Ok.
I look good today. Chic, fashionable, yet smart, in a white, fitted wrap skirt, black silk blouse, and white, lightweight blazer. I’ve left my hair down so it falls in long, voluminous waves, something I rarely do during the week. And while my metaphorical big girl panties are on, my ass is delicately wrapped in La Perla.
I suggest Sage, a modern American restaurant in Midtown that I frequent often. It’s my go-to spot for client lunches, and since Ransom is a client, and nothing more, it makes sense to meet him here. Plus, the owner is privy to my high-profile clientele and the staff always knows to seat me in a private area. However, Ransom texts me twenty minutes before our meeting to tell me to meet him in Tribeca at a modern French bistro called La Charcuterie. I huff out my frustration at the plan’s deviation, although I’m inwardly grinning. I had heard great things about that place, yet my schedule permits little time for social lunching. And Tucker usually likes to frequent the same five restaurants on date nights.
By the time the driver pulls up to the curb in front of the bistro, my cool, confident demeanor is simply an afterthought, and I’m left standing on the sidewalk, trying to remember how to put one stiletto in front of the other.
The place is crowded, seeing as it is a popular hotspot, but the host leads me to a semi-private area that’s occupied by mostly high-powered business types, trust fund babies, and homebred celebs. From what I can see, there are no windows in this section, blocking out the intrusive flash of paparazzi photogs, and I’m certain there’s a separate entrance. No wonder Ransom chose this place.
The moment I spot him, sitting at a table dressed for two, my heart hiccups into my throat. His roguish beauty is still alarming to me, those dark eyes and sharp features making him appear cunning and slightly villainous. He wears a pair of faded black jeans, a heather gray V-neck tee, and his hair is in a messy coif that leaves a few locks to fall over his forehead. It seems pedestrian, however, I can bet that every stitch of clothing that falls on that luscious body was created especially for him. I wouldn’t even be surprised if the antique wash of his jeans was deliberate.
He doesn’t see me right away, since his head is down, and I can’t tell if he’s on his phone or counting the threads in the white linen tablecloth. But he must sense my approach, because without cause, he lifts his head and his eyes immediately find me.
My step falters for just a half second and I pray he doesn’t notice. His gaze sweeps over me like a gust of Santa Ana wind—hot, dry, and remarkably strong, so much so that I heat from the inside out. The back of my neck feels clammy and I can feel sweat beading on the bridge of my nose. A smile as slow and lazy as a house cat creeps onto his face as if he can smell my perspiration from feet away.
“Mr. Reed,” I say in greeting, standing opposite from where he sits. He doesn’t stand. He’s no gentleman. Tucker would have been on his feet the moment he set eyes on me.
“Mr. Reed?” He raises a brow, yet his grin is still fixed on his face. He’s baiting me; he knows I’m thinking about all the reasons why we should be on a first name basis.
“Yes, thank you for meeting me.” I should reach over and shake his hand, but I can only manage one movement at a time. So I sit down, entering his space. Sharing his air. And Ransom seems positively delighted at that prospect.
“So you received the contracts. I’m glad.” His tone is polite, although I get the feeling he’s hinting at something devious. I go for the untouched glass of ice water that sits on my side of the table and wet my suddenly parched mouth. Ransom follows my every move with a gaze so smoldering, you would think I was skating an ice cube along the column of my throat instead. It’s unnerving.
“I did. Just one question though: Why?”
He narrows his eyes as though he doesn’t follow so I continue. “Why do you want me as your publicist?”
The thought that Ransom could have agreed to work with me as a thank you for our night together, or in hopes that there’d be an encore performance, definitely crossed my mind. I had assumed he was done with me, seeing as he barely said a thing after we were done and couldn’t get me—us—out of his sight fast enough. Yet, here he is, signing up to be in my presence on a much more frequent basis.
Ransom takes a moment to contemplate my question as he reaches over to retrieve his own water, yet he doesn’t bring it to his lips. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Yes, of course, but . . .”
“That is why you came to meet me Friday night, correct?”
I nod vehemently. “Of course.”
“You wanted me, so here I am,” he replies matter-of-factly with a blasé wave of his hand.
I’m stunned speechless as the waiter takes that exact moment to ask us if we’d like to order drinks. Ransom orders a beer for himself. When I don’t answer right away, he tells him to bring a bottle of champagne.
“I’m working,” I manage to stammer. “I can’t drink in the middle of the day.”
“You’ll have one glass,” he retorts. He’s not asking me. He’s not even telling me. He’s stating a fact. This smug bastard actually thinks he knows me.
I cross my arms in front of my chest, preparing to tell him just how misguided he is, when he gives me a shrug and a smile meant to completely disarm me. To my chagrin, it’s working. “I’ve seen you drink much more and still have total control of your body . . . your mind. One glass won’t leave you defenseless and at my mercy. Unless you want to be, Heidi.”
I flinch at the sound of my name sliding over his skilled tongue, embedding itself into the warm womb of his mouth. When the waiter returns moments later with our drinks, I’m more than thankful for the sparkling liquid courage, downing my first glassful within seconds.
Ransom refills, watching me watching him. When he nestles the bottle back into the ice bucket, I finally allow myself to breathe again. Maybe speaking won’t be so bad either.
“I have some ideas on what we can do to launch your career and really promote the tour and the new album.”
“New album?” he asks, a jolt of surprise in his voice. “Who said anything about a new album?”
I furrow my brows in confusion. “Caleb. He said you wanted to record again. Said that you were excited about a song that you needed to get out. I just assumed . . .”
Ransom nods, but doesn’t confirm or deny the rumor, and I don’t push him to. With these creative types, you have to let them do things in their own time, in their own way. They don’t respond to pressure unless it’s self-inflicted.
With the break in conversation, the waiter comes to take our order. Even though the aromas wafting from the kitchen are downright heavenly, I hadn’t even thought about food, let alone picked up my menu. I quickly flip it open and request a spinach salad, settling on practicality over desire. Ransom asks for some type of gourmet burger with a side of truffle French fries that’ll probably cost more than what most people in this city pay for groceries for a week.
We discuss the Euro tour that’s coming up in the fall. He tells me his plans for the summer and asks if I’ll be like the rest of the urban zombies and escape to the Hamptons. I blush with embarrassment; that was exactly what we had planned to do, at least for Memorial Day weekend and the Fourth. I’m not sure why it embarrasses me or why I feel the need to seem much more cool and blasé than I really am.
We sip. We talk. We laugh when necessary. Ransom is . . . not what I expected. He’s young—nearly eight years my junior—but he’s lived more than most. He released his first album while still in high school. He’s traveled the world. And I’m not naïve enough to ignore the fact that only a man with a lot of experience fucks the way he does.