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Working alongside this prick would be torture…beautiful torture.
Collecting the files but leaving the newspaper open to the offending article, I cross the conference room to the door, my heels clicking loudly on the hardwood floor. I don’t look behind me, mostly because I can already feel his eyes burning into my back.
“Wait!”
My hand is on the door handle, but I don’t turn the knob.
“I’m not a wanker.”
I can hear the resignation in his tone, and I realise that this is probably the closest thing to an apology I would get from him. I turn back from the door and stare him down.
“Then can I suggest you don’t act like one?”
Kaan grits his teeth, obviously biting back a snarky comment. “Fine.”
I know not to lose my cool with a client, but there’s something about this man that gets under my skin. “We didn’t really get off on the right foot and for that I apologise.”
He glances at me warily, as if he’s not sure if I’m going to slap him. “And?”
Still arrogant though.
I take a couple of calming breaths, force a smile on my face and continue, “And… I’m really looking forward to working with you. If you give me a chance, you’ll see that I’m great at what I do, and I’ll work my butt off for you.”
We stare at each other in silence until he says, “Being a wanker…it’s all part of my image. I’m thepanty-ripping, bad-boy rock-star. Women eat up that shit.”
I’m suddenly hyperaware of the inflexion in his tone as he growls the wordpantyat me. I take a step backward, away from the heat that is radiating toward me. “I’m really not interested in what you think women want toeat up.”
“Oh baby, I know you’ve dreamed of eating me—” He steps towards me, closing the gap between us, his gaze dropping to my breasts for the briefest of moments. A smile curls up the corners of his lips and his eyes find mine, challenging me to argue with him.
I hold my gaze steady.
“—or maybe not.”
One of the things I’ve learned since working at Brazen is that if you’re famous, you live by a different set of rules. You do what you want. You say what you want. And you need your ego stroked constantly to bolster the insecurities that you feel about yourself and your life. Right now, Pretty Boy needs his ego stroked. I try to keep my voice even as I reply, “You know, a panty-ripping, rock star who knits is sexy.”
I expect another sneer, but instead his curled-up lips widen into a full smile which throws me completely. “Doesn’t sound like any rock star I know.”
“You could start a campaign. Maybe knit sweaters for those penguins that were covered in oil. Greenpeace might make you an ambassador.”
“You really are a bit of a nut, aren’t you?”
“I just try to think outside the box for my clients.” I tap on his file and point to the chairs that we had both recently vacated. “Now can we get back to business?”
He follows me back to the table and flops down in resignation, searing me again with those hypnotic eyes of his. Damn, he’s really got the angry smoulder down, I’ll give him that.
He drags a hand through his thick mess of hair and exhales. “What were we even talking about anyway, Nutmeg?”
Progress. I’ll take it.
I breathe a sigh of relief and try to ignore the hot lava that burns through my body as I gaze at him. “You were out with the boys.”
“Right.” He snorts at the memory. “It was just a brawl; fucking floor man called the coppers.”
“And rehab?” My eyes lock on his mouth as he talks. As a teenager, I had had many a masturbatory fantasy of how Kaan’s lips might feel on mine. They’re moving now but I’m so distracted I can’t hear his words until he starts waving his hand in front of my face.
“Earth to Nutmeg, are you there?”
I shake my head slightly to refocus. “Sorry? Could you repeat that?”
