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"Of course you can. They loved me. Admit it."
I glared at him, but he was right. They had loved him. "You look good. They like that."
"That's awfully objectifying." Kyle tsked under his breath. "That doesn't seem like part of your brand."
I rolled my eyes and counted backward from ten, trying to calm down.
"Lowell, I need this." He was looking at me earnestly, and the shit-eating grin had completely evaporated from his face. "And so do you."
"You weren't supposed to talk," I said stubbornly. "And no one said you could kiss me. Or grab my ass."
"But grabbing your ass was brilliant, and you know it."
It was brilliant, and I did know it. I had, however, absolutely no intention of admitting it.
"You need to remember that you work for me." I tried to sound authoritative, but I still felt like a bratty kid next to Kyle. It was as if I was trapped in another dimension of myself.
Kyle held up his hands in mock surrender. "I promise. You're the boss, Lo. You always have been."
The truth was, as many lines as he'd crossed, he'd earned his keep just now, and a good boss never takes the hired help for granted. Not everyone was replaceable.
But it would be a lot more convenient if he was.
Kyle
We were both quiet on the rest of the ride home. I didn't know what she was thinking—aside from her obvious annoyance at some portions of my commanding performance—but I was processing what felt like a triumph. The press had eaten us up. XYZ had taken a particular liking to me.
Lo was a smart girl. She'd said she didn't want me to stay, but she'd backed off. She knew we'd been successful in obfuscating the ugly, vomit-filled truth about last night with the sexy, promising glory of today.
And when I'd kissed her—it was brief but wow. Just wow. It was as if her whole body had lit up beneath me.
When I'd cupped her fine ass—I shouldn't have just put my hand on her like that, but Jesus. It was so firm and curved, just begging to be squeezed. My hand still felt hot from touching her.
I felt the stirrings of an erection, but I willed it to go away. When the time came, maybe I could try. If she'd felt what I'd felt back there, she wouldn't say no to me.
They never said no to me.
Don't get too far ahead of yourself, dude. This was Lowell Barton I was dealing with. She wasn't someone who gave in to her baser instincts. I'd tried many times to get her to drink her first beer at one of my parties—mostly as insurance that she wouldn't rat me out for having said party—but she'd always said no. I was sure she was curious about alcohol, and probably much more, but her caution and sense of responsibility had won out every time. She'd only gone on a bender last night because she'd had a damned good reason.
I told my erection to forget it, so it withered away, baffled by the lack of instant gratification. I shoved the thoughts about my dick aside and checked the gossip sites on my phone as we drove home. XYZ already had tons of pictures of us posted, laughing and smiling, our arms wrapped around each other. The headline read: Lowell B Debuts Secret Boyfriend. Not a word in any of the headlines about her run-in with the cops, which was pretty amazing. I examined the pictures more closely. We looked excellent together, all muscles and white teeth and perfect grooming.
We looked as if we belonged together, which, at one point, we sort of had—but not in the same way. I remembered the one picture I had from when our parents were married. In it, I was tall, reedy, and sulking, my arms crossed. Lo was smiling earnestly, braces glaring, her puffy face yearning to be pretty.
The new pictures were a solid improvement.
"Look," I said, showing the phone to her, "they love us. Even XYZ loves us."
She took the phone, her brow furrowed as she looked at the screen. "That's because you were flirting with their reporter, and you told her we'd give her an exclusive."
"It was a nice jacket," I said. "Vintage. And I never promised her a thing. It's all a part of my master plan."
"Excuse me," Lo said, shoving the phone back into my hand, "but it's my master plan."
I was going to argue, just for the fun of it, but my phone vibrated. It was a text message from Eric, my father's personal assistant. Call me immediately. My stomach dropped. The last time I'd received a message from Eric, it was because my father had frozen my bank accounts and cancelled all of my credit cards. I'd gone to the bank and tried to get money from my trust, but I was informed that the provisions had been changed and I wouldn't be seeing a dime of it in this lifetime.
My palms broke out in a cold sweat. Can't talk now, I texted back.
As soon as you can, Eric responded immediately.
