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It's conservative enough to be taken out to a business dinner in a pinch, but fancy enough—and, Callahan thinks to himself, sexy enough—to serve as evening wear. In his gray suit and his best tie, an embarrassingly plain blue-on-blue, he looks like an idiot next to her.
"You look good," she says. Her eyes linger on the clothes for a minute, looking him up and down. A little fire inside Callahan lights. That a woman could be looking at him so intently seems impossible. He's past that age.
"I should be the one saying that. You look incredible, Miss Lowe."
"Please. Morgan."
"Well, my point stands—Morgan."
"Thank you." She smiles and a little tinge of red reaches her cheeks. She looks good when she smiles. Even better than when she scowls, and that expression alone would have brought stronger men than Philip Callahan to her knees.
"You talk to the lady at the front?"
"Ten minutes," she says. She flips her wrist over to check a watch face. "As of five minutes ago. So who knows."
He settles in beside her. How long are they supposed to make small talk, before they get down to business? He'd rather just keep talking to her. Keep her in his mind as a woman, not as a potential future business partner. Not as the woman who's planning on buying up his land at the first opportunity, and skipping town the next moment after that.
But if that's the reality of the situation—and, whether he likes it or not, it is—then at some point they're going to have to get down to business.
She's the expert, though, and she doesn't start talking about business just yet.
Phil smiles and settles into the seat, waiting for the meeting to start. Waiting to be called to their table. The table that they'll share, just the two of them. He shouldn't be letting himself get any ideas. It's far too late for that now, though.
The ideas are already there, and he's already having them.
It's a little bit late to start worrying now about whether or not he's going to be able to stop them. Especially when, every time he closes his eyes, all he can think about is what she'd look like if she wasn't wearing those clothes.
Especially when the last time they'd sat down to eat like this, he'd had every chance in the world to find out.
Chapter Twenty
Morgan knows what she's done, and what she's done specifically is drink more than what might have been altogether wise. The bigger part of her really doesn't mind, because it makes this next part quite a bit easier.
Her lips are sensitive. In fact, her entire body aches. And yet, something calls out to her, some need that she can't begin to name. Something between desire and something else entirely.
"Aren't you going to ask me back to the ranch?"
Phil Callahan's face is a little worried, about what she doesn't know. But she knows that she sees, underneath the worry, the arousal in his eyes. She knows that he wants her, and she definitely wants him.
He probably thinks that she's drunk. That she's gotten off-task. But she hasn't. Not really. And she might be drunk, but… not that drunk, really.
No, she knows exactly what she's doing. She's just not sure how she's supposed to go about the next part.
His mouth opens to answer her. He licks his lips. "Are you saying you'd like me to?"
/> "That's exactly what I'm saying," Morgan purrs. She leans into him, pressing her body against his. Letting him know exactly how she plans on all of this going. She can feel him getting the message from the hardness at his hip.
His lips open again. He's unsure. Which is completely understandable. After all, she's hardly any more sure than he is. But there's an electricity coursing through the both of them, one that won't be denied.
Not by her, and if the other night was any indicator, not likely by him, either. He closes his eyes. "You can follow me."
She presses her lips into his neck and tastes his salty skin, feels the stubble pressing back into her lips. "You won't regret it."
His body is stiff, with doubt and arousal. Then he steps up into that big truck of his and she goes back to get her own car.
He goes slow at first. Time enough for her to catch up. And then the chase begins. It's not close, and it was never going to be. His car begins to rumble and accelerate away.
She's caught him within a quarter-mile, the sports car's engine screaming with a peculiar fury at the thought that a truck was going to beat it in a race. Once she'd settled into the front, the engine quieted down, obviously satisfied that it wasn't badly beaten.
