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She flinches a little bit back but holds together pretty well. Then she takes a step forward, forcing me back down the little lane between the two cars. If I wasn't a gentleman, I wouldn't have moved. I am totally a gentleman, no matter what anybody says.
“I'm just visiting,” she mutters as she keys open her door. She squints her eyes as she looks through her front window and sees Hannah’s plaque on the wall, then shifts her gaze to Emmet's plaque. Then, just like clockwork, she looks at me with that mixture of surprise, uncertainty, and fear that I love so much, whenever I meet a new employee.
“I really didn't hit your car,” she says in a much smaller voice.
“Maybe your… what is that? Hermès? Something pretending to be Hermès?”
She glances down at her bag. The tip of her nose goes adorably pink.
“I don’t think my fake bag hit your car either. I would have felt it.”
I should get mad, just to see how she reacts. See what she’s really made of. But apparently that’s the sort of thing that gets you labelled a douche in this town. Whatever.
I shrug, because really, do I care all that much? But it is fun to watch her squirm. “Probably wouldn't matter if you did.”
Her eyes shift back and forth uncertainly for a moment, as though figuring something out. She takes a deep breath and looks up at me, smiling pleasantly. Plainly curious, but suddenly slightly more confident.
“Bella Cage,” she nods, holding out her hand. I shake it, noting the strength of her fingers, the rustling warmth of her palm against mine. It feels surprisingly comfortable there, like it's a good fit. Like it's custom-made. Her skin is soft.
“I think I’ve heard your name before,” I say, watching her eyes dart back and forth between mine. She's taking deep, measured breaths. Her pulse is probably elevated. I bet that perfume between her legs is getting more intense.
"Well, it's nice to meet you, um, Mr. Riordan.”
Mr. Riordan. That's a nice touch.
I look down, noticing that we’re still holding hands.
“Oh,” she says softly and drops my hand, then balls hers into a small fist that she lets fall to her side.
“So… perhaps a drink? To start?”
“Excuse me?”
She takes a short, deep breath and squints at me shrewdly. “A drink? Doesn’t that sound like a decent way to start off?”
I find myself licking my lips. Did this woman just ask me on a date?
Her eyelids flutter softly, her long lashes trembling. I can’t stop looking at her. She’s such an interesting mix of hard and soft. There’s a firm set to her lips but her gaze is a touch unsteady. I know her heart is racing but her feet are still planted shoulder-width apart like a dedicated recruit.
“Whatever you like?” she persists. “I like American whiskeys, if that suits you.”
I am amused beyond measure. Here's this strange woman, parked in the CEO’s parking space, possibly doing fifteen thousand dollars worth of damage to my car. And yet, she's got the balls to ask me out.
What a delightful creature.
“I prefer Japanese whiskeys.”
She raises her eyebrows briefly, as though she considers challenging me. Then she merely replies: “Yes, I'd like to try them.”
I cross my arms, leaning against her car briefly. It is some kin
d of macho girl crossover, like a RAV4 or something like that. Something city girls get to make it look like they actually leave Chicago every once in awhile. Maybe go up to Wisconsin. Antiquing in Galena. Visiting relatives who live on one of those fucking farms out west like in Plano or something. I’ll bet this thing has never been west of California and Ashland Avenues.
“What about my car?”
She swallows. I see her throat undulate and not too subtly think blowjob in big neon letters in my mind. I’d like to slide down that throat. My cock twitches in agreement.
“I really don't think I did anything to your car. I think I may have just bumped it when I bent down to get the keys.”
