by Tawna Fenske
He glanced down to see the crown of her head level with his hips. Her dark hair shone bright in the dressing room light and Ben had a serious urge to run his fingers through it.
Great idea, dumbass. Stroke her hair while she mouths your cock.
She tipped her head to the side for a better angle, and Ben admired the flutter of her lashes, the softness of her cheek, the flex of her jaw muscles as she worked the thread. Her fingers squeezed his ass, and Ben squeezed his eyes shut, thinking he was seriously going to lose it if she didn’t get that thread pretty soon.
“Holly, maybe we should stop—”
“Got it!” She sat back with a look of triumph, her hair tousled and her lipstick smeared. She reached for his fly and before Ben could brace himself again, she gripped the zipper and gave a firm tug. “Voila!” she announced, sliding the zipper up and then down in illustration.
“You got it,” he said, hoping he sounded suitably impressed instead of a little disappointed. He shoved his glasses up his nose and offered her a hand up. “Thank you.”
“Not a problem.” She let him lift her to her feet as she grinned up at him, her eyes glinting with mischief. “All in a day’s work.”
“I can’t say I envisioned that as part of our arrangement when I signed your retainer.”
She smiled and squeezed his fingers. “At least now you know I’m willing to go above and beyond to get the job done.”
As far as Ben was concerned, she could go above, below, down, up, and perform any sort of job on him at any time. But he nodded and let go of her hand, pausing to straighten his shirt and take a step back from her.
“Okay then,” he said. “In the first few hours of acquaintance, I’ve kissed you, gotten naked a few feet away from you, and had your mouth on my junk. I’d say it’s time to take things to the next level.”
Holly’s eyes went a little wider and she licked her lips. “What’s that?”
“Time to meet my dad.”
Chapter Five
Ben stepped through the doors of the conference room, making a conscious effort to straighten his posture the way Holly had coached him in his office a few minutes ago. He surveyed the scene, pushing back the wave of dread that hit him as he took in all those jovial faces, the too-loud voices, the conversations he’d really prefer not to join.
“Here, let me straighten your tie,” Holly said, stepping around him to make the adjustment he didn’t know he needed. Still, the feel of her hands fiddling with the fabric on his chest filled him with an unexpected calm, and he felt a little less dread about the prospect of joining the crowd.
“Any last-minute tips?” he murmured as she smoothed down the tie, then took a moment to adjust the lapels of his jacket.
“Just do like I told you to,” she said, her voice soothing and low. “Smile. Introduce yourself to people you don’t know. Shake hands firmly. Ask questions about people to show you’re interested in making a connection.”
“I’m interested in grabbing a drink,” he said, eyeing the bar in the corner. “Can I get you something?”
“A glass of red wine would be great,” she said. “Just remember what I said about keeping consumption to a minimum. Think of it as a prop—something to do with your hands, rather than something to guzzle.”
Ben had plenty of ideas what he’d like to do with his hands, but he just nodded and practiced holding eye contact with her the way she’d coached him to demonstrate he was paying attention. “Got it. Red wine, walk slowly, don’t guzzle.”
“And tip well,” she said as he started to turn away. “That’s another aspect of being charming.”
“In that case, I’m already plenty charming.” He nodded toward the bar. “Do you want to join me and choose your wine?”
“No, I’d like to observe you in your natural habitat so I can do a better job offering you tips.”
“Here’s your first tip: This is about as far as it gets from my natural habitat.”
She smiled, and Ben felt warmth in his chest. “What’s your natural habitat?”
“At home on my couch in a pair of fleece pants with a good beer and a bad sci-fi flick.”
“A bad sci-fi flick?”
“One of those old ones that’s so bad it’s wonderful.”
“I can’t say I’ve ever seen any of those.”
“I mourn the depths of your deprivation.”
“I’ll make you a deal then,” she said, leaning closer. “Get through this event using all the skills we just talked about and I’ll join you for a movie night featuring extra-buttery popcorn and an extra-awful movie.”
“Deal,” he said, buoyed by the thought of snuggling up on the couch with Holly in skimpy pajamas and her lips glistening with butter. “I’ll be right back.”
He turned and started across the room, conscious of her eyes on him. He made an effort to lock gazes with the first person he encountered, offering up the handshake Holly had coached him on—sort of a two-handed maneuver with a hand pump combined with a shoulder clap. It felt more natural than he expected it to, though not nearly as good as it had felt when he’d practiced with Holly in his office.
“Glen, good to see you again,” he said, shaking the man’s hand and offering up a smile that felt a little too forced. “How’s the wife doing?”
The man frowned. “My name’s Pete. And I’m not married.”
“Right,” Ben said, regrouping. “Kids? Pets?”
“I have a ficus tree.”
“Excellent. Uh, I hope it’s thriving?”
“Sure,” the man said, glancing around as though looking for an escape from the conversation. Ben couldn’t blame him. “Uh, actually, it’s been dropping leaves a bit lately.”
