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“Oh,” I repeat, this time with less hesitation. I keep my eyes completely averted from his gaze. “So…”
“Do you have a question?” he asks after a long awkward moment.
“There won’t be any…kneeling in this job?”
A hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “No kneeling. Mostly paperwork.”
I clear my throat, still keeping my eyes on the walls, the rink, the skaters…literally anywhere but at the handsome and intimidating man on the other side of this table.
He crosses his arms, furrowing his brow. “Is there something else you want to ask me, Charlotte?”
The way he says my name sends tingles up my spine. It’s the only reason I don’t correct him. No one calls me Charlotte. It’s Charlie and has always been Charlie since I was about eight years old.
It’s the only reason I finally draw my eyes toward him, letting our gazes meet. He’s so handsome, it’s almost hard to look at him, but he doesn’t shy away from the contact. In fact, he almost seems to stare at me longer than is generally accepted.
“Did you think I was a…prostitute?” I ask, hovering over the table and whispering the last word, as if anyone could hear anything while “Groove is in the Heart” blares over a strobe lit rink.
He leans forward to match my position, his watch clanging against the linoleum table. “No. I didn’t think you were a prostitute.”
We simply stare at each other for a moment, both of us hunching over the booth and our faces so close, it probably looks like we’re either sharing dirty secrets or about to kiss.
“Are you going to expand on that or make me use my imagination?” I ask when he doesn’t give me any more information.
There’s a hint of mischief in his eyes as he licks his lower lip and leans away from me. “I think I want you to use your imagination. What exactly are you imagining?” That sounded flirtatious, but I don’t call him out on it. Instead, I answer his question.
Except, I have no clue what I’m imagining, and I’m not sure how dirty I feel comfortable getting. This feels way too intimate. To counteract the sudden tension between us, I force myself to sound as casual as possible. I could tell him that I’ve already researched everything about his company, but I sort of want to make him explain it to me as if I know nothing.
“Well…do you have a lot of random women just show up in your office ready for you to bark orders at them and get on their knees for you?”
“Sometimes,” he replies confidently, as if that wasn’t the craziest thing he’s ever confessed to.Seriously, who is this guy?
My mouth goes dry.
“And you pay them…”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, I hate to break it to you, but that sounds a lot like prostitution.”
“Prostitution involves sex, Ms. Underwood. I don’t have sex with women for money.”
My eyes widen. He said sex—twice—and it stirs up a mixture of arousal and unease in my belly. I clench my thighs together.
“Well, then what exactly do you do with them?” I ask.
“That sounds like a personal question.” He’s toying with me again. “I told you to use your imagination, so go ahead then. If I’m not having sex with them, what do you think I hire them to do?”
I have no earthly idea. I didn’t really get that far into the website. So I gnaw on my bottom lip as I run through what I know so far.
“You can’t possibly just pay women to kneel in your office for you.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s ridiculous. What’s the point?”
“The point is I like it, and they are willing to do it.”
I’m speechless. This can’t be real. The confusion on my face morphs into a smile that pulls on my cheeks. This should really be humiliating for him, but he’s not embarrassed at all. And it really has me wondering something very wicked. “So…”
