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8
Heather
Mr. Blue—I guess his name was Asher—had a great smile. It made him look sexy.
“You have a great smile,” I said to him. “It makes you look sexy.”
The words kept leaving my mouth automatically. Like someone had left the gate open and all the dogs kept running loose. I knew I should have been more careful with what I said, but I just couldn’t stop myself.
Asher applied a Band-Aid to my arm. “I thought you didn’t like blonds.”
“They’re not my favorite,” I admitted. “I like my men like James Bond: tall, dark, and full of alcohol. But even though I prefer steak over chicken, my mouth still waters when I see a juicy chicken tender.”
“I’m not a fan of chicken tenders,” Asher said absently. “Too many preservatives.”
“It’s a metaphor. I’m talking aboutdicks, Mr. Blue,” I said with a laugh. The comment sounded strange in my ears. Like it had been said by someone else.
“You should stop talking,” he told me with that sexy smile. It was the kind of smile that wasn’tintendedto be sexy—it was just naturally that way. “You’ll feel normal shortly.”
“I told you: I don’t want to feel normal. I want to feelyou. Come on. Let me get a squeeze.”
He laughed and walked over to the other side of the warehouse, where Mr. Pink and Mr. Green—Brady and Rogan—were talking quietly. I watched him go and changed my mind about the camo tactical clothes they were wearing. From this angle, Asher’s ass lookedfabulousin the pants.
I opened my mouth to tell him so, but something stopped me. It was like a thin bedsheet slowly being drawn over my brain. It tightened, making it harder to justblurt outwhatever I was thinking.
“That was weird,” I muttered to myself. It was a normal comment, unlike all the things I had been saying automatically.
All the things I’ve said.
Suddenly I remembered it all. Every single word that had spilled out of my mouth. I replayed the last five minutes in my head like a bad date, agonizing over every single dumb thing I said.
By the time the guys finished talking and returned to me, my cheeks felt sunburned.
“I’ve changed my mind,” I said quietly. “You can kill me now. In fact, I would like to request it. Please put me out of my misery.”
Brady grinned widely. “Remembering all the things you said? About dicks in Maurice’s mouth, and foot fetishes?”
I didn’t trust myself to speak—my mouth was a dirty traitor!—so I only nodded.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart.”Sweethaaht. “I’m not into feet. I’m an ass man.” He punctuated it with a wink.
I might have smiled except for, you know, the crippling embarrassment that I still felt.
Rogan stood in front of me and cleared his throat. “I’d like to apologize for all this. We thought you were someone else.”
“Yeah, you thought I was Amirah Pratt,” I said. “I was there. I remember.”
“Not that,” Rogan replied. “We thought you worked for one of our competitors. Pegasus, or Heimdall Security.”
The name reminded me of Heimdall from the Thor movies, which reminded me of what I had said about Idris Elba, which made my cheeks turn a deeper shade of crimson.
“Why would I work for them?” I asked.
Rogan smirked. “You barged into our suite and pretended to be someone else. Then you revealed that you were an impostor, and insulted our security ability. You may not work for our competitors, but you certainly helped them last night.”
“It wasn’t so bad,” Brady said. “I think we can still sign Amirah Pratt.”
“Unlikely,” Asher replied.
