Pretty Smart Girls

by Shae Ross

  My first target is the mayor. He’s standing, surrounded by a circle of colleagues, his head jutting above them by more than a foot. He reminds me of a giraffe being admired by tourists on safari. They part at my approach and allow me to introduce myself directly.

  “I’ve read about your initiatives to turn New York into a green city.”

  “Yes,” he says in an enthusiastic voice. “We have a great team assembled and it’s our goal to develop a program that municipalities across the counties can adopt.”

  After a few minutes of chatting I notice three people standing to my left waiting to speak to him.

  “I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me.”

  “Likewise,” he says. “And if my office can be of any help to you this week, feel free to call on us.” Awesome. I make a mental note; those are the words I will repeat to him if I need to call in a favor later this week.

  After another hour of mingling, I’m pleased with my progress and I stop to see how Jade and Devi are holding up. Jade is across the room talking to two men I don’t recognize, but no sign of Devi. I scan the perimeter. Despite the vast and airy space, the great hall feels serene and intimate. The sound of a fountain bubbling in the background echoes. Plants that vine out of huge urns make it feel as if we are wandering through a garden of ancient privilege. The sound of stringed instruments wafts up, and I lift my gaze to the balcony level. Guests have glided into the upper corridors surrounding the great hall. I’m scanning for Devi when my gaze trips over a dark object.

  Jett is standing alone, one hand gripping the low wall of the balcony. His cold stare sinks like talons on my neck. A chill millipedes down my back and I take a slow sip of champagne. I return his stare, pretending his overhead observation doesn’t bother me, but it does. It would be so much easier to ignore him if he wasn’t so damn hot.

  I follow the threatening raise and tilt of his glass. I return his toast and press the flute to my lips. The effervescence of the champagne expands in my throat, and I ease myself back into the thickest part of the crowd, slithering as far away from Jett Trebuchet as I can. I don’t think I’ve been able to fully catch my breath since Mr. Trott announced Team Jett had arrived. If I can manage to avoid him, even if just for tonight, perhaps his anger will cool and my nerves will have the time they need to adjust to competing with the Greek god of female arousal.

  I glance at my watch. It’s 8:45; just enough time to hit the bathroom before Mrs. Trott asks us to reconvene on stage. I turn and am brought up short by a man standing in front of me. It’s Mr. Trott’s son, Robert, and he’s a close-talker. Am I imagining it, or is his shoe actually touching the tip of my patent pump? Yikes. I take a slide back, trying not to be too obvious as he introduces himself.

  “Robert Trott,” he says, holding his hand out.

  “Ryan Rose.” I shake his hand and his gaze pans over me as if he’s looking for something.

  “Where did you do your undergraduate studies?” I ask in an effort to refocus his attention on our conversation.

  “Harvard,” he says with a tone that strikes me somewhere between mocking and indifferent. His fingers swipe at a curl falling over his forehead, clearing a path for his soft brown eyes. He’s attractive—not Jett Trebuchet attractive—but still attractive.

  “Class of 2010,” he says.

  Awkwardness plumes around my head as he stands in front of me, smiling in silence. My brain fumbles for another question. “What are your duties at Trott Ventures when you’re not hosting a ‘Treps competition?”

  “I’m primarily responsible for scoping out new markets for development. Once we locate a site, I work with our construction team, supervising the mini-mart and gas station build-outs. I also supervise all of the regional managers in six regions—over a thousand units total.”

  The lights above our heads dim and brighten. We gaze up into the cavernous vaulted ceiling and watch as the sequence repeats three more lightning-quick bursts. “That’s the signal, program resumes in fifteen minutes. Shall we?” he asks holding his arm out.

  “Oh, thanks, but I was hoping to hop to the bathroom before we start.”

  “Sure. Didn’t mean to keep you.” He lifts a long finger off the glass of amber liquid he’s holding and points to a door. “There’s a bathroom down that back hallway if you want to avoid the crowd.”

  I thank him and excuse myself.

