by Ivy Carter
“One moment, please,” Sandra says. I guess I should have paused long enough for her to write it all down. I wait quietly while she jots down the message.
I hear a click on the line, and before I can wonder if I’ve been disconnected, that smooth deep voice that’s already doing on number on my stomach says, “Emily Brown. Hello, again.”
“Mr. Croft,” I stumble. That sneaky Sandra! She could have given me a heads up. “I’m sorry to disturb you, I just…”
“If you were disturbing me, I wouldn’t have picked up,” Jackson informs me.
“Right, okay. Um, I just, I left a message with Sandra.”
“I’m here now. Tell me,” he says.
I take a breath. I’m not letting this guy get to me because that’s totally ridiculous. He’s just a man. A totally gorgeous man who makes me forget my name, but still. Get it together. “Thank you,” I say. “That’s what I was calling to say. Thank you—from the Children’s Education Fund—for the donation. It’s really…it’s huge. It’s really big and we’re so grateful at such a large gift…”
Jackson chuckles. He actually chuckles, and I bet I know why. I'm cringing. Could I possibly find another form of the word huge? Jesus, I’m using them all.
“Anyway,” I say. “Thank you. We really appreciate it.”
“And what about you? Do you appreciate it, or are you only speaking on behalf of the fund?”
“No, I appreciate it too,” I say. “Very much. Mr. Croft, I really believe in this organization, and judging by the size of your donation, I think you do too.”
“Getting a call from you is enough for me,” he says. “Although, I have to be honest. I’d still like to take you to dinner. I know I made you uncomfortable earlier, so I’d like to take you somewhere to show there are no hard feelings. No strings, no quid pro quo. Just dinner. What do you say?”
That catches me off guard. The money is already with the fund so I know he can’t corner me again with that ludicrous proposal. But Jackson Croft is basically everything I despise in a human. He’s selfish, money-centric, arrogant, and overall not a nice person. Aside from the hundred grand he donated, that is. I’m sure he has an angle to that, anyway.
Still, it is just dinner. Right? What harm could there possibly be in eating food with this guy in a restaurant full of other people?
“Don’t overthink it,” Jackson says. “Just say yes.”
So I hear myself say that one little word.
I say yes.
Even though I know I’ll live to regret it.
Jackson
I knew she’d say yes. I get people to say yes to deals worth millions everyday, so I had no doubt little Miss Emily Brown would say yes to dinner with me.
Still, it gives me a thrill deep inside knowing I’ll have her for the evening. She’s unlike any woman I’ve ever known—and that’s a problem. She may have said yes to dinner, but Emily has proven that she’s not the kind of person who will just cave in to pressure so easily.
She presents a unique challenge. And I do enjoy a challenge.
As I get in the car and turn the ignition, preparing to go and pick Emily Brown up for our impromptu date, I find myself wondering just what makes her so different from me.
Maybe that’s what attracts me to her, but it’s also why I can’t even bother thinking about her as anything more than a tonight-only thing. I can’t get more involved than this. Not since everything I learned with the phone call from my father’s lawyers.
Ironically, Emily is the exact opposite of what I need right now.
I’ll have this one amazing night, one night to get her out of my system because she is not a distraction that I can afford to keep around. Dinner will simply be the scratch to the itch I’ve had for her since she first walked—no, barged through my office doors.
Once I’ve had my time with her, I’ll no doubt be ready and willing to move onto the next thing. I’ve got more than enough options and she’s not my type, in any case…
But right now I do need a short distraction from the family bullshit.
Other than the short time I spent with Emily this morning, every moment has been spent ruminating on the bombshell of a phone call I received just before she arrived.
The call that told me I would no longer simply be inheriting the company that I’ve been groomed to run since before I can even remember. The call that told me I would once again need to prove myself to dear old Dad, even though he’s no longer alive and with us.
No, no, no, Jackson—think again. You must fight, fight, fight. The provision in his will was apparently quite clear on that score.
My brothers and I will compete for the right to lead our company into the future. And the competition takes the form of such a ridiculous requirement…just thinking about it makes my blood boil.
That is my cross to bear, but now, for one night only, I will enjoy the company of a gorgeous smart-ass woman who makes me forget, ever so briefly, that everything I’ve worked for might be falling apart.
Once Emily stormed out of the office (and watching her go…damn, what a sight), I had Sandra pull up her information in order to better understand what I was dealing with.
I know that she’s a grad student working part-time for the Children’s Education Fund. An intelligent do-gooder. Makes me roll my eyes. Just from this one afternoon I can tell she’s a woman who goes after what she wants, and she’d no doubt be great in a real business, but she’s stuck on some charity bullshit.
Well, real business—it’s not for everyone.
Not for the faint of heart, that’s for sure.
I drive to Emily’s neighborhood, just ten minutes from the office and a little on the outskirts of the city. Lots of Boston College and Boston University students live out here in Allston—we have several interns who ride the T in from this area.
I drive down Greylock Road, stopping in front of a blue house. Before I can get out to go to the front door like a proper gentleman, I see her silhouette walking down the driveway from the back of the house.
