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She swallowed, pissed that it felt like he was right even though she never would have admitted it. And what was with his voice? It was deep, rough, sensual, and hypnotizing. She could get off on listening to him read the dictionary.
Was he trying to seduce her? This guy? Nah. He was probably looking for a deal.
She snorted, trying to shake off the spell he was putting on her. “Seducing me won’t get you a discount, Mr. Ellis.”
“I’m not trying to seduce you, Ms. Callahan. I need you to understand what we do here so that you don’t try to redesign this place into a fucking country club. People come here to be themselves—what’s down under all of the layers of propriety and civility—without tight-assed snobs judging them for it.” His gaze was passionate. This wasn’t just some moneymaking venture for him, apparently. It was personal.
Not sure what to do with the intensity he was giving her, she jotted down key words in her notebook, just to have an excuse to break eye contact again.
“Come on, I’ll show you the upstairs.” He stalked off, and she clacked after him, feeling weirdly conspicuous in the silence of the club. Where did Grant go? The club seemed empty, other than the two of them, and the air felt sexually charged.
Her fitted blouse and pencil skirt were constricting as she minced up the stairs in her too-high heels. What had seemed like a power outfit when she got ready this morning now felt very naughty secretary.
Although it was a wide, commercial stairwell, the idea that she was following him somewhere more secluded was making her think of tawdry things. Her gaze slid over his body, her position giving her the time to watch him from behind. He moved like a big cat, all smooth muscle and natural coordination. His shoulders were broad, and he had narrow hips and a seriously fine ass that looked sinful in jeans.
He wasn’t her type at all, but she let herself make an exception . . . in her imagination. It couldn’t go one step further than wondering how far his tattoos extended under his T-shirt. That was absolutely it though.
Shirtless Will was allowed in her brain but the man was damn well keeping his pants on.
And those boots. When had ugly black motorcycle boots become sexy to her?
At some point, he stopped and gestured into a room, breaking her out of her lustful musings. The room was spacious, but didn’t have much to brag about other than its size. There was more BDSM equipment in there, plus a bed. There were huge eyebolts set into the ceiling and walls, but she was too shy to ask about them.
“There are ten private rooms. Most of them are supposed to have themes, but we didn’t do a very good job of that, I don’t think. Decorating isn’t my forte.”
Her mind rushed to switch back to work mode. Whatever the theme had been for this room, it had involved the walls being a weird ketchup red with mustard-yellow stripes. “What were you going for in here?”
“Drive-through chic?”
She laughed despite herself. A guy who could make fun of himself? She hadn’t expected that. Will suddenly went from looking at her to checking her out.
“You forgot to put in a drive-through window.”
His chuckle rolled through her body, making her warm all over.
She cocked her head, as though considering the prospect. “I’m sure we could find someone to install a functional microphone so patrons could place orders.”
“Are you making fun of me, sunshine?”
“Maybe a little.”
He put his coffee cup down on a metal storage cabinet and strolled closer.
“Well, that’s not very professional.”
Lord help her, he even smelled good.
She nibbled on her bottom lip and pretended to study the room, jotting some random words down. He came closer, and she stared down at her page, not knowing what to do. His hand closed over the top of her notebook, and she allowed him to pull it from her hand.
Tension shot back and forth between them, an electrical surge she had to figure out how to ignore. Why him, of all people?
She looked up at him and he was staring her down, studying her. She didn’t know what to do around a man like this. He tore his gaze away, and disconnecting almost pained her.
“What kind of notes are these?” He cocked his head, as though it would help him read her code. She knew better than to write in plain English on a project worksheet—clients got snoopy and often got upset about observations. Besides, in this instance, if he could read her code, she’d be forced to kill him to preserve her own dignity.
“Private notes?” she replied archly to Mr. Grabby Hands, and tried to take the book back.
His brows went up and he held the book away. “So you’re making notes about my club renos and you won’t tell me what they say?”
