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And what debauchery he’s proposing tonight.
If I take up his insanity—if we pick up where we left off—will I even survive?
I gnaw my lip, turning it over, seeing myself on my knees before him and those blue swords for eyes.
A one-night stand.
Just one night, and nothing else, a possible cure for whatever this fever is between us.
Just one night to end this terrible curiosity and then silence, like it never happened?
If I make the deal with the devil, though, would that make me better than poor Easterly, giving in to a powerful man and letting him dictate my silence?
No—no, wait, he’s giving me a choice.
Maybe I don’t know Roland that well, but I think if he wants silence...
It’s to protect me.
Not himself.
Oh my God, I could do this.
I could have a one-night stand with my vampire boss.
And a small, strange part of me hopes like hell he’s right.
If we do the unthinkable, if we throw ourselves into enough kisses to clear our systems, that it’ll make it easier to write this attraction off as physical and only physical.
The problem is, what if it’s not that easy?
What if this one-night stand comes with a heaping slice of heartache?
* * *
The meeting is pure hell.
Even though there’s no possible way they could, I still feel like everyone knows.
Probably because I can’t find the right balance of looking at Roland or not looking at him in his stupid hot vest. Especially when it pisses me off how calm and unaffected he seems.
He’s all business as usual, standing at the head of the conference table and running through facts and figures that go in one ear and out the other.
Is he pointedly not looking at me?
No.
Nope, he’s focusing on each subsidiary head one at a time, patiently asking for their input, and when my turn comes, I’m like a deer in headlights.
I don’t even know what he asks.
I stare down at the blank notepad in front of me, pursing my lips.
“Miss Landry?” Roland repeats. “Could you fill me in on your editorial calendar for next month, please?”
Right. I can do this.
Be professional.
I’m acting like a little girl with a crush, and it needs to stop. Even if I can practically feel that card burning a hole through my purse.
“F-for next m-m-month—”
Oh, crap..
Now all eyes really are on me, the stammering mess.
I’m just waiting for the first nasty snicker.
I guess if I’m going to act like I’m in grade school, everyone around me might as well play the part. I’m used to this.
People have been chortling over my nervous stutter ever since I was old enough to talk. Calling me Cuh-cuh-cuh-Callie in a voice meant to imply I’m not just slow to speak, but I’m dumber than dirt.
My cheeks burn. I look at Roland, fully expecting an impatient sneer for holding up the show.
What I find instead are steady blue eyes. He watches with quiet patience, seeming to reach out to me like a stabilizing hand.
There’s not an ounce of cruelty in his face.
Just understanding, telling me to take my time.
He’ll wait as long as I need him to.
My heart turns over for reasons that have nothing to do with work. It’s actually helping, too.
Calm comes over me like a shadow, and I inhale slowly, counting to five before I exhale and count again.
I find the strength to start over one breath at a time with my voice coming steady and clear for the peanut gallery.
“Next month is sort of an off-season for a lot of popular artists,” I say. “Sometimes their albums release around awards season, and most will be holed up in their studios. I’ve managed to get several of my people on assignment for intimate looks at their creative process. A little bit of a behind-the-scenes exclusive that will let readers feel more connected to the music they love and the people who make it. We’ll be running two features per week for four weeks, balanced with the usual new release coverage, plus a few promotional tie-ins with advertising partners who already have sponsorship arrangements with the featured artists.”
Warmth flickers in Roland’s blue eyes like a shooting star, and he nods.
“Thank you, Miss Landry. That sounds excellent.”
Then he turns away, moving on to the next person, and I can breathe freely again.
This shouldn’t be making my final decision about tonight.
Oh, but it is.
One unexpected dose of gentleness, of patience, of understanding that tells me maybe it’s okay.
Maybe I can jump into this thing, have a little reckless fun, and still feel safe.
Even if I almost talk myself out of it ten times throughout a long day where I’m jumpy as hell. A mess of second-guesses and filthy fantasies.
And half-nervous I’m going to screw this up and be so awkward Roland won’t ever look at me that way again...which might be for the best.
