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My cheeks heat up into a color likely matching fuchsia. Who does he think he is? Something inside me shifts gears, and I know my mouth is about to get me in trouble. Time to stand up for womankind.
“Thanks for the dinner,” I spit out, moving closer to him with my hands on my hips. The hem of the short trench coat moves higher up the front of my naked thighs, and Mr. Hammond’s gaze doesn’t miss it either. Cocky man even licks his lips.
I mentally do a windup for my next pitch below the belt. “Wonder what your date would’ve thought about it?” The sexy smirk disappears from Mr. Hammond’s face, replaced by a creased brow. I can’t wait to hear how he talks himself out of this mess, though his stern face, with its hard lines, is rather delicious.
I bite my lower lip to keep myself from licking it. I sure as heck don’t want to mirror him or resemble the heroines in my romance novels—those silly women who succumb to lovers by a mere look. That will never be me. Ever.
I take a step backward, needing distance, but Mr. Hammond moves forward. And poor Mrs. Mackenzie clears her throat.
“Your sister, sir?” Mrs. Mackenzie speaks in a soft voice, tilting her head slightly. A light sparks in Mr. Hammond’s coal colored eyes.
“Oh, right.” He throws his head back with a laugh. My, what a powerful neck he has. “The woman you think was my date is actually my sister, Victoria.”
I remember the woman having matching hair color and even a similar skin tone. He didn’t kiss her directly on the mouth either, just familiar pecks on the cheek. I screwed up. It’s time for me to grovel and get escorted back to the lobby—where I belong.
“I totally jumped to a conclusion based on what I saw, Mr. Hammond.” He gazes at me with dancing eyes, seeming to hold back a laugh. “Please accept my apologies. Also, I need to truly thank you for my dinner. It was very kind, sir.”
I know when to admit my mistakes. I can almost hear my mother cheering in the background.
He straightens and places his hands on his hips. I catch the strain of his tailored white shirt over his chest. He appears so intimidating and tall compared to my petite frame.
“No harm.” He sticks his large hands in his pant pockets and rocks on his feet. The fabric strains against his thighs, like there’s a solid sheet of granite beneath the dark navy wool. “It was my pleasure, actually. Shame I couldn’t have joined you, though.”
I bring my hand to my throat, maybe to check my rapid pulse. When did my breathing become so shallow?
“Me too,” I manage to say. It’s a small miracle, because this beautiful man, and his sexually charged attention, makes me dizzy. Who knew I’d meet a man who made it difficult to just stand in his presence?
“We should let you get back to work, sir.” Mrs. Mackenzie touches me lightly on my arm.
“Actually, I need your help.” Mr. Hammond turns toward Mrs. Mackenzie, a work mode expression on his face. “Have my driver here in twenty minutes.”
“Do you have an appointment downtown? I didn’t see one on your calendar.”
“Cancel all my meetings today. I’m going to visit Don Black up in Connecticut.”
“Don Black,” I blurt out in a rush. Mr. Hammond and Mrs. Mackenzie look at me, and I realize I’ve interrupted them with my silly fangirl enthusiasm. “Sorry. He’s one of my favorite authors.”
“You have something in common with Hammond Press. He’s this company’s favorite author too.” Mr. Hammond’s tone is firm, without the adoration I exhibited.
“I’ll text the driver. I believe Lawrence works on Thursdays. Anything else?”
“Black’s ignoring our calls, so I need to bring him a peace offering. Maybe a chocolate cake from the bakery across the street. Anything to get me past the front door.”
“I know what you should bring him,” I pipe up, unsolicited, and both of them turn my way.
“You do?” Mr. Hammond regards me with narrowed eyes. The skeptical kind that need to be put in their place. Here goes.
“I do.” I nod my head in confidence, standing a little taller. My shoulders shake with a little sass.
“And how would you have gathered this information about a man who’s been on the New York Times since before you were born, not to mention his Pulitzer Prize for Fiction?”
Mr. Hammond sure thinks he knows everything when he actually has no clue about his own client’s likes. My explanation should be rather embarrassing, but he did ask for it.
“Off Mr. Black’s blog. You do read his daily posts? After all, he’s your favorite author.” I press my lips together to keep from blasting a “gotcha” smile. No need to gloat.
“Okay, Miss Holly.” Mr. Hammond rubs the back of his neck and takes a deep breath. “Be a good girl and tell me what he prefers.”
