by Evans, Katy
Oh my god, he’s naked on my couch?
My eyes widen. I alternate between being curious and angry and thoroughly, disturbingly . . . a little bit aroused.
I take a picture of him sleeping and shoot it to Jeanine.
Me: Fuck, marry, or kill?
Jeanine: Fuck. No regrets.
Me: I need a man that women will want to both fuck and marry. He needs to look like Prince Charming.
Jeanine: Dude I’d fuck him even with that godawful haircut and without a shave. And Prince Charming is way overrated.
Me: Right. But not marry this one? YET?
Jeanine: You marry that thing, and your dad will disinherit you. Where did you find him?
Me: It’s a secret.
Jeanine: Wait just a damn minute. Is that dude in your apartment NOW? Did you sleep with him?
Me: No . . . but he is fuckable, isn’t he?
Jeanine: Yes, but . . . that’s about it. Please tell me you’re not thinking of anything else.
I pause just long enough for her to get exactly the idea that I’m thinking.
Jeanine: Holy fuck! No. Back away. Bad idea. Your dad will kill you if he finds out! When I said you should go smaller, I didn’t mean cockroach small.
And I wonder who I’ve been texting this whole time.
Jeanine: Your dad has high expectations and Lizzy? That guy on your couch? Will not meet your dad’s expectations. EVER. Even with a shave and a cute suit. Wake him up and GET HIM OUT OF THERE.
Before I can respond, Jeanine pops back with: Do me a quick favor before you send him on his way. Lift the blanket, flip him over, and take a CLOSER snapshot.
I think about it, smirking.
Me: Jeanine, I still need the perfect man.
Jeanine: Perfect? There’s no such thing, Lizzy. You might as well go to a lab and create him. Like in Weird Science.
Exactly, I think; then I survey him again. He’s tall, and I like tall men. He’s very masculine, and I like those too. A shiver runs through me as I inspect him. Because though he’s not clean or polished, I’m viscerally attracted to him.
And that means other people will be too.
Jeanine: What gutter did you pick this one out of?
I wince. Is it obvious?
Me: I know he looks a little rough now, but . . .
Jeanine: I’d REALLY do him. Even without a shower or a shave. BUT THEN I WOULD THROW HIM BACK IN THE GUTTER.
Me: You’re not the only one.
I don’t tell her about the intense romp in the cab. She probably wouldn’t believe me anyway.
Jeanine: Yum yum.
Me: Tell me about it.
I inspect the breadth of his shoulders. His dark, rather longish hair.
Hmm. Okay, so, we have slightly under two months until the fashion season begins with the West Coast Fashion Week in LA. There will be a few other dinners with major buyers in between. Then, a month later, the season culminates at the biggest event of them all, Men’s Fashion Week in New York City.
This is doable.
I think.
Exhaling, I march to the kitchen, bring out my trusty notepad and pen, and start making a list.
Haircut.
Shave.
Wax.
Eyebrows.
Skin care.
Wardrobe.
UNDERWEAR!!
MANNERS!!!!!!
I walk the length of the sofa, tapping my pen against the notepad as I try to imagine what he’ll look like when I’m finished with his transformation. The full makeover will take a lot of work. We’ll definitely need to work on his manners too. If he’s going to own the Banks look, he needs to be the total package. No slipups. We have to make every single person in every room he walks into think that he’s the real deal, born into high society, a regular English freaking lord.
I wonder for a minute how hard it would be to get him to speak in a British accent.
No, scratch that—I have enough work on my hands as it is.
I circle him again, thinking about all the things he’ll need to learn. It would’ve been much easier if I’d hired someone with the right skill set.
Maybe if I’d done my man shopping at the local country club, I’d have a chance. But I shouldn’t even count on this guy knowing how to tie a simple bow tie. Maybe even a regular tie.
Ugh. I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me.
He shifts, open his eyes. He looks at me, and I start.
“Well, well, well.” He sits up onto his elbows, a slow smile curving his mouth as he stares at me.
