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“If you must know, there are shoes in here.”
“Since when did Manolo make heavy shoes?” His joke didn’t go over well. British narrowed her dark eyes on him. If looks could kill...
She ran her long fingers through her thick, dark, curly hair. Photographers created lighting with special bulbs and reflections for scenes like this.
“Maybe,” she sneered, “you’re used to women who pack only expensive high heels, but I’m packing canvas. Converse, to be exact.” To prove herself, British yanked open her bag and held up a pink low-top shoe, then a kelly green high-top. She attempted to reach for another but Donovan raised his hands in surrender.
“All right, you win,” he said. “I didn’t mean to wage war with you.”
“What did you plan with me?” British asked.
Dare he say how temptation made his fingers twitch with eagerness to toss her onto the bed and kiss away whatever sadness was hiding behind her eyes?
“Well?” British snapped at him.
“Jesus, lady,” Donovan chuckled, “what do you have against me?”
The crinkles in her forehead softened. British blinked her long lashes. “I’m sorry,” she sighed. “I don’t have anything against you.”
“Good.”
“Just your company,” she added.
An invisible dagger dug into Donovan’s chest. “Ouch. May I ask what my company did?”
“Where do I begin?” British scoffed. “You guys hire airhead models that my students then follow and emulate. Before I started teaching Stephanie the importance of women in science, she aspired to be an Instagram model.”
Donovan refrained from laughing. He did, however, press his hand to his heart. “Somehow this is my fault?”
“No,” British quipped.
Never before had a woman argued with him about her dislike for the company. Be still, his beating heart. Donovan stopped the argument with a half smile.
“Why are you staring at me with a goofy grin?”
“I think you’re perfect,” he answered honestly.
A deep red tint spread across British’s high cheekbones. She folded her arms over three of the former members of New Edition’s faces on the T-shirt. “Do you seriously think your lines would work on getting me to...?” Her words trailed but her eyes roamed to the queen-size bed.
This time Donovan did chuckle. “I think we have our wires crossed.”
“Excuse me?” British leaned forward. “You’re not trying to get me into bed?”
“I feel like that’s one of those loaded questions,” Donovan hedged, “where either answer is going to get me in trouble.”
British pointed to her door. “Get out.”
“Wait,” he said, holding his hands up in a pleading defense. “I’m talking about my company. We need a new spokesmodel and I honestly think you’d be perfect.”
A few moments went by. A hummingbird pecked at the window. The bells of the grandfather clock downstairs chimed the morning’s hour. When British cleared her throat, Donovan was sure she was about to agree. Who wouldn’t? Women threw themselves at him for an offer like this.
“Go to hell and get out.”
Chapter 4
“All right, girls.” British clapped her hands together to get the foursome’s attention.
After she’d gotten rid of Donovan and his lecherous offer, British had allowed the girls an hour to run around and do whatever, but now it was time for business.
