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She flipped through the pages as she walked, making sure one last time that everything looked in order. If Hartley found one comma out of place, she’d rake her across the coals. The last thing Nita wanted was to look bad in front of a new contractor.
“All righty,” she said, walking into the big board room. “Here’s the contra—”
Her steps and words choked to a halt as she looked across the table.
There, in a fucking three-piece suit, his beard trimmed down to something that barely covered his chin, stood Mitchell the Biker Guy.
And he was grinning like he’d just won the lottery.
7
Ryder had been at the Cavendish estate before, during a mock engagement to determine the danger level for the women after a rash of vandalism. It had turned out to be a lot of effort for nothing, since there wasn’t even a hint of sabotage to be found.
But from the rundown of who was in charge of what, he assumed he’d be meeting with Claire today. She ran HR and the legal side of things, and he assumed she’d be the one presenting him his contract, not her assistant.
He’d never been so happy to be so wrong.
And judging from the way the woman’s jaw dropped, he was the last thing she expected, too.
“Ryder Crawley,” he said, stroking his shortened beard before rising and holding out his hand.
She stared blankly at him, then fiddled with the small bow at the neckline of her dress as she stared at his hand. He couldn’t stop following the curves the dress outlined, a tight dark blue with small polka dots. The bow looked demure, but it drew attention to the flash of pale skin below it, the dress lovingly hugging the curves of her breasts.
“Right,” she drawled after she snapped her mouth closed. “For some reason you look like a Mitchell.”
He grinned.
“I get that a lot,” he replied.
“Mitchell?” Hartley asked, looking at each of them.
“It’s my middle name,” he said, more to the woman than Hartley.
“I’m Nita,” she said, finally shaking his hand. He would have waited with his hand out all morning if he had to.
Her handshake was firm and brief, flicking his hand away when she was done. She wore a snug, pale pink dress that hugged her round breasts and hips. It accentuated her tiny waist, reminding him of how it had felt to lift her onto his bike.
“Is Nita just Nita, or is it short for something?” he asked, not caring that it was a question he never asked his clients. Usually it was how much, how long, and how many of his men would he need to bring along.
“It’s just Nita, isn’t it?” Hartley questioned in an impatient tone. “Let’s sit.”
Hartley waved at the two of them, but he continued to stare at Nita as she reluctantly pulled out a chair. He did the same, matching the speed of his motions to hers.
“It’s actually short for Juanita,” she said, again, reluctantly. “Do I really need to be here for this?”
Hartley looked at her like she was an idiot.
“Yes, since Claire’s not here to go over it,” Hartley replied, gesturing at the paperwork.
“Juanita,” he murmured, ignoring Hartley and focusing on Nita. “Sounds Spanish.”
Her eye makeup still had that retro hint, but the swoops on her top lids were dialed down from last night.
Business casual eyeliner instead of looking to get laid eyeliner,he thought.
“Hm,” Nita replied, ignoring him and pulling out her phone. “I’ll take notes digitally.”
“That’s fine,” Hartley replied, sliding her copy of the agreement closer. “Let’s go over this, and you can let me know if we’re asking anything of you that you can’t provide.”