I jump a little, pricking angrily. “I’d appreciate if you wore something when you sleep on my couch. It kind of grosses me out to sit there now.”
He raises one sardonic eyebrow. “Are you always this prissy, baby?”
I grab his dirty clothes and send them flying at his chest. “Get dressed. We need to talk.”
He just piles the clothes in his lap and stares at me, and he smiles, then lifts a picture from the side table. It’s the one of me taken three years ago, from my Stanford graduation. Puts it down.
As I walk away to let him change, I hear him say, “Tell me something, sweetheart.”
The thick way in which he says sweetheart makes me halt in the middle of a stride. “Yes?” I’m afraid to look back, scared if I do that I’ll never be able to turn away.
“Look at me.”
His voice is husky, his demeanor stern.
I turn, unable to refuse. Gasping at the sight of those abs and pecs, I can’t help but focus on his clothes, the torn shirt that he holds in front of what must be a very erect, very hard, and maybe even BEAUTIFUL cock.
Maybe isn’t even a possibility here.
Every inch of this man is perfect. Raw and unrefined, but perfect.
At least from what I can see.
But I’m pretty sure his confidence is a testament to past compliments that he’s probably earned in many beds—or maybe in the back seat of a cab.
A wicked shiver runs down my spine as I remember him groping me, and my own body reacts as I run my eyes along his muscles.
“What?” I’m uncomfortable, and it’s not right, dammit. This is my home, my fortress, and this man makes my world tilt.
His roguish smile proves he knows what his presence here does to me, what his naked body makes me think about.
He curses under his breath. “Great. Just what I need. A prim and proper princess when the lights are on. You always wear a suit?”
He drops his clothes to the coffee table, and I struggle to keep my composure, not that keeping one’s composure includes gaping at a man’s bare cock and imagining what it might feel like to . . .
Dammit to hell.
Stop. Just stop it.
And I don’t know if I’m trying to mentally convey the message to James or if I’m ridiculing myself here, but either way? I can’t seem to avert my eyes no matter how much I want to.
Do I even want to?
Fuck no.
I mean, I’m a grown woman. I’ve seen a man’s dick before, but this . . . man . . . and HIS dick?
Whoa.
He watches me until he deliberately pulls on his T-shirt and drags it across his tight stomach. The tip of his cock brushes against the hem of his shirt, but I still don’t look away, and I’m not sure why.
I don’t behave like this, not under most circumstances anyway, but I didn’t ask him to lower his clothes. I didn’t tell him to show me what he’s made of—delectable inches and inches of perfect male.
He smirks as he holds out his arms. “Seen enough?” His voice is thick and sultry. My stomach constricts in response to his tone.
I turn away, but hiding now is a moot point. “I see you’re not shy.”
“Nope. So if you’re a princess by day, what are you by night?” he gruffs out.
I hear the rumple of his jeans as he drags them on, and I face him again. “What do you mean?” My own voice sounds odd. Sort of . . . crackly.
He le
ft the fly open.
He.
Left.
His.
Fly.
Open.
My eyes hurt from the pain caused by wanting to look down again but forcing myself not to.
My eyes fall for a second. I stare at the thick, hard . . .
I pull them back up, glaring at him in some sort of automatic self-preservation mechanism.
There’s that smirk dancing on his wicked lips again.
“So snippy in the morning,” he croons devilishly. “Can’t blame a guy for asking. Last night, I felt the heat from your gaze all the way across the room. This morning? Those pretty eyes are ice, heiress.”
He inches closer, and I steel myself against his approach, swallowing back the nervousness that I refuse to let him see.
He bites his lip and quickly grabs me by the back of my neck, and I yelp in surprise.
His body heat envelops me. Excites me. Worries me.
“So, Elizabeth Banks. Do ya always turn into a man-eater after happy hour?” He grins as he lowers his head and keeps his lips a breath away from mine. “Because if so, after the way ya ran your eyes all over me? I wanna know where to find ya between say, seven and nine tonight?”