“Oh? Yes, I do believe that’s common with Ficus Benamina or weeping figs. It can happen if temperatures dip below sixty degrees Fahrenheit or sixteen Celsius.” Ben heard the words coming out of his own mouth and knew they weren’t what Holly had in mind when she coached him on witty cocktail party banter, but somehow he seemed unable to stop himself. “It can also be a symptom of spider mites. Treatment with a bit of oil from the Azadirachta indica should clear things right up.”
Pete blinked at him, then nodded. “Wow, thanks. I’ll have to try that—uh, Azardir—”
“Neem oil,” Ben said, wondering if Holly was still watching him. If so, maybe he’d get lucky and she’d think he was discussing the fine points of business infrastructure instead of the care and feeding of a houseplant. God, he was such a dork.
But Pete didn’t seem to mind too much, and he even shook his hand again. “Thanks, man. Wow, you’re a little different than the last CEO.”
“Try not to tell anyone,” Ben said, and he turned back toward the bar. Pete didn’t know it, but he’d just paid Ben the best compliment he could imagine.
Ben made it a few more feet toward the drink table when a heavyset man in a gray suit stepped in front of him, his face flushed with exertion or maybe too much vodka.
“Ben! Ben my boy, come over here and meet some of the partners.”
The man latched onto his arm, and Ben tried to remember if he’d ever met the guy before. He honestly had no idea whether he was about to meet business partners, tennis partners, or sex partners. This was the problem with everyone dressing in dark suits and ties. Everyone looked the same, and Ben had no frame of reference.
The guy dragged him toward a big group of men who all wore some variation of the dark suit and tie, and Ben wished like hell Langley Enterprises had invested in a slew of nametags at functions like this.
The first man hoisted his drink in the air and saluted Ben before turning back to the group. “Everyone, this is the new CEO of Langley Enterprises, Ben Langley. Lyle’s his old man, but Lyle’s stepping down to take over Langley’s international arm. Ben, I’d like you to meet Carl, Jim, Harold, Gary, James, Floyd, Devon, and Jim.”
“Uh, two Jims and one James?”
“That’s right.”
Ben nodded, s
haking hands with each man in turn and wondering what these people did and why there were no female executives in the ranks. He was trying to place the first man, knowing they’d probably met countless times before and wishing he was better at placing faces.
“Shame you couldn’t join us out on the course today,” the man said, and Ben nodded, grateful to at least have golf as a reference point.
“Right, well, I’m sure my dad showed you a great time out there. You played the Hunter Farms course?”
“Absolutely. Such a terrific Scottish links design out there. Say, listen—have you had a chance to look over the counter-proposal I sent over a couple days ago?”
“Yes, I took a quick look,” Ben said slowly, trying to remember if Holly had given him any tips on keeping oneself from telling a business associate that his head was so far up his ass that he might as well inspect his tonsils while he was up there. Ben might not be a social genius, but he suspected that wouldn’t be the right way to handle the conversation. “I’ll need to do a more thorough review later. Why don’t we catch up early next week?”
“Sounds good, my boy!” He clapped Ben on the back and buried his face in his drink again. “Good talking with you.”
“You, too.”
Ben turned and hurried away, then remembered Holly’s advice about carrying himself with confidence and poise. Fuck, he needed that drink. He reached the bar and pulled out his wallet, grateful Holly had urged him to buy a new one when they were standing at the counter back at the clothing store. This one certainly looked better than his old duct-taped one, and the leather smelled woodsy and warm.
“What can I get you, sir?”
“What do you have for red wine?”
“We’ve got a great Cab from the Napa Valley, this stunning red blend from Rioja in Spain, and a nice little Oregon Pinot Noir—”
“The Pinot would be great,” Ben said, glancing back at Holly and wondering if he’d read her right. “Is it a little earthy and spicy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Perfect.”
She had her head turned, so he could admire her without self-consciousness from the other side of the room. The blue dress fit her like a dream, hugging her curves and showcasing those perfect long legs. He wasn’t usually the kind of guy to openly ogle a woman, but holy hell, how could he not appreciate all that flesh and muscle and—
“Will that be all, sir?”
Ben turned back to the bartender. “Uh, no. What do you have on draft?”
The guy rattled off the names of a few craft beers, and Ben picked the hoppiest IPA on the list.
He pulled a few bills out of his wallet, making sure to include a generous tip and a smile for the bartender. When he had the drinks in hand, he made his way back toward Holly, more excited than he had any right to be at the prospect of standing beside her, having everyone see this beautiful woman next to him.
“Here you go,” he said, his fingers brushing hers as he handed her the glass. “I hope you like Pinot Noir.”
“I love it,” she said, taking a sip. “Wow, this is amazing. Different than what I usually drink. What is it?”
“You’re probably used to California Pinots,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound like too much of a wine snob. When he wasn’t sipping beer, wine was his beverage of choice, though he tended to prefer big-bodied reds over the more nuanced French wines his dad collected and seldom consumed.
