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“Oh.” I blush. “Sorry for being suspicious.”
He shrugs. “Nothing to apologize for. The fact that you asked tells me you’re smart. Observant. You’re the kind of girl who asks the right questions, not the wrong ones.”
My blush deepens, and I try to hide it with a laugh. “You can tell all that about me from one interaction?”
His eyes glint mischievously. “Are you saying I’m wrong?”
My mouth opens, then closes, and opens again, but before I can say anything, the light flickers, buzzes, and then goes out entirely. I yelp in surprise, and then clap my hands over my mouth. The man swears in the dark.
“Damn it, Tim,” he curses. “How many times have I told you to replace this goddamn bulb? Are you alright?”
“Yes!” I chirp. “I’m fine. Just a bit startled.”
“Follow the sound of my voice,” he says. “I want to keep you close by so you don’t hurt yourself. What’s your name by the way?”
I mumble. “Rachel. Rachel Marsh.”
Oh god, this seems bad. The office doesn’t have any windows, so it’s literally pitch black in here. I try to feel around a bit as I stand, but it’s hopeless. My hip bumps against the corner of the desk, and a shaft of pain makes me wince. Then, a large, warm hand grabs my wrist and pulls me close. The hand’s like an anchor, but at the same time, the strap of my robe slips the slightest bit, and I grab at the fabric to keep it closed.
“Hold onto me,” Damon says, lowering my palm to his waist. “I need both my hands free, but I don’t want you getting hurt while try to find a lightbulb or a flashlight on one of these shelves.”
After a moment of groping around, my hands drop to his waist and then I skim over something huge and bulging. Immediately, I pull my palms back like I was just burned. “Sorry,” I gasp. “Didn’t mean to touch you there!”
He merely chuckles.
“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart,” he says. “It’s dark. I get it.”
My heart pounds in my chest. The firmness I felt could only have been one thing, and although I only skimmed it for a second, it was hard and huge. OMG OMG. What do I do? Meanwhile, Damon’s moving about while randomly feeling around. Then he curses.
“No dice?” I ask.
“Nope. Looks like we’re going to have to continue this in my office.”
I try to stifle a giggle with my hand, but I can’t do it.
“What’s got you all giggly?” the gorgeous man asks.
“This whole situation is so silly. I feel like a kid again holding onto the teacher’s skirt at recess.”
“Oh yeah?” he asks while tugging at a lock of my hair. “Does this bring back memories?”
Except this isn’t a playful tug on the playground. The sharp sting in my scalp makes me moan slightly, and I can feel myself responding to his touch. “Actually, yes it does,” I say throatily. “Very nice memories, indeed.”
4
Damon
* * *
I lead Rachel through the darkened hallway to my office. It seems a fuse blew, so there isn’t much light in the rear area of the club, but we can still hear the front room of the Krazy Kat pounding away. At least the patrons are happy because right now, I have my hands full.
Finally, we reach my office, and I push open the door. The light is better here, although still dim. Rachel looks around, taking in the small space.
“Hmm,” she says. “Very nice.”
I arc a brow. “Just standard office furniture from Costco. Nothing special.”
She giggles.
“Yeah, but I like this bobblehead,” she says, lightly pushing down on the head of a plastic dog. “It’s cute.”
I grin a bit. I don’t usually keep knickknacks around, but the dog was a recent birthday gift from my niece Ginny, and I kind of like it. I’m glad Rachel has a sense of humor, even in these literally dark times.
“Come on, sweetheart,” I say, seating myself at my desk. “I have your check for you. Do you want to take a seat?”
The buxom brunette hesitates before shaking her head and pushing her hair behind one ear. “I don’t mind standing. Besides, I don’t want to get your chair wet.”
My eyebrow twitches at the mention of her being wet, but I keep the rest of my face neutral. “Fair enough,” I say with a quirk of my lips. “But honey, you have a robe on. I’m sure you’re fine.”
She giggles but then pats her hair.
“Yeah, but these curls are still drenched,” she says. “I’ll just stand here for a moment.”
I nod and begin to write the check, but I watch discreetly as Rachel roams around my office. The pretty girl looks at the books I have on my shelves, which are mostly professional publications. She looks at the framed posters of rock bands and action movies that I’ve put up on my wall. What does she think of my things? What kinds of entertainment does she like? Is she the kind of woman who always picks romantic comedies or dramas? Maybe she wouldn’t mind something with more action. After all, she was a contestant in a wet t-shirt contest, and that takes guts.