“I—” Desperately need some sex therapy now, but I’m not sure if that requires a professional, or a bad boy like James Rowan.
“I’ll be right here. Working. And you won’t be . . . the last thing I plan to do is eat a man like you. You’re not my flavor. And I don’t want to get indigestion.” I brace myself and say, “Listen to me. That’s not what this is about.”
I huff and free myself from James’s grip as he releases a low, deep chuckle.
Taking charge of the situation by shooting him a “down, boy” glare, I head to my office, located to the right of the living room. I take a seat in my office chair, prop up my glasses, and start adding more things to my list.
Occasionally, I lift my gaze and study him. He tugs on his shoes and finishes gathering his limited belongings. As he threads his belt through the loops, I hold my breath. He takes his time with the buckle, and it’s a lame effort to tease me.
Only, it’s not really that lame, because it’s working.
He’s a stone’s throw away. RIGHT THERE. In my living room!
I crane my neck, but it’s no use. I’ve already witnessed the best part of this show, the way he slowly pulled on his T-shirt and covered a rather impressive chest, the way he teased me with his cock, looked on in silent anticipation as if he expected me to . . . to what, Elizabeth? Surely the guy wouldn’t ask you to fuck.
Oh yes. This guy definitely would.
That’s part of what scares me, part of what makes him so hot.
He lifts his head as if he senses my stare, and I catch a sultry look in his eyes only to get another uncomfortable squeeze in my tummy. I look away.
He starts walking over. I stare at my nails, exhaling. I can’t continue ignoring him because suddenly he’s standing right in front of me. I also need him. I asked him to come home with me and still haven’t told him why. My gaze fastens on his worn sneakers, before sliding up his denim-clad thighs, up a body that any woman would die to feel above her.
Am I seriously thinking these things?
Okay, Elizabeth, you need an orgasm, or you’ll attack the first hot guy you meet.
But this guy isn’t hot; he’s more like . . . raw and primal. The sexiest guy I’ve ever met.
I blow out a hard breath and realize he hears me, all while this undeniable need wells up inside of me. It’s there not because I’m basically looking for “any” man, but because I’m looking for the “perfect” man.
I have high expectations.
“Take off your glasses.” His voice is low and deep, and this close, it makes a little flutter of nervousness race through my system.
“Excuse me?” I lift my head.
“Take off your glasses, and look at me.”
Wow. The nerve of him! I bristle, but I pull my glasses off all the same. His eyes are so blue it’s like I’m swimming in a Tahitian sea.
“You’re giving me a hard-on of the kind I never ignore. I want to fuck you well and deep—and I think by the look in your eyes, you wouldn’t object. So why don’t you show me your bed, and we get right down to it?”
I know I’m attractive. Sometimes men approach me with some lines like Do you have the time? Can I have your phone number? I think I’ve seen you before. But wow, this one? Way too blunt. We’ll definitely need to work on his subtlety. He managed to both get my attention and piss me off in just a couple of seconds.
My palm itches at my side. He smiles slowly. I’m sure women fall at his feet willingly when he says such things.
I try to remind myself that I am not just any woman. I am Elizabeth Banks, and he’s . . . someone I picked up in a trashy bar.
He thinks he’s getting laid.
I should lay him out.
Instead, I paint on a look of real interest, stand, and tell him, “Sit.”
He chuckles, seems a little wary, but eventually sits and watches me with more brewing interest than before.
“So, you do anything for a bet?”
I butt my hips against my desk and wait with my arms crossed. It’s deliberate. I want to look unapproachable, professional. More importantly, I want him to see me as a woman in control.
“Don’t worry about the money. I was kidding last night. I don’t fuck for money. This one’s for me.”
I eye him, my heart pounding as I shoot him a look of disgust. “I have no intention of hitting the sack with you.”
“Don’t you.” It isn’t a question because he doesn’t believe me. “Okay then.” Amusement curves his wicked lips again.
