by Snow, Nicole
Let’s face the facts.
Anything she does is an inquisition for my cock.
A rhinestone chain dangles over her shoulder, and at the bottom of the picture, her hand clasps the train...with a subtle, but not too subtle middle finger clearly sticking out.
Damn her.
I know she’ll be my personal apocalypse, and that dress may have been a bad decision. I’ve set myself up for a dagger to the face.
It piques my interest, though, and I can’t help but wonder what’s hiding under all the soaring scoops and sharp cuts.
“Get your mind out of the gutter,” I snarl to myself. “You’re not him. Not your sleazy father. You go down that road, you tango with fire, and there’ll be nothing left but ashes and ruin.”
* * *
I rarely speak at conferences.
I’ll do it occasionally, sure, because it boosts credibility, it’s good PR, et cetera, et cetera.
Doesn’t mean I like it.
Normally at these events, I try to just listen to overconfident blowhards spouting their success stories. I take good notes—or rather, have them taken for me.
And then I do the opposite.
Their strategy, with few exceptions, sucks.
It’s an exercise in what not to do. Still, I like being up on all the approaches being marketed to marketers right now, so I can give my clients every single reason why they don’t work.
Adzilla is about finding weaknesses in my competitors and splitting them open like lobsters.
Usually.
This year, it’s not as cut and dry.
All because I can’t take my eyes off Sabrina Bristol.
Her black slacks could be painted on and the spaghetti strap blouse shows too much skin. Her ass is as tight and round as a plum, and in those pants, it’s impossible not to notice. The silk fringe around the low-cut neckline of her shirt dances under the air vent, tempting fate.
I want to yank that shirt down and find out if the hand-sized melons underneath are as perfect as they seem.
But part of me also wants to take my blazer off and button it around her. Because you can bet if I’m looking, every other male executive is, too, and men like this crowd are used to taking what they want.
Fucking Phoenix and its warm weather. It’s still in the seventies here.
The layers and sleeves she normally wears to the office are easier to ignore, but at least I’m not chilled to the bone here.
She pokes me in the side, a movement so unexpected I almost jump.
“What?” I roll my eyes and shift so I can whisper only to her.
“I just wondered if you needed a pad or pen,” she says.
“A pad?”
“He said to take out a pen and paper or your laptop,” she whispers. “Since everybody else is busy scribbling away or pounding on keys, I thought you might need help?”
I give her a smile. “I could recite this bullshit in my sleep.”
She’s right beside me. How has she not noticed me staring? Or has she?
Focus on the session and you won’t have to worry, idiot, I tell myself.
If only these speakers weren’t so goddamn boring.
Somehow, I manage.
“What’s the plan?” Sabrina asks after the session ends.
“We should probably get dinner, then go back to the hotel to clean up for the formal tonight,” I say.
“Oh, no.” She wrinkles her nose. “Fancy food again?”
I fight back a laugh. “You could call it that.”
Her head tilts back and her chin is in the air.
“So, finger foods. Right. I’m going for tacos soon so I don’t starve.”
At this point, I lose the battle and my laughter escapes. “Are you riding with the rest of the crew or with me?” I hope she says she’s coming with me. “If you want to come along, we’ll stop at Taco Colita.”
“Taco Colita?” She blinks.
“One of the finest taco joints Phoenix has to offer. It’s savory and spicy and delicious. Nothing fancy, just flavor that’ll knock you on your ass. I promise.” I do, and my mouth starts watering.
“How spicy?” I love the little wrinkle of concern on her face that kindles into a smile fit for the Valley of the Sun. “Never mind, sold. I like a surprise and I’m not the type who runs from a little heat. This is my first time here, so show me what’s good.”
I nod, this drumming beat behind my ribs.
She’s so different from any girl I’ve ever dated—curious, grateful, ready to soak in life without expecting everything to be handed to her.
Hit the brakes.
I’m not dating her. She’s my employee.
“I’ll crash first for a little bit if you don’t mind,” she says with a yawn.
“You’re not crashing. I just invited you to taco nirvana. You’ll thank me later. You don’t want to be groggy from a nap at the event tonight,” I tell her.
She smiles, thinking, and bites her bottom lip.
“Okay, Heron, you’re on.”
* * *
After a quick pre-dinner at Taco Colita—which she loves as much as I knew she would—Armstrong drives us to the hotel in the rental car. I watch Sabrina slide out of the car, the Arizona sun turning her hair into spun brown sugar.
When I make no effort to move, she leans back into the open door with a wrinkle in her forehead.
“Go on,” I tell her. “I have errands to run before tonight. I’ll meet you there.”
“Okay, see ya.” She bumps the door shut with her hip and walks away.
“Did you—” I start.
“No worries.” Armstrong lays his hand on the passenger seat and twists to face me. “It’s done, boss.”
I nod. “What did you get him?”
“Several fine tip pens—the really expensive ones you told me about, a calligraphy set, and half a dozen leather-bound journals,” he says.
“You didn’t say it was from me, did you?” I’m still watching Sabrina push through the doors into the hotel.
“Nah.” He shakes his head. “I said he won the Young Scribes contest and this was the grand prize.”