  I push through the hallway door and the boisterous roar from the great hall fades to a dull hum as the door floats back to its seal. The only light is a muted, after-hours glow pressing down from the sconces. My shadow stalks beside me, darting in and out of the wide, vertical stripes on the papered wall. It occurs to me that I’m probably not supposed to use the bathrooms in this back hallway. I pick up my pace, determined to be quick.

  I hurry myself along, washing my hands and retouching my lipstick. As I exit, my heel slips, and I stop to adjust outside the bathroom. The light in the corridor changes, as if someone has just sliced through a beam. I catch the reflection of a dark shadow at the end of the hall. I stiffen, drop my heel, and squint into the ashen distance. Light spills down his lower half, illuminating the inverted V of his legs, planted in the middle of the passage as solid as Roman columns. My stomach twists. His shoulders and face remain in the shadows, but I’ve seen enough to know. It’s Jett.

  I could tell by the challenging look on his face earlier, he’s ready for round two—like a boxer bouncing up and down in the corner of the ring. I brush off my hands and start walking toward the cross-armed brick wall. A smile curls into the corners of my mouth. All right, frat boy. Bring it on.

  As I draw closer, I see light cutting against the hollowed slope of his cheek. His lips are seamed into a tight line, and his eyes are a kaleidoscope of deep blues. Clearly I’ve struck a nerve with Mr. Perfect. I suppose he’s not used to a woman dealing him into the game and then trouncing him. My feet plant in front of him. I raise my chin and attempt to exude a calm confidence I do not feel.

  “Well, it looks like your A team decided to show up after all,” I purr.

  The corner of his mouth lifts. “No thanks to you, Rose,” he bites out in an exaggerated drawl.

  His A game has definitely shown up, and in a big way. He seems taller than he did in the limo…taller and more imposing. Even in my heels I’m only eye level with the tops of his shoulders. I notice the faint shadow of bristle surrounding his mouth, the last remaining trace of the hungover frat boy who sat next to me this morning.

  He takes a step closer. I hold my ground, tilting my head to keep eye contact. “I bet you think you’re a pretty smart girl.” The side of his lip twists, and his gaze moves slowly and deliberately over my face—as if he’s inspecting me. I take the opportunity to do the same, my eyes lingering over the angles of his jaw…strong chin…straight lips, slanting down just at the corners and framed by a faint dimple on the side of his mouth that deepens when he talks.

  “So, is this what we can expect from Team Ryan? Lying to us?”

  “We plan to do whatever it takes to win this competition.”

  “You owe me an apology.”

  My mouth drops open. Excuse me? I owe him an apology? Ha! That infuriates me long enough to boost my nerve. “You owe Team Ryan an apology, you sexist pig.”

  His head turns a notch. “Now you owe me two apologies.”

  Of course there’s no acknowledgement of any wrongdoing on his part. Forget the part about him calling us “dumb.” Forget the part about him calling us “easy.” My head moves slowly back and forth. “I don’t owe you anything. Now step aside.”

  He moves closer and smiles, as if he’s calling my bluff. I turn my face up to avoid staring directly at his chest. I’m practically standing beneath him, every fiber of my personal space swallowed by his towering presence. Holy shit. My pounding heart cuts through my breath like a propeller.

  My fingernails bite into my palms. I need to hold my ground. Better yet, I decide to call his threat an
d inch closer. My chest brushes against his as he looks down his nose at me with a cool expression. I lean up on my toes until my mouth is inches from the concrete line of his jaw. In a voice smooth enough to melt honey, I whisper with mocking arrogance in my voice, “You don’t scare me, frat boy.”

  But by now, I’m completely faking it. He does scare me. Not in the way that Phil scared me. Phil was out of control and there’s not a thing about Jett Trebuchet that’s out of control. I know he’s angry, but the only thing I feel threatened by is the undercurrent of sexual tension between us. I’m torn between wanting to step closer and wanting to run. It’s almost as if meeting the way we did and flirting with each other in the limo catapulted our relationship into a sort of all’s-fair-in-love and-war zone.

  I can feel the heat from his body and part of me wants to yield, crumble, cave in. For a second I consider apologizing—saying something about getting off on the wrong foot.

