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She shimmies her shoulders, radiating newfound confidence. “According to Sonia, I nailed it.”
“See! I told you it would get easier.”
“She and Spence helped me out last night. I got dressed up again, and we did the catwalk thing in the hallway. It was veryTop Model. Only—you know—manly.”
“Pics or it didn’t happen,” I tease.
With a grin, she pulls out her phone, thumbs dancing across the screen. A few beats later, my phone buzzes with a text from a number I don’t recognize.
“That’ll be Spence with the evidence.”
Grinning, I pull up the video her friend sent—Ellie strutting her stuff down the hallway in all her masculine glory.
“Nailed it,” I say with a wink. “Want to do a few more laps around the park, just to be certain?”
“I hoofed it here from the Lexington stop.” She drags the back of her hand across her forehead. “After hiking several long blocks with a balled-up tube sock chafing my thighs, I think I deserve some food.”
“Here, here.” This, from a random passerby, snickering as he continues across the lawn.
Ellie’s ears turn red at the tips, but she giggles, a sound as contagious as her sunshine smile. I focus on that—the music of it, the way the skin around her eyes crinkles—anything to guide my thoughts away from the dangerous territory between her thighs.
“Now that I’ve announced my freak status to Central Park,” she says, “are you going to teach me to eat like a man, or let me starve?”
Visions dance uninvited through my head—Ellie lying back against my chest, me feeding her olives, her tongue grazing my fingertips…
“God, yes,” I say. Then clear my throat. “I mean, yeah. Let’s dig in.”
We get everything opened up and spread out on the blanket, and right away Ellie goes for the cheese, taking a dainty bite from a triangle of Manchego.
“Rule number one,” I say, holding back a laugh. “No nibbling. You’re a man-beast stockbroker ready to conquer the world, not a baby rabbit.”
“Men don’t chew their food before swallowing it?” She rolls her eyes. “So I should… what? Take the whole thing in my mouth? Swallow it down like a champ?”
Oh Jesus, Ellie.
I’m trying to be good. A stand-up gentleman who can spend an afternoon with a woman and not turn every comment into some kind of innuendo.
But I’m off my game, today and every day since Ellie Seyfried came back into my life with a nose for the story and an attitude that won’t quit, no matter how many challenges she faces.
“Well?” she demands.
“Don’t overthink it.” I grab a piece of cheese and toss it back in a single gulp, doing everything in my rapidly waning power to stay on task.
Ellie gives me her judgy face again. “Did you even stop for a second to enjoy the complexity of the flavors? The salty tang, the creamy texture?”
“El. When you’re shooting the shit with a bunch of filthy-rich jocks, it’s hardly the time for cheese appreciation.”
She dusts her hands together and shrugs. “Fine. The next time I find myself in a dick-measuring contest, I’ll remember to skip the cheese. What else?”
We move on to the fruit and veggies, but no matter what I offer her, she insists on being mesmerizing, captivating, and so completely not-a-man that I’m ready to scrap the lessons, encourage her to eat her office meals locked in a bathroom stall where no one can see her, and ask her out on real date.
But then I remember the mission, and the stakes, and the fact that she’s not out here today looking for a good time. She’s out here because she’s determined to finish her story, and she’s counting on me to help her.
The sooner I get that through my thick head—bothof them—the better.
“I didn’t know what sandwiches you liked, so I got a bunch,” I say. “Whitefish, smoked turkey with cranberry relish, roast tomato with pesto…”
“I’d love to try the smoked turkey, if that’s okay?”