“In case you haven’t noticed . . . these are designer heels. This is a Frida, a totally authentic designer. I’m the sort of woman who selects only the best,” I go on.
“You’ll never find the best—nobody will ever reach that standard. Which explains why you’re so starved.”
“Excuse me . . .”
He cocks his head, surveying me as he slowly stands.
“What . . . ?” I press.
“You’re parched, and I can sate this thirst.”
I don’t believe him because I saw the women at Tim’s Bar. They weren’t there for the drinks and good service. Those crooning broads were there for him.
One taste of pleasure from this guy, and I’d probably grovel for more.
Leaving insatiable women in his wake? That’s this guy’s game.
He walks forward. I put my arms out to stop his catlike approach, and I quickly slide away from him, sure that I can’t take his touch, not here and now, not when I’m dressed for the corporate world and planning to tackle the day with the confidence and luck of a pariah. “Don’t do that. I can’t think when you do that.”
“Then don’t think.” He reaches out for me, and I spin away.
“Whoa. Stay right there. Halt!”
He narrows his eyes, and I whisper, “Let’s discuss this business proposition that I have for you. An offer.”
“I have a sweet proposition, too, a sweet suggestion of my own. Want to hear it?”
God damn him and that sexy smirk!
“No.” But I do. I so fucking do. Instead of giving him the opportunity, I say, “It’s going to take some effort, but if you can do all those stunts you do, then you can do this as well.”
“Want to know what else I can do well?”
Frustrated, I say, “That’s understood.”
“What is?”
“Look. I get that you’re good. I’m sure you’re very skilled in all the ways that matter.” Jeanine always says to feed a man’s ego. “Now can we move on?”
“If we can move to your bedroom.”
“We can’t.” Not yet. Refusing to acknowledge the flush creeping up my cheeks, I continue, “But you need to act the opposite of your usual self.”
He looks offended. “What do you know
about my usual self?”
“Plenty. I’m a good judge of character.”
“Then you shouldn’t be so quick to judge. We could be having a blast right now. Alone. In your bedroom. In that great big, massive four-poster bed.”
I swallow. How does he know that I have a great big, massive four-poster bed? I want to let the comment slide, but curiosity wins. “How do—”
“You have nightmares.”
“Me? No.”
“If you say so.” He folds his arms over his broad chest. “Go on. I’m listening.” He’s scowling now, looking impatient.
Something about this man screams that he’s not the kind to be trifled with. Never mind that his chums call him Jimmy. He’s intimidating as hell, but I won’t let him intimidate me. I’m a Banks, after all.
I quickly rummage through my head, trying to remember if I had any significant dream the night before. Coming up empty, I shoot him a scolding little look and say, “Stepping uninvited into a lady’s bedroom? I could teach you a thing or two about how a real gentleman should act.”
“Sweetheart, I need no lessons—”
“Which brings me to my business proposal. I need you to become the perfect gentleman, be the perfect man. I’ll shave you, give you a new look, show you how to act around women—men—everyone. You can keep the clothes—just give me three months to be the face and help me launch my new menswear line. If you can do that, I’ll pay you a hundred thousand dollars. Any questions?”
“Yeah. What’s in it for me?”
“Didn’t you hear a word I just said?”
“Every last one of them.” He gives me that rogue look again, the one that lets me know that he wants a perk or two to sweeten the deal.
“Cash,” I snap. “Isn’t that the language you speak?”
He narrows his eyes. “I speak English. But I can speak Dollar, too, if that’s all you know.”
I thrust my arms out. “Come on. Don’t lay this on me. You do stunts for five hundred dollars—” I stop. Is it an insult to call a poor person poor? “You’re on a limited budget, aren’t you?”
He laughs, moistens his lips, and shakes his head. “I might be poor, lady, but my pride’s rich as Midas, and I don’t beg.”
“Beg? For what?”
“Sex, money, you name it.”
“I never said you did.”