  But my mind is still saying, Hell no, Ryan! I take a half step to the side, hoping he’s distracted enough that I can just slip past him. For a moment I think it’s going to work, and then his long fingers land a feather-like touch on my hip. I stop and back up. He follows me like a shadow until I’m pressed against the wall.

  Every muscle in my neck tightens as I brace myself for the onslaught to my senses. He lifts his arms and flattens his palms against the wall on either side of me. I’m watching the pulse tick in his neck as he leans his mouth inches from my ear. He’s so close I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. In a tone somewhere between seductive and threatening, he whispers, “Better lace up your game shoes, little Rose. I don’t intend to lose this competition.”

  Bristle scrapes the edge of my ear, sending a jolt of electricity into my bones. My fingertips press into the wall, straining to hold my body steady. Something inside my stomach falls, and I study his eyes. I don’t want him to be this angry with me. But then again, I don’t want to be called “dumb” and “easy” to my face and just sit there and take it.

  I’m trying to hold on to the brave façade I’m putting out there, but it’s melting under the heat he’s giving off. I raise an eyebrow and lower my voice into an unimpressed tone. “Are you done?” His expression shifts, and he eases up an inch.

  “Not even close,” he says, shaking his head and smiling.

  I raise my hands and press them flat to his chest. My fingers spread slowly, feeling his pecs twitch and tighten. I give him a soft push and he floats back.

  “Good luck, Jett,” I say, a cool dismissive.

  “Luck has nothing to do with it, little Rose.” His gaze impales me with his “game on” look as I crest around him.

  My heels snap out an indignant beat, and I swear I can feel the heat of his glare on my backside. I keep walking. I brush the pads of my fingertips over my thumbs; the imprint of his chest haunts my skin like handprints on a sidewalk. My lips press into a silent whistle and I breathe out a long phew. I ease into the crowd, head toward the stage, and shake out my hands, a little rattled but safe…for now.

  Five minutes later, I’m standing on stage next to my team, listening to Mr. Trott.

  “I want to thank you all for being here tonight and for helping us launch these extraordinary young professionals into our business community. Trott Ventures believes in mentoring the next generation of great business leaders, and we thank you for supporting this valuable program.”

  “Candidates,” he says, turning to us, “the competition will start tomorrow morning at nine o’clock sharp. We wish you the best of luck.” He holds his arms out to the sides and then joins them in front, motioning for us to come together at center stage. “Please shake hands.” A pang of anxiety ripples from my brain to my toes as we all turn and walk toward one another. I shake Vaughn and Ben’s hands and then come to stand before Jett.

  His smile changes, and his eyes darken as his hand covers mine. A camera flashes a bright light at us. I start to pull away but the grip of his fingers lingers and he holds me in place. Over the volume of the crowd’s applause, his words come to me.

  “By next Saturday night you’ll be wishing you’d never met me, little Rose.”

  I take a step closer and meet the confrontation in his eyes with a plastic smile. “I wish that now.”

  Chapter Four

  Jett

  5:50 a.m.

  I set my coffee down on a table by the window, sit, and swipe my iPad open to the Jett Industries ledgers that Sally emailed yesterday. The employee that used to review these ledgers quit last week—he probably got tired of being treated like a red-headed stepchild by my dad—so now it’s on me to help. My phone rings. I glance at my watch. He’s ten minutes early and right on time.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “How’s it going out there?”

  I recall our missed flight and frenzied entry into town last night. “So far, so good.”

  “Great. Did you get the ledgers Sally sent over?”

  “Got ’em right here.”

  “I need them before noon, if possible. So what’s on the agenda for today?” I listen to the shuffling of papers in the background and respond.

  “Introductions and our first assignment.”

  “What’s the other team like?”

  I hesitate, searching for an accurate way to describe them. “Not what we expected. All girls from Michigan State. It’s been amusing so far.”

  “Well don’t be so amused that you underestimate them.”

