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“I remember you had on glasses the first time I met you. A year or so ago,” I say.
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I probably came from the office. To dinner.”
“These are real?”
She nods. “The ones I wore the other night weren’t,” she says. I figured as much. She took off those glasses at my home and didn’t seem to need them.
I hold her gaze as Midtown traffic chugs by and New Yorkers in suits and sweats march past us, phones glued to ears, destinations and deadlines in their eyes, and I know neither of us is talking about eyewear. We’re talking about each other. The things we notice. The details we’re cataloging.
She nods toward my green tie. “And you’re wearing a tie.” It’s more than an observation. It meansI like the way you look in a suit.
I should be talking about the meeting we just had. I really should. But I only want to ask her questions. Why do you put up barriers? What’s behind those soulful eyes? Whose secrets are you keeping?
I canfeelher reserve. She holds back in public. But in private, when I touch her, she’s almost a different person.
No, that’s not quite right. In bed, she seems free. A let-loose version of herself. She’s the sexy librarian, taking off her glasses and letting down her hair.
For me.
Mmm. I’d like to play that scene next time with Jules. I get a little lost in the image of her in a pencil skirt, with pouty red lips, tugging a book down from a shelf as she gives me a seductive, come-hither look. I’d return all my books late to get a library fine from this woman.
“What is it?” she asks, breaking my dirty daydream.
Oh, I was just imagining the start of a filthy scenario with you.
And fuck it. “You look like a librarian,” I say, my gaze raking over her. I mean, that skirt. That tight fucking skirt.
She laughs softly but with something like relief. Maybe she was restrained during that whole meal—understandable—and now she doesn’t entirely have to be.
But I shouldn’t get caught up in her. I’m drawn to her and that’s dangerous. This isn’t how I like to do life. I like to be in control in the bedroom and in the boardroom.
Too bad I like that blush on her cheeks. I crave her Summer Day scent too. It drifts teasingly toward me. I steal an inhale, and my head swims with longing.
Must. Focus.
“I didn’t know you were eager to work on the show. We never talked about work,” I say, both an excuse and a wry observation about our time together.
The corner of her lips curves up for a fraction of a second. “I guess we had other things going on.”
I’ve got to stay in control now that we’ll be working together closely. “I knew you worked at Opening Number because your father had mentioned it,” I say, hating the twist in my gut at those words—your father. I should not have to mention the father of a woman I want. “But of course neither of us knew you’d be moving to a Streamer show.”
With wide eyes, she says, “I can ask them to move me to a different one.”
Are you fucking kidding me? It was crystal clear at lunch thatThe Rendezvousis a huge opportunity for her. Clear, too, she’s eager to take it on.
“It would be easier,” she says, offering kindly, like she wants to help me.
“No,” I say, brooking no argument. “You tried to protect me before by avoiding me at that second party. You’re not going to do it again.”
She nibbles on the corner of her lips, perhaps liking my stern tone too much. “Maybe I’m protective,” she says, a little feathery, like she was at The Scene, like she was at my home.
Like sheiswith me.
I step closer, drawn to her, needing just another hit of her perfume. One inhale and I’ll get through the rest of the day, I swear. “Do you want to switch?”
She’s quiet, but there’s reluctance in her brown eyes. It’s enough to make my chest ache. I want her dreams to come true. “Don’t, Jules,” I say before she can answer, my voice low but firm. “Don’t switch. You need to work on the show. I can tell you want to, and the show needs you.”
She huffs but shakes her head, a little amused. “Stop reading my thoughts,” she says softly. Despite the situation, I manage a small smile at her response.