“You couldn’t come up with something better? The literary event was awhile ago and I already hired editors for the kids.”
“Hey, you’re lucky I came up with that much. This ought to be a Bristol job,” he says glumly. “I think she’d be better equipped to handle it than your driver.”
I shake my head.
“Wrong. She doesn’t need to know—”
“Boss, relax. I’m joking, man. Will you calm down?”
I blow out a long hot breath between my teeth. “You’re right.”
“That’s a first!” Armstrong chuckles, his eyes snapping to me in the mirror. “You okay back there?”
I ignore the quip, not wanting to analyze it any deeper than necessary.
“I just wish I could do more for him.” I lean back into the leather seat, rubbing at my neck.
Armstrong’s face grows serious and his eyes flick away.
“You’re serious? With all due respect, sir—”
It’s my turn to cut him off now. “This isn’t the military. You don’t have to address me like I’m some kind of commander.”
“You kind of are,” he says quietly.
Obviously, he’s right.
I discipline this whole machine. I am the company. I’ve made myself its beating heart.
Sadly, right now, I don’t feel like I’m in control of anything.
“Go ahead,” I urge him, tapping my fingers against my thigh impatiently. “Tell me what you’re getting at.”
“You’re Magnus Heron. You could probably do anything you want for this kid.”
I shake my head. “I promised Marissa I wouldn’t spoil him. Those are the ground rules. We made an agreement.”
Armstrong shrugs. “You’re pretty good at sending anonymous gifts. So come up with another fake contest and send whatever you want.”
&
nbsp; “Nah. I don’t want to go behind her back,” I remind him, a chill in my tone.
He nods, picking up on my boundaries like always.
“Well, the young man’s getting a private education. A good one. I don’t think he’s lacking in anything. You’ve done him right,” Armstrong says, his trademark warmth in his voice.
I wish I believed him.
I wish to hell anything in my power could ever “do him right” after what happened.
Maybe I’ll set up a college fund. I’m sure Marissa will allow it. What mother wouldn’t want to save her only son from the menace of student loans?
“You’re off for the rest of the night,” I say.
“I am?” He looks at me in the rearview mirror again.
“Don’t get used to it. Tonight’s the formal and we’ll all be busy. I’ll rent a stretch so the whole team can go together with another driver. Enjoy Phoenix, Armstrong.”
“Aw, sweet. Thanks, Mr. Heron!” he belts out. “You’re a nice guy. I think it’s good for you to get away from Chicago.”
I glare at him. “You know better than to call me nice.”
* * *
A couple hours later, most of the team is gathered in the hotel foyer, ready to leave.
I’m decked out in a full suit, bow tie, the works. All the tailor-fit sartorial armor any knight with a tie needs to ride into battle.
The limo driver comes to the door.
“Transport is here for the Heron party,” he says.
Dave the Sales Director looks at me. “I think we’re good to go, boss.”
“Not yet. We’re waiting on Miss Bristol,” I say, watching the elevator for her arrival.
“Angie hasn’t come down yet either,” Hugo says, wearing a sweater vest that makes him look like a professor.
“Angie?” I repeat.
“Angelica Raynette,” Ruby says. “My lead designer?”
Shit. I should know my employees’ names.
“I thought Hugo was the lead,” I whisper.
“Hugo’s your creative director, Mag. Angie’s the lead on his team. Don’t worry. We’re used to you not knowing the names of the people who work for you,” Ruby says with a flippant hand wave.
Her eyes stay on mine.
“Why are you still staring?” I snap.
“No reason.” But her tone says there’s definitely a reason, even if I can’t pull it out of her.
Hugo points to the staircase. “There they are!”
Sabrina looks like a sugarplum fairy coming down the stairs. The dress hugs her body like a Siren and it sparkles in the low evening light. I wonder if she skipped the elevator on purpose to make a grander entrance.
Goddamn.
It works.
She looks so delectable my appetite surges back from taco time, but it’s nothing that can be quenched with unpronounceable, fancy snacks.
“You’re late,” I say.
She bites her bottom lip. “Sorry. Angie had to help me with my hair.”
My gaze follows the dip in her neckline. I hadn’t noticed her hair yet.
It’s carefully braided, and those braids are twisted into a neat bun with two tendrils hanging down in front of her face. How did I not notice?
It’s only after her statement when I see another woman behind her. Angie—I recognize her now from meetings—and make a note of her name.
“You guys go ahead,” I tell the others.
I walk out beside Sabrina, and when we get into the stretch, I make sure I’m beside her.
“Your tardiness was worth it. I like your hair,” I say, kicking my own dumb ass for being tongue-tied.
Right. I mean, I do like her hair.
Even though it’s the first thing out of my mouth, it’s the last thing on my mind.
She smiles wide. There’s a small dimple in her cheek I don’t think I’ve noticed before. Unfortunately, now that I’ve seen it, my dick won’t relax the rest of the night.
I swallow a bearish growl.
It’s a festive mood in the limo. Everyone’s laughing and Dave pops a complimentary champagne bottle, whetting their appetites for booze before we’re even at the formal’s bar.