I’m at a temporary loss for breath. The tight dress she’s wearing skims down her figure like dripping gold—an improvement over the morning’s bargain basement suit but honestly, this woman could make sweats look sexy.
I’m out of the car quickly, headed over to her side so I can open the door for her. The closer I get to her, the faster my heart beats.
“Good evening, Emily,” I say, using one hand to button my suit jacket.
“Hello,” she says, her eyes focused on the car. I lean in to greet her with a kiss on the cheek—a habit—and it seems to startle her. She smiles, though, showing dimples in her cheeks.
“You ready?” I ask.
“This is your car?” she responds, still eyeing it.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m driving it, aren’t I?”
She shakes her head. “Yeah, it’s just...nothing. Let’s go.”
I have no idea what that’s about, but once in the car we head back into the heart of the city. Sandra called ahead to Prime & Tender—Croft International is a silent partner in the Michelin-starred restaurant—and so I know that the restaurant will pull out all the stops for us tonight.
I pull up to the curb on Boylston Street and the valet is there to help Emily out and take my keys. I guide her through the restaurant, lightly touching the small of her back, already wishing I could feel more of her.
This might be a long, torturous night.
I’m greeted by staff as we’re ushered back into the private room. When my hand leaves Emily’s back, I instantly feel the void.
We’re seated, napkins gently dropped in our laps. Emily is looking around the small space with a mix of curiosity and confusion, and I know why. She thought she’d agreed to dinner with me in a room full of strangers, but no way did I intend to spend my one evening with her being ogled at by other people. I want to keep this little treasure to myself for the evening.
“They keep this room for me,” I tell her
. “It’s small, but I like it because it’s private.”
“You don’t like people seeing you eat or something?”
“It’s not that. I often have dinners or luncheons with high-level international clients, and I don’t need those meetings ending up in the business section of the Boston Herald. Keeping some things private is essential to my company.”
“So you can do your hostage takeovers?” Emily asks, her eyes steady and slightly hard on me.
“Everyone comes willingly,” I reply, enjoying the repartee. She’s already made me forget my troubles and we’ve only just begun.
“I’ll bet,” she says. She shifts in her seat and looks awkwardly around the room, like she doesn’t know what to do with herself.
“Good evening, Mr. Croft,” a voice says, and I turn to see Chef Barton walk through the door. “I’m so happy to have you here this evening.”
I stand up to shake his hand. “Thank you for having us. I’d like you to meet Emily Brown.”
Emily’s eyes dart between us, and she finally offers her hand. “You’re the chef? Oh, wow, um, nice to meet you.”
“You as well,” Chef Barton says. “Welcome to Prime & Tender. Mr. Croft has been a supporter of ours from the very beginning. We wouldn’t be the success we are without him.”
“It’s all in the genius of your food, Andrew,” I say. I sit back down.
“I have some wonderful options for you,” he continues. “Of course, the regular menu is available to you, or anything you desire. But for you both this evening, I recommend either the roasted lamb with fresh mint sauce or my signature five-spice seared yellowfin tuna that pairs perfectly with the Provence rosé.”
Chef Barton tells us about the other courses and I watch as Emily takes it all in. She looks a little lost at not having a menu to look down at, or maybe it’s the abundance of courses that’s got her thrown. Either way, it’s charming.
“I’ll send Rocco in to take care of you for the evening and get you started with some wine and your first course,” Chef Barton says. “Please enjoy your evening. I’ll check back with you later.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I tell him. Having him come in now is enough show for Emily. For the rest of the evening, I’d like to have her alone as much as possible.
Once Chef Barton has gone back to the kitchen, Rocco comes in with wine and our appetizer, which Rocco tells us is a canapé of wild smoked salmon with avocado.
“Did you decide on your entrees?” he asks. “Or would you like to see the menu?” He asks this to Emily—he knows I always order whatever Chef Barton recommends.
“You’ll love the roasted lamb,” I say to Emily. “It’s legendary; people fly in on private planes just to eat it.”
Emily is looking at the canapé as if she’s not quite sure if she should eat it or take a photo. “Oh, um,” she begins, looking between Rocco and me. “What were the choices?”
“Whatever you want,” I tell her. “The chef recommends the lamb. He also has a yellowfin tuna.”
“Or I could bring you our regular menu,” Rocco offers. “It’s seasonal, so only the freshest, most readily available foods are used.”
She looks up at Rocco. “I think I’ll have the yellowfin, please.”
“Very good,” Rocco says before leaving the room.
“Do you always eat like this?” she asks.
“Like what?” But of course I know what she means.
She tosses her hands out to her side. “Like this! In a private room. The chef just came out here. I mean, I don’t know anything about the food world but I can take one look at that,” she indicates the canapé, “and know that this is fan-cy.” She says it like two words, clearly on purpose. It’s at once adorable and sexy.
“It’s very good, yes,” I concede. “The best in the city, actually. But you wouldn’t believe what I have to pay that guy to keep him from going to New York or Paris. It costs a lot to keep talented people around.”
“You’re used to getting what you want, aren’t you?”
