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Sophie Dalton is not for you, he reminded himself for the hundredth time.
Sure, she sent him a couple hot gazes and let her voice go all breathy when he got too close. But that’s what women like Sophie did. They teased. They played.
And then they left.
He gritted his teeth and turned his attention to the Blackwells, but they were still captivated by the little blonde in the other room.
“That would be my assistant,” Gray said, in delayed response to Alistair’s question.
Peter reluctantly drew his eyes back to Gray, but Alistair continued to stare at Sophi
e’s backside, all but salivating. Gray’s annoyance with the man skyrocketed. “I’m assuming we can get back to business, unless there was something you needed, Mr. Blackwell?”
Alistair jumped, and Gray suspected that his father had just delivered a quick kick to his shin.
Gray tried to pick up where they left off. “So, as I was saying, while I can appreciate the value of the land, the value of the resorts themselves is unfortunately not up to Brayburn standards—”
Once again, he’d lost the attention of the two men he was trying so hard to impress.
“Excuse me, Mr. Wyatt?”
Shit. Sophie stood in the doorway and the effect of tumbling golden hair, ocean-blue eyes, and matching little outfit was even more distracting close-up than it had been from through the glass wall.
The Blackwells were enchanted.
Gray gave in to a sigh. “Yes, Ms. Dalton?”
“I just wanted to see if I could get you gentlemen a coffee-and-pastry tray, sir, if you haven’t already eaten.”
Gray had already had coffee and his usual breakfast of spinach and egg-white omelet at home, but he supposed there was no way he’d regain the men’s attention until they’d had a close-up view. God, he missed his old assistant. Mary had been short, stout, and irritable. Gray wouldn’t have had to deal with her distracting his most important clients.
“Thank you, Ms. Dalton, some coffee would be great.”
“Coming right up. I’m sorry I didn’t offer sooner. I didn’t realize you had a meeting this morning.”
Of course she didn’t. Probably because he intentionally hadn’t put it on the calendar she had access to. He’d hoped to spare the Blackwells the experience of Early Morning Sophie. The woman was pure menace before ten a.m. And after ten, for that matter.
So pretty much she was a nightmare around the clock. Always singing, smiling, dancing.
Yesterday she’d actually tried to sign him up for a book club.
Book club.
Today, however, her special brand of Sophie charm was working in his favor. The Blackwells couldn’t get enough. Hell, neither could he.
Three pairs of male eyes watched as she trotted out of his office to fetch coffee, tight butt practically begging for male attention.
Twenty minutes later, Gray was no closer to making headway on the acquisition on this increasingly unappealing resort chain when Sophie returned with a carefully prepared tray. She must have sensed the importance of the meeting, because the tray looked like it belonged in Versailles, circa 1683.
“I thought I said ‘coffee,’” he muttered. The tray was overflowing with croissants, mini quiches, doughnuts, bagels, and a large pile of fruit.
She balanced the tray on the corner of Gray’s desk and ignored him completely, saving all her smiles for the Blackwells. “How would you like your coffee, gentlemen?” she asked. “Mr. Wyatt here takes his black, but I’ve brought cream and sugar, as well as a variety of flavored sweeteners.”
Sophie shoved a mug in Gray’s direction without looking at him, and he nearly smiled. She’d added cream.
“Just a pinch of sugar and a splash of regular old cream for me, dear,” Peter was saying, suddenly taking on the persona of a kindly grandfather. This gentle old man sounded absolutely nothing like the stubborn hard-ass Gray had been dealing with five minutes prior.
“How do you like your coffee?” Alistair asked Sophie while unsubtly fingering his greasy comb-over.