  I hate it when he’s right. If we hadn’t underestimated them when we bounced into that limo, we wouldn’t have gotten off to such a rocky start. But we’re on track now, and that little prank the MSU girls pulled just gives us an excuse to operate with a no-mercy policy—the you started it justification.

  A flash of hot pink streaks by the window, attached to supremely toned legs and the shapely ass of an early morning runner. I half listen to what my dad is saying as I continue to check her out. My eyes blink and narrow as she steps into the street. She turns her head to check for traffic, and I realize it’s Ryan. Jesus.

  “I got this, Dad.”

  “Good. ’Cause you don’t want to lose to a team of girls from Michigan State. You’d never hear the end of that.” I watch as Ryan trots down one of the paths leading into the park.

  “Don’t I know it.”

  The conversation pauses a beat, and I can hear it in the silence. He wants to tell me again how important this competition is to my career. He can’t help himself. He rambles on as I contemplate why she’d be running in Central Park this early, alone. I check my watch for an exact time.

  “Jett, winning this competition is your ticket into the family business. All family members who hold executive positions at Jett Industries require a year’s work experience with a Fortune 500 company. It’s written in our operating agreement and as long as we have partners, I can’t change that fact.”

  “I know, Dad.” Because he’s told me a hundred times.

  “Good. Well, shoot me a text and let me know how it goes today. Good luck, son.”

  “Thanks for the call.”

  Back to the ledgers.

  An hour later, I notice the hum of voices and activity kicking up a notch in the coffee shop. I check my watch. 6:45 a.m. Time to wake the boys. I grab them each a coffee and head out with my cardboard carrier. The elevator chimes, and I step to the back. The doors begin to close, and a French-manicured hand shoots through.

  “Oh, sorry,” she says as she jumps in. “I thought—” She stops mid-sentence as she sees me. Her lips seam closed and she reaches for the open door button but it’s too late. The elevator lifts, and she turns her back on me.

  “Good morning, Rose,” I say with a smile in my voice. She’s watching my reflection in the doors, so I let my eyes graze over the back of her flawless body while she pretends to ignore me.

  Silence fills the space as the elevator climbs.

  “Do you think it’s really wise to be trotting around Central Park a
lone?”

  She turns and shoots me a glare from beneath her pink Tigers ball cap. “What’s it to you?”

  “Just an observation.”

  “An observation doesn’t end with a question mark.”

  “Yeah, well, getting mugged doesn’t end with a question mark, either. It was half dark when you started running this morning. This is New York, not East Lansing, Michigan.”

  She tilts her head to the right and her hands grip her hips. “Well, thank you for the geography lesson. You’ve been watching too much TV.”

  “Hmmm. Maybe you haven’t been watching enough.”

  Her index finger presses to her lips, and with a wide-eyed expression she hisses out a slow shhhh. “I was having a perfectly relaxing morning until you showed up.” She turns her back on me but her mouth is still moving. “It’s bad enough we have to spend the day together. I know you Wolverines like to hear yourselves talk.”

  In the time it’s taken her to finish her sentence, I have stepped up behind her and am hovering over her shoulder, as close as I can get without spilling coffee on her.

  “Did you just shush me?”

  She flinches at the sound of my voice, turns around, and shoots me a venomous look from under the brim of her ball cap. “Yes. I just shushed you.”

  I raise an eyebrow and shake my head. “I don’t believe I’ve ever been shushed by a woman before, Rose.”

  “Well…” She looks at her watch. “It’s March ninth, 7:04 a.m. Now you have something to write about in your journal, Jett.”

  My lips twitch, and I try not to break into laughter—part of me wants to howl out loud and the other wants to flip the stop switch on the elevator and make her apologize. She’s as sassy as a wet cat, and for some reason I just can’t put down my hose. “I appreciate the suggestion, but after I finish writing about how we trounced you in the competition today, I doubt there’ll be any space left.”

  Her mouth drops just as the elevator pings and the doors open. We turn our heads and stare at an elderly couple holding hands and smiling back at us. “Good morning,” they say, and then their expressions fall as they absorb our standoff body language. We mumble greetings and retreat to the corners of the elevator, ignoring each other.