, after all. The attention of women, and men, depending on the situation, entirely on him.

He was the God around this place.

“Mr. Bar—”

“Ian,” he interjected smoothly. “How many times have I told you to call me Ian?”

A lot.

She also figured that keeping it professional would help the man to understand she was not interested in dating someone who could be her father.

It didn’t.

Clearly.

“Ian,” August said, measuring her tone for politeness—no need to make a scene, after all. It never ended well for women who did that, but especially not at this magazine. “I was just about to head out for the day. I was off a half hour ago. Did you need something?”

He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his slacks and rocked on his heels at the front of her desk. Now, she was wishing she had just left instead of sitting at her desk and flipping through that damn magazine for inspiration.

Hindsight, and all that.

“No,” he said, “I just heard you were heading out on an assignment and wanted to say goodbye as I won’t be seeing you until you come back.”

August shrugged as she stood from her desk, making quick work of packing up the few things, like her laptop and clutch, that she hadn’t put in her bag earlier. “Yep—a month, maybe more, in Chicago for this spread pitch to the team. Well, I’m taking my three weeks of vacation, but the extra week or so … Michelle allowed me to work on this.”

“Finally seeing your potential, then.”

Maybe.

“I just want to see what comes out of it. This idea has been in the back of my mind for a while.”

“I bet.”

Then, Ian reached over the desk and caught one of August’s loose box braids in his fingers to curl around one digit. It was a purposeful move, and it all but made her freeze on the spot. That was the problem with this man—a simple conversation could quickly cross over into inappropriate territory before someone blinked. One couldn’t prepare and avoid it when he behaved this way.

Typically, she kept her hair, but especially when it was done in the protective style of braids, plaited neatly down her back, or tied up. Today, she had worn them down, and she was regretting that choice.

Although, she shouldn’t have to regret it at all.

Her hair was not a toy.

“I miss your curls,” he said.