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She most definitely was not a shoo-in for firm-extravaganza superficial decoration. So maybe his friend was actually trying to do him a favor.
“Clearly, no formal introductions are necessary,” Chip cheerfully announced, reminding Tague of his presence and giving a knowing smile, apparently pleased with his matchmaking skills. “So, I’ll leave you kids to it.” He backed out the door.
Had L.L. turned out to be the flawlessly coiffed and polished mannequin Tague was expected to bring to the party, he likely would have made an excuse to slip out with Chip.
Instead, he suggested, “Why don’t we stand in line?”
She joined the impatient throng at its endpoint and shocked him further by cutting right to the chase. “Chip told me you have some glammed-to-the-max dinner happening at the end of the week and you haven’t had time to ask anyone to accompany you.”
“I’ve been in Japan the past two years. Haven’t put much thought into a company event.”
“Swank soiree in the Empire Room at the Waldorf, I hear.” She whistled under her breath. “Chip said it’s a Welcome Back, Prodigal Son party, firm anniversary and annual bonus celebration all rolled into one. Big doings.” She wagged her brows.
“Very big.”
“And you’re currently having a mental freak-out that Chip wants to pair you with a chick in Kohl’s aviator sunglasses and fishnet stockings.”
He gave her a wry look. Though her candor was certainly refreshing.
“Don’t worry,” she assured him in a playful voice. “The lacy thong is Dolce & Gabbana.”
His teeth ground as he fought a grin. She hadn’t even kept her tone low, despite the gaggle of people surrounding them, jonesing for their first shot of caffeine before eight o’clock. Several patrons slid curious glances her way.
“The boots are Jimmy Choo,” she added, not seeming to notice the attention she drew. “Sure, the mini is Target and the beanie and gloves are Charlene Branson, aka, Mom. But I guarantee I have enough Prada, de la Renta and Herrera—oh, my!—in my closet to be appropriately attired if you’d like me to pretend to be your lady du jour and fawn all over you in front of your colleagues.”
Tague found her amusing. Riveting, even, with her sassy smile and that sinful dimple that made his finger itch to trail along her silky-looking skin and dip into it, stroking languidly. He wondered if he could coax it to deepen. Or even bring out a more stubborn one in the other cheek with a wicked joke or some evocative repartee.
But he played it cool. “You think you’ve got me pegged?”
“Definitely one to care about what label is stitched inside my clothing.” Her voice was pure honey, rich and oozing sensuality. Deeply arousing. “But that’s okay. I’ve met your kind before. I can handle it.”
“Right,” he scoffed. She had no idea who she was dealing with—especially when it came to his innate aggressiveness and the fact that the slight glimpses he’d gotten of her thus far were only the tip of the iceberg. He had no doubt there was enough of L.L. that he wasn’t seeing to ensure he’d make a move on her
while he was in town—and discover all she was hiding from him. Whether he ended up taking her to the dinner or not.
His gaze raked over her again. Adrenaline pumped through his veins. She got him going with lightning-quick speed.
A bit astonishing, but indisputable.
Still keeping his cool, he asked, “And what do you get out of this blind date?”
They approached the counter and L.L. causally said, “Coffee.”
Tague chuckled. “Fine. Order.”
To the nineteen- or twenty-year-old male barista who blatantly ogled her, obviously finding her attractive as L.L. propped a hip against the laminated top and gave him what had to be her signature suck ‘em in smile, she said, “The usual, Tripp.”
The kid nodded, not taking his gaze from her. “That’d be an iced, Venti, half-caf, Ristretto, four-pump, sugar-free...” His voice trailed off. His face screwed into a frustrated expression. He sighed dejectedly. Offered an apologetic look.
“Cinnamon, dolce soy skinny latte,” she happily finished for him.
“Right,” Tripp said, all but tripping over himself. Apropos. “I don’t know why I can’t remember that.”
“No worries.” L.L. continued to beam brightly, as though she didn’t have a care in the world.
Tague wasn’t the only one transfixed. The barista had no better luck escaping the woman’s natural exuberance than Tague. Didn’t take his eyes off her, in fact.
Tague couldn’t remember the last time someone had dismissed him so effortlessly, flat-out forgetting his presence. Maybe when he was a toddler?