Miss Bristol laughs herself red, making conversation with the others, so she probably doesn’t notice how I can’t extract my eyes from her.
It’s not fair.
I already know she’ll be the gorgeous center of the ballroom, a star wrapped in sugarplum no red-blooded man could ignore if he tried. Yet the thought of a single asshole ad exec thinking they should try their luck with her makes me want to punch something.
I’m wondering if I can squirrel her away somewhere until the party ends, without raising eyebrows, when I catch Ruby. Alert as ever, watching me, a warning in her eyes.
Shit.
Believe me, I know.
I shouldn’t be losing it, let alone in front of a friend who’s always had my back.
Even though it feels like ripping a bandage off a wound, I inch away from her so our thighs aren’t touching. So I can think without her heat, her scent, her sight burning me alive.
I strike up a conversation with Ruby about her genealogy hobby. She’s taken one of those mail-in DNA tests, and since she was adopted, it’s been one surprise after the next tracing her family tree.
I lend her a tight smile, wishing I could ever share her amusement.
When your family’s as marvelously fucked up as mine, the only shockers are bad ones.
Before I know it, we’re pulling up to the front entrance at the glitzy resort in Scottsdale hosting our event.
The ballroom looks like an old-world palace. Not the sleek, modern conference room it resembled earlier in the day. A wide crystal chandelier hangs in the middle of the room. The tabletops are draped with cloths in pale blues and shimmering silvers.
There’s a dance floor to go with the open bar, encouraging corporate debauchery.
Nobody ever said marketers don’t know how to party—and scar themselves for life with their own stupidity.
Once we find a table, the rest of my team scatters. They’re off to find drinks, mingle, what-have-you, but my assistant is MIA.
I go outside and find her in the darkened hall, wringing her hands.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, stepping up beside her.
Sabrina doesn’t look up, but she lets out a long sigh. “Do you need me here tonight? Like really need me? I took good notes during all the sessions.”
“Of course you did. Your work is always exceptional.”
I have no idea where this is going.
She bites her lip again and finally meets my eyes. “Unless you’re closing some kind of deal or pitching someone, you don’t really need me here...do you?”
Here’s a first.
I’ve had employees call in sick when I didn’t approve their time off. I’ve had assistants upset that I didn’t bring them to conferences because there was too much to do at the office. And I’ve also had personnel furious because I brought them to the conference but didn’t need them for the social schmoozing events.
I’ve never once had an assistant want to attend the conference, but not the after party. My brows knit together like pulled strings.
“Are you asking for permission to leave, Miss Bristol?”
She doesn’t say anything, but nods, too beautiful for life in the shadows.
“Are you sick?” I wonder, worry bleeding into my voice.
“Not exactly. I just...” She veers her head toward the ballroom, a panicked look on her face, then trains her gaze on me. “I don’t belong here.”
What the fuck? I’m stunned but let nothing slip.
She sounds truly anguished, stripped bare, all her usual sassy hellfire a vacant torch.
“Sabrina Bristol,” I say, closing the space between us. “If there’s any woman in Phoenix tonight who deserves to be in that room, it’s you.”
She scans our surroundings like she’s making sure we’re alone.
; “Both times I put this dress on, I needed help. I haven’t dressed like this since I was a bridesmaid at my cousin’s wedding. I couldn’t do my hair by myself—”
“Do you know how many people here don’t do their own hair? Hell, most of the men pay someone—”
“And...” she cuts me off. “And I just can’t—I don’t know how to be.”
Because she doesn’t have the time to figure it out? I wonder.
Maybe I am a selfish, demanding brute.
“Listen to me, woman. You’re uncomfortable here. I get it. So we’re going to get you some liquid courage, and you’re going to get used to it. Don’t be intimidated. Every millionaire prick in the room wishes you were his, and every lady in attendance wishes she was you. This is the life you’re meant for. This is the life you deserve.”
“You sound so sure.” She gives me a wry smile. “All because I spit on you in the park?”
I shake my head.
And before I know what the hell I’m doing, my hand reaches for her face. She gasps as our skin makes contact. My fingers lift her chin, my thumb traces her jaw, and this strange, unspeakable spark flashes through both of us.
Heat lightning.
I can only feel my own body, but I know it’s in hers, too.
Her dark, delicate eyes surrender, shifting slightly from side to side as our gazes fuse.
“If I hadn’t snatched you up, someone else would have. Guaranteed,” I whisper, unsure why my throat tightens.
“Mr. Heron...”
She’s lost for words.
That’s my cue to end this temporary madness, dropping my hand, adjusting my bow tie.
Pretend. This never fucking happened, I tell myself.
“Enough doubting,” I say, my voice level again. “Let’s get a drink. That dress was four thousand dollars. You can’t let it sit in a garment bag because you want to hide from jealous eyes.”
“F-four thousand—” She gags. “Holy hell. You’re kidding, right?”
I give her a warning look. “Stop.”
“Okay.” She sucks in a deep breath and exhales slowly. “Okay, let’s go grab drinks.”
I battle the instinct to lead her there by hand as soon as we’re moving again. I’m hopeful this night won’t get any weirder.