I shrug. Of course I’m used to getting what I want. I work hard to get it, but I always win. “Usually,” I say. I hold up my glass, looking Emily in her eyes. “To the Children’s Education Fund.” She raises her glass we touch rims touch.
As we begin the appetizer I realize I need to calm myself—watching Emily take a sip of wine or touch a morsel of food to her lips might make me explode.
“So tell me,” Emily says, dusting off her hands—the napkin is right there in her lap. She leans forward on the table just enough to push her breasts up a little more. “Is it true that you really don’t care about charities like you said?”
Averting my eyes, I say, “That may have been a slight exaggeration.”
“I knew it,” Emily says, victorious. Unfortunately, she sits back in her chair again and I lose that spectacular view. The good news? I can see more of her body—at least from the waist up. I remember the feel of my hand on her back, and realize how much I want to touch her again.
“No one can not care about charities.”
I gently wipe my hand on my napkin. “You’re right. I care about the tax advantage they give me.”
“You’re terrible,” she says, looking for a moment like she’s going to throw her own napkin at me. “Were you raised to only care about money?”
“Yes,” I say. “And power.”
She smiles, thinking I’m joking.
“I bet you were raised in Beacon Hill and played rugby and had chef-prepared meals every night.”
“Pretty close,” I say. “I was raised to fight but in a custom-made Italian suit.”
“Ha,” she says. She reaches across the small table and takes my wrist, tugging it toward her. “And this thing,” she says, touching the face of my Rolex. “I bet this matters too.”
Her fingers so close to my skin make me burn. “It matters as a symbol,” I say. “A symbol of what I’ve achieved.”
“Let me see this thing,” Emily says. She’s not exactly gentle as she tugs my arm closer to her for a better look. She leans on the table, that spectacular view back, and inspects the watch. “Was this a gift or did you buy it for yourself?”
“Bought it myself.”
She traces the face, looking at it so closely it’s as if she’s never seen a watch before. “Some lady didn’t buy this for you?”
“My relationships don’t exactly go like that.”
Emily looks up at me, her fingers lingering on my wrist. “What do you mean? You don’t like women buying you gifts?”
I try to concentrate on her question, and not the softness of her fingers on my skin. “It’s not that,” I say. “Although I do prefer to do the buying. But honestly, I don’t stay in relationships long enough for this kind of gift.” Or much of anything else, I almost add.
“Come on. I bet you have women lined up around the block for you.”
“Emily, I said relationships. Not women.”
“Oh,” she says, blushing slightly. “Does that mean that work is the true love of your life?”
Keeping my eyes on her, I say, “Maybe.”
She holds my gaze, unwilling to back down—that is, until she does. I would never break first. Her fingers slide away from me, and she crosses her hands under her arms—elbows on the table and all—giving me the view that is going to drive me insane.
“Well,” she says looking back at the Rolex, “it looks ridiculous.”
I laugh out loud. I can’t help it. What is it about her that makes me delighted and furious, that makes me want to run to her as quickly as I want to run away?
“Let’s see yours,” I say. “You probably have something practical with a thin leather strap.”
She immediately moves her arms down into her lap.
“I knew it,” I laugh. “Let me see. I won’t tease you.”
“You won’t?” she asks, looking at me carefully.
“Promise,” I say. She slowly moves her hands back onto the tops o
f the starched tablecloth. Her fingers and wrists are bare of any jewelry. “A minimalist?” I ask. I take her hands in mine as if I’m inspecting them for hidden jewels. I run my thumb over her palm.
“I don’t like anything fussy,” she says.
“You certainly don’t need anything extra to make you shine,” I say. “How about a delicate diamond bracelet?” I wrap my fingers around her tiny wrist. “You’d wear it well.”
“Do you plan on buying me something?” she asks. “I thought you didn’t stick around for things like that.”
“I don’t,” I say delicately.
“So don’t tease me,” she says. “You said you wouldn’t.”
I realize this is getting a little heavy for me. I release her wrist and sit back in my seat, putting distance between us. I’m tempted to throw the table aside and wrap her up in my arms. The small touch of her skin may have only made things worse. But if one thing is a real boner crusher, it’s relationship talk.
“I won’t tease you,” I say. Unless you want me to, I want to add but don’t. The main course isn’t even here yet, and I’m starting to wonder how much more I can take. I have a sip of the wine, then chase it with the sparkling water to help keep my wits about me. With each moment that passes—each look, each touch, each word out of Emily’s perfect lips—I wonder how I’ll ever survive being tempted by her.
Our eyes locked on one another again, neither of us speaking—at least not with words—when Rocco comes through the door.
As we go through the courses—an arugula salad with pear, a roasted corn soup, and a champagne sorbet—I find that as passionate as Emily is about helping others, she’s done little to help herself in terms of a social life.
“That’s one thing we have in common,” I tell her. “Work always comes first.”
“I spend so much time studying, not to mention working part-time at CEF, that I hardly have time for anything else aside from the occasional happy hour and grub at Mickey’s Tavern,” she says.
It’s ridiculous, but I’m glad she doesn’t mention a guy—aside from her brother and father.