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Not that he’d have to drag you, girl.
But instead, he leads me to an empty area near one of the tables and pulls me into him. “Dance with me.”
“What are you doing?” I ask, though I’m not stopping him or moving back in any discernible way.
“Paying the consequences of my dinner choice,” he says as if it’s a completely reasonable thing for us to dance together after the day we had. “Need to burn that burger off.”
He’s a respectable distance from me, his hand light on my back and letting mine rest in his outstretched one. We’d be appropriate at a middle school dance with PE teacher chaperones keeping a close watch. But this feels intimate, especially as the song works its way into my body.
Rita Ora's smoky, sexy voice surrounds us, making conversation unneeded as we sway. He turns me in a circle, putting his back toward the door, which feels protective and lets me know that he has been listening to me, to my suggestions about being aware of his surroundings. No one is going to get a candid shot of Carson Steen dancing with an unnamed woman in a dimly lit bar tonight. There will be no headlines, no amplification of the image issue he’s already battling. It’s a small victory but one I’ll take gladly.
He doesn’t speak, at least not with words, but his body is doing plenty of communicating while we move as one. Before I know it, the air between us is charged and disappearing by the inch.
“Jayme,” he whispers, his breath hot on the shell of my ear. Unconsciously, I tilt my cheek toward him, but when I feel the slight scruff of his five o’clock shadow against my soft skin, it’s the wake-up call I need.
“Shit. Carson . . .” I step back and hear a small sound of disapproval deep in his throat. I want him to growl at me like that again . . . against my skin . . . or against my pussy.
No. I can’t do that. I can’t want that.
“I need to go,” I tell him quietly, sounding unsure even to my own ears.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” It’s not a question but a demand. Even with the chemistry between us tonight, he still wants my help. Or at least I hope that’s why he wants to see me again.
“Yes. We’ll get started on a plan for branding you and Americana Land. Carson Steen, nice guy. Has a good ring to it, don’t you think?” I smile gently, hoping he hears that I’m trying to get us back on track. Back to a professional level, because heaven and hell know that I’m feeling anything but professional right now.
His smirk and the heat in his blue eyes make filthy, bad promises. “Sure, I’m such a nice guy.”
He’s anything but. He’s dangerous—to my career, to my body, to my heart.
CHAPTER 5
CARSON
Tapping on the conference room table we commandeered for this morning’s meeting, I look at the screen of Jayme’s laptop, where she’s got the conclusion of her PR proposal campaign. “You’ve been busy,” I tell her.
She looks at me sharply, one brow arching high. “Why do you sound surprised?”
I shake my head, trying to backpedal. “Not surprised. I guess I was thinking that after last night, I went home and crashed . . . though I did have some sweet dreams. But this? I’ve seen whole teams put together much less in twice as much time. I don’t know whether to be insulted or impressed.”
My charm works its magic this time, and her pressed lips soften into a smile. “I did some of this before I went to Verdux last night,” she explains. “Some of it even before I met with you. What do you think?”
“Honestly?”
She blinks, forcing a doe-eyed Bambi look that doesn’t suit her in the slightest. “No, please lie to me.”
Licking my lips, I admit, “I like it. All of it. But can you walk me through it one more time?”
It’s not an easy confession for me to make. I like to be the best and am used to meeting the needs of Americana Land myself, either by deciding the team’s direction or approving ideas from my skilled team. Either way, the responsibility lies with me.
This situation is different, though. And maybe, I thought as I shaved in the shower this morning, maybe a set of eyes that aren’t as close to the situation could be useful. And Jayme’s ideas are solid, well researched, and innovative. Much like the woman.
“Sure,” she replies, clicking back to slide one. “We’ve addressed your image as Carson Steen, nice guy.”
I nod, knowing that was a hard-won discussion last night with considerations given on both our parts. The motorcycle concession on her part was counterbalanced with no betting on mine. I easily agreed to no public dates, no social media posting, and no appearances in the park while we repair my image.
