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“I’m pleading inebriation for anything improper I might say from this point on. I don’t drink much,” she says with a little laugh as she takes a sip.
“I can’t imagine that you’d say anything that would be considered improper.”
She raises one eyebrow, and her eyes twinkle with a hint of mischief and humor. “Well, you never know,” she murmurs, taking another sip.
I motion her toward one of the long sofas in the middle of the gallery. There’s a chaise lounge tucked into another corner, but she seems to be into looking at the art, and I’m happy with letting her get her fill of it. It gives me more of an opportunity to admire her without her knowing. Before long, we’re talking like old friends—about college and art and books and places we’ve been and places we want to visit. She’s kicked off her shoes and has her legs curled beneath her, her body facing me as we sit and talk. Soon, the wine bottle is empty, and I’m feeling drunk. Not on the wine, but on Poppy and her scent and her laugh and that devilish little twinkle in her eyes. The desire I felt the first moment I saw her, and then again at lunch last week, has just continued to build at an almost frightening pace.
And at that moment, I realize that I’m done pretending I don’t want her. I’m going to have her. I’m going to know her body in ways no one else ever has. And she won’t turn me down because I’m going to make her the kind of offer she’d be crazy to want to walk away from.
Finally, after all this time, the scar of my past doesn’t burn so bad.
Chapter Seven
Poppy
This man is every naughty dream I’ve ever had. I mean, he was irresistible enough when he was just my hot, if sometimes curt, boss. But this guy? This guy who’s open and relaxed and even actually laughed at a few of my dorky jokes? This guy has me so hot and bothered I’m already adding extra vibrator batteries to the mental shopping list I keep.
Down, girl.
I clear my throat, wishing for more wine, but we demolished the entire, absolutely delicious, bottle of it.
“How did you get into all this?” I ask, vaguely gesturing at the gallery. “Art, I mean.”
He takes a breath and looks like he’s not going to answer. But then he turns those sexy hazel eyes on me. “I don’t remember a time when art wasn’t central to my life,” he says. “Growing up… my life was pretty rough. My parents were the types of people who should never have kids. Hell, my parents shouldn’t have been allowed to have a goldfish,” he adds, and I don’t know what to say to that. “I would sit in my room and draw. I’d sit on my bed, my back against the pillows, and stay that way for hours. When I was drawing, everything else disappeared. The shouting, the fear, the hunger, the sense of being just kind of alone in the world.”
My heart clenches, and I wish I had something deep and profound to say to that.
“And then I started painting and sculpting, and I won a few contests. I won a scholarship to my top choice of art school, and I haven’t looked back.”
I can’t stop looking at him. His voice feels like it’s wrapping itself around my soul. I realize that I like Nathaniel. I actually like him, as a person, not just as someone I’d love to ride someday.
The is… not good. I can’t actually like him. This is my boss; the man who can help me reach the next level in my career. But damn if his story, if the way he talks about the art we both love, hasn’t cracked that little wall of professionalism I’m trying like hell to keep between the two of us. I let it down at lunch last week, and I’ve been kicking myself ever since, trying to regain some ground. I meet his eyes for a moment, then look away as my stomach does this stupid little flip/flutter thing.
I mean… I’m still a virgin after all. I’ve always gone after what I wanted job and career-wise, but men are a whole other battlefield. Sure, I did stuff with guys in college, but frat types are all the same, and I wasn’t going to let some drunk, baby-faced dude pop my cherry.
But this man, Nathaniel, is so much more. More mature, more intense, more mouthwatering. Not even my best self-pleasing experience would compare to what he could do to me if he wanted to.
And I’ve thought about that a lot. Good God, have I thought about it.
I force my mind out of the gutter and back to the conversation at hand.
“What about you?” he asks. Somehow, we’ve ended up closer to each other on the long sofa. We’d started out at opposite ends, and now we’re just a few inches apart in the center of it.
“My mom was an artist,” I say. It still hurts to talk about her, even after all this time. “She was amazing. And she went at it with everything she had. I knew I wanted to be just like her when I grew up.”
