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“Please, Miss Hall,” Jake urges, “call me Jake. Mr. Ferry is my father.”
“Is that who your father is?” I wonder out loud. “Well, Jake—what are you doing here?”
He shrugs, and waves a broad, well-manicured hand at the common lounge around us. “Who wouldn’t want steal a glance at the real work of art behind the infamous Red Hall?” There’s that smile again.
That kind of flattery probably gets him a lot of places, and people, but I’m not Gloria, or some empty-headed beauty just waiting for my knight to arrive. Still, I take the compliment and smile graciously. It’s what one does, after all. “What do you drink?”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” Jake says. “Don’t trouble yourself over me.”
“I insist,” I tell him.
“Well… I hear you’ve got a pretty good strawberry whiskey in-house.” He winks at me.
My smile is maybe a little more pride filled than I mean it to be. Oh yes, I sure do—a signature distillation that I worked my pretty little ass off for two years to secure the first three casks of well before it came to market. I’m betting the Ferrys know that, because I made damn sure they couldn’t get their hands on a single bottle of it.
A gesture and a meaningful smile, and Chester gives me a knowing smirk as he fishes one of the bottles from behind the bar. Oh, Chester. At this point we might as well be telepathic.
When I turn my attention back to Jake, he’s looking me over the way a man might size up a racehorse or an expensive steak.
“Eyes up here, Mr. Ferry,” I mutter.
His eyes linger a moment longer on my ass before he meets my eyes. “I wondered if you were as all-business as everyone says. You’re not seeing anyone, are you?”
My eyes roll on their own. Real slick, handsome. Subtle as an earthquake. “Some of us have to work hard to get ahead, you know.” I shake my head in disgust. “We weren’t all born with silver spoons in our ass.”
For a heartbeat, it looks like I actually hurt him. It doesn’t last, though. I suppose a billion dollars in the bank affords thick skin.
Chester delivers the whiskey, and Jake waits for me to pick up the tumbler as he does. We raise glasses with a congenial sort of professionalism and I watch his face as he sips. His eyes get a little wider, genuine surprise registering as the amber liquid does its work.
“Wow,” he says. “That’s… really good. Smooth. Not what I expected at all.”
“It’s not cheap,” I tell him. It’s the truth—four hundred a bottle was steep, and I got it for a bargain.
“I can see that,” Jake says, but he’s looking me over again, and I’m sure he doesn’t mean the whiskey. Which is fine—he’s right; I’m not cheap, either.
“It’s on the house,” I say. “Enjoy your visit.”
I mean to walk away, but a moment later I feel a hand on my shoulder, and then Jake is tugging me out onto the floor. “Have a dance with me.”
It is the last thing I want, and I try to show him that with an arched eyebrow. But he ignores my expression, grinning like a fool, and inclines his head just slightly toward some of the other patrons. Phones are out; videos and pictures are already being taken.
The last thing I want is to look like a bitter, ungracious host in front of the entire internet—certainly, I don’t want to hand Reginald Ferry any ammo to fire at me in the PR arena—so I fix my expression to one of pleasant acceptance and follow his son onto the dance floor.
For a minute, it isn’t so bad. Jake can dance; he’s probably had high-priced lessons for this sort of occasion, and he’s just handsy enough to make it interesting without being outright offensive. His hands are large, and warm, and it’s difficult not to let my imagination get carried away.
It really has been a long time since I was with anyone, if just this little interaction is enough to get my blood running hot.
“One song,” I tell him, and let him lead. It’s slow, thankfully. I didn’t wear the kind of outfit that looks good on a flailing mess.
As we sway, I can feel the heat from his body even through my dress. More, I’m close enough to him that it’s obvious he has a body under that clean, well-fitted suit. We’re not talking yet, so I distract myself from all that by doing mental inventory of the storeroom as of this afternoon, before the lounge opened, and recite the types of peppers that are going into the new hot sauce I have planned for later this season.
“All those cameras,” Jake sighs near my ear. “They never quit, do they?”
“People like a spectacle,” I reply, disinterested even though I’m already starting to think of what I’ll say when the papers start asking me whether we’re dating, and how I’ll convince them we’re not.
Jake, though, has the opposite on his mind. “You know, I bet we’d stir up quite a storm, you and I. Imagine what the tabloids would say: Jake Ferry and Janie Hall. Could be a PR goldmine, good for both our ventures.”
And in that moment, it all makes sense. I should have figured. But I’m a businesswoman, not a celebrity. Not yet, anyway, and not a real one even when it’s forced on me for a while.
