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“You’re a terrible liar,” I say. “And a terrible person. Anyway, screw that. I’ve never been to New York before, and I want to do some sightseeing. You can book me a room here and then give me the day off. I’ll consider it the extra favor that I told you about.”
“Well, sure, I guess,” he says. “You did save my ass, so that’s the least I can do.”
He opens the door wider to let me in—no other girl here, for sure, unless she’s hiding in the wardrobe. Brock sits down on the couch and motions for me to join him. Then he picks up the room phone and books me into the room next door.
“Next door?” I ask playfully after the call. “But we’re engaged to be married. Remember, sweetheart? Don’t be such a prude.”
“I’m a decent, traditional man,” he says. “That would be utterly scandalous. My goodness, what would my mother say?”
I place my hand on his chest. “She seemed to like me. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”
For a moment, we look into each other’s eyes, silent, and what started as a joke is threatening to get out of control. His chest is warm under my fingers, and I fight the urge to run my hand down to feel the hard ridges of his muscles. I can almost feel his heartbeat if I only press harder . . .
No. I can’t.
Breaking eye contact, I lean back away from him. Brock lets out a cough then silence expands to fill the room. The swanky hotel room where we’re alone, where a plush bed sits just two feet away, staring at us.
Well, this is kind of intense.
Brock shuffles on the spot uncomfortably, looking like he wants to say something but isn’t sure what.
I clear my throat and get up, picking up my bags. “I’m, uh, going to take a shower, have a nap, and head out to see the sights,” I tell him. “Good luck with the meeting or deal or whatever it is you’re doing today.”
“Thanks,” he says, his gaze tracking me every step of the way as I leave the room.
There’s something in his eyes, some expression that I can’t quite put my finger on. Longing, almost. Need. Desire. Whatever it is, it’s dangerous, and I can’t walk down this path with my boss. My life is already complicated enough without any extra shenanigans to deal with.
“Oh, Nina,” he calls out as I’m pulling the door open. “Can you try to be back here around 7-ish? We’re going out for dinner after this deal is done to celebrate. You want to come along?”
“Sounds good,” I say over my shoulder. “I’ll be here.”
I didn’t pack anything to wear to a fancy dinner. But hey, I’m in New York, and I’ve got the whole day to shop.
I spend the day sightseeing, shopping, eating pizza, and generally having a whale of a time.
Denver is a big city, but nothing compares to New York. Manhattan with its dizzying array of skyscrapers is overwhelming. The crowds, sights and smells are all just as I imagined them to be.
I duck into a little boutique at one point and pick out a sexy, little, blue, chiffon dress. It’s expensive as hell, but it’s so pretty. Besides, I’m getting double overtime, right? I’m worth it.
By the time the evening comes, my legs are tired, but I’m happy. I got the chance to play tourist, I got some nice new clothes, and I’m going out for a swanky dinner with a handsome guy. Sure, he’s my boss, which makes him off limits, but I guess you can’t win ‘em all.
Brock knocks on my door around eight, looking devastatingly gorgeous in his tux, a big grin on his face.
“I take it the deal went well?” I ask.
“We got it signed,” he says. “And it’s all thanks to you. Well, not really, but it wouldn’t have happened without that document.”
“Good enough for me,” I say, smiling. His mood is contagious.
He pauses for a moment, his eyes roaming over me, making me shiver a little under his attention. He meets my gaze. “Sorry. You look . . . amazing.”
“Thank you.” Heat creeps up my cheeks.
“You seriously look amazing,” Brock repeats, appreciation in his eyes. “Wow. I’m so glad I took up roller derby, or I never would have met you.”
We laugh together. This feels like the start of a fun night with Not Work Brock.
He offers me his arm, and I take it, curling my fingers around his muscular biceps. We swap stories about our day as we walk together downstairs and hail a cab to the restaurant.
It’s called La Maison, and it’s a swanky French place with actual French waiters. I guess that’s how you know it’s legit.
“Monsieur, madame, please come this way,” our server says with a thick accent. “And, if I may say, madame looks very beautiful this evening. Monsieur is a lucky man.”
