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I didn’t expect anything that’s happened today. I didn’t expect him to walk into Lotus Leaf’s office this morning, witness me being overlooked for a raise, hit Brandon, follow me home, and have spectacular sex with me twice (so far).
“Are you tired of nightclubs?” I ask, curious.
“I want to do something new. Shake it up. Keep whoever crowned me the Nightlife Kingpin on their toes.”
“No one paints you with one brush?”
“Not if I can help it.”
When I met him at the fundraiser, he was definitely a version of the man he is today, but I would have told you to jump off a cliff if you’d suggested he’d ever sit in his underwear and eat cookie dough out of the tube. “What is a night spa?”
“It’s not like a Lotus Leaf spa, that’s for damn sure. My spa will be a destination spot for dates, girls’ nights out. Nightlife, for sure, but with massages and manicures instead of dancing and debauchery.”
I smile. So clever.
“I broke ground for a large wading pool. Indoors, of course.” He reaches behind him and pinches my toe. “Since it’s cold for half the year.”
My brain whirs to life. “You’re building a nightclub but it’s a spa.”
“Yep,” he says before eating another bite of cookie dough. He offers me the roll, but I wave him off. He folds the wrapper and sets it on the table while I push myself to sitting. I’m suddenly rejuvenated. Holding the blanket to my naked chest, I reach for my backpack on the floor by the couch. Unearthing my laptop, I fire up a blank document and start typing every disjointed thought in my head. I’m fascinated by this idea.
“Will there be alcohol?”
“Yes, but only classy alcohol. Like bourbon.”
His tone doesn’t change, but I can tell he’s teasing. My fingers on the keyboard, I continue logging details. “What are the hours of operation?”
“Like a club, but slightly earlier. I was thinking six p.m. to one a.m.”
“Eleven thirty,” I correct, typing some more. “Will there be music?”
“Yes, but no pan flute.”
I chuckle as I type. His dry sense of humor is growing on me.
“Maybe I should reconsider the dancing. Women like to dance,” he continues. “They don’t like when guys hit on them while they’re doing it. These boneheads at the clubs shimmy over to every woman on the floor, hoping one of them will rub up against him. I don’t want that there.”
My fingers pause as I digest what he said. It’s a valid observation. Whenever I go out with my girlfriends, none of us want a sweaty, gyrating man in our space.
“Thought you could help with that part. The design. The aesthetics. I want a relaxing nightspot, minus the pretentiousness.”
“And no pan flute.”
“Definitely not.”
Mid-sentence, the laptop is pulled off my lap and replaced by him. He gives me a kiss. I’m about to protest I wasn’t done with my notes, but before I can, he hands the laptop back and stands up. I continue pecking in my ideas while he moves to the fridge once again.
I lob questions at him for the next hour or so. I ask about the pool, the size of the facility (approximately), the date it’ll open (approximately), how many team members he has assigned to this project, if they’re in place. I’m so engrossed in the idea of a night spa I don’t notice him pulling on his pants and sliding his arms into his shirt at first.
“Wait, are you leaving?”
“Not leaving. If your sister has an early night, I don’t want her to find me in my skivvies.”
I swipe the screen to check the time on the laptop. “She won’t be home for a few hours. You’re good.”
He settles next to me on the sofa, takes a pull from his bourbon, and watches me. “Hours. What will we do…”
Flutters thrum to life at the sound of his voice. The deep resonance ticks off each one of my ribs and curls into a ball in my belly. Swallowing around the lump of lust in my throat, I hoarsely reply, “I have a few ideas.”