“Pinot Noir from California or France tends to be a little more polished and refined,” Ben explained. “Oregon Pinot, on the other hand—at least the ones I like—are earthy and approachable. A little dirty, if you want to call it that.”
“Huh,” Holly said, taking a slow sip. “Yeah, I see what you mean. I’m not sure I would have thought of that adjective, but if this is what that tastes like, then I guess I like it dirty.”
Ben took a big swallow of his beer and tried not to choke. He surveyed the crowd, catching titters of conversation around him.
“What is it about people in corporate America that makes them talk like androids?” he asked.
“How do you mean?”
“You know—‘Let’s crosswalk this into our wheelhouse and extrapolate the strategic synergy.’ What the hell does that even mean?”
“Not a damn thing, but executives do love their jargon. If it helps, you can turn it into your own secret drinking game.”
“A drinking game?”
“Take a sip every time someone says something like ‘results-oriented’ or ‘due-diligence’ or ‘let’s touch base and put our heads together about the action items.’”
Ben laughed and took a small sip of beer. “I’d be wasted in ten minutes, and then I’d be breaking your first rule about minimizing consumption.”
“Good point.”
Ben glanced around the room and wondered how long he’d have to stay here hobnobbing before he could head upstairs and get out of this goddamn suit. He studied the well-groomed masses drinking a little too much, clapping each other a little too hard on the back.
“Benny boy!” The shoulder clap came from behind, and nearly knocked Ben’s drink from his hand. If he hadn’t turned at the last second, he might’ve splashed Holly with beer. The thought of licking it from her cleavage was enough to buoy his spirits for a second, but then he remembered who’d just delivered the blow.
With a heaviness he wished he didn’t feel, he turned to greet the shoulder-clapper. “Hi, Dad.”
Holly watched Ben’s smile go from warm and genuine to cardboard-stiff as he turned to greet his father. Another person might not have noticed the shift, but Holly had been admiring Ben’s smile all evening, making note of when he looked like he meant it and when he was phoning it in.
Was it wrong to silently celebrate the fact that she seemed to earn the real smile most of the time?
But the smile on Ben’s face now looked like he’d just chewed a mouthful of glass and taken a swig of grapefruit juice. Even with the pinched look on his handsome features, the physical resemblance was strong between Ben and his dad. Same broad shoulders, same chiseled jaw, same brown eyes with amber flecks, though there was something about the way Ben’s dad’s gaze swept her body that made Holly uncomfortable. She and Ben were standing a couple of feet apart, so it was possible the elder Langley didn’t even realize they knew one another.
She saw Ben shift his weight, angling his body a little closer to her. From the quick glance he gave to her, then his father, it looked like he was shielding her from his dad’s gaze. The rush of gratitude she felt was enough to leave her arms feeling tingly.
“Shoulda been out there on the course with us today, Benny Boy,” the older man said, slinging an arm around Ben in a gesture that seemed more like aggression than affection. Holly remembered a documentary she’d watched once about male lions in the wild, and thought about that as she watched the way Ben’s father manhandled him while giving a play-by-play of a golf game Ben clearly had no interest in whatsoever.
“But obviously, you were too busy pushing pencils across a desk to get out there and swing the wood around,” the elder Langley said, elbowing his son.
Ben opened his mouth to respond to the barb, but Holly beat him to the punch. She slid a hand around his waist, shoved her hand in his back pocket, and gave his ass a small squeeze. It was clear Lyle Langley was a grade-A jerk, and even clearer Ben would prefer not to contradict his dad in public. The least she could do was help Ben play in the same ballpark.
She didn’t take her hand off Ben’s ass as she turned her best high-wattage smile on his father. “You must be Lyle Langley,” she said as she extended the hand that wasn’t grabbing Ben’s ass. “I’ve heard so much about you, and it’s such a pleasure to finally meet you in person. I’m Holly Colvin.”
“Holly,” he said, pumping her hand harder than necessary as he stole a glance down the front of her dress. “Well, well, well. I was hoping Ben might bring a lady to the event tonight, but I had no idea he’d managed to round up
one so—so—”
“Intelligent?” Ben supplied. “Professional? Charming? Lovely?”
“Yeah, what he said,” Lyle answered, seeming to catch himself a bit with his son’s gentle reminder that there was more to a woman than tits and ass. The elder Langley cleared his throat. “Nice of you to join my boy here this evening. A powerful man needs a beautiful woman at his side.”
“Thank you,” Holly said, figuring it was easier to accept the compliment than to dwell on the suggestion that she was nothing more than arm candy. It’s not like she’d never been around men who thought that way. Hell, she’d married one.
“So, Mr. Langley,” Holly began, but Ben’s dad cut her off.
“Lyle,” he said. “Call me Lyle, sweetheart.”
“Lyle,” she replied, glancing up to see Ben’s cardboard smile firmly still rooted in place. “Ben was telling me about your remarkable leadership of the company. Tell me, what’s the secret to your success?”
The old man beamed like she’d just praised his dick or his car, and Holly knew she’d asked the right question. These business types were all alike, and she hoped Ben was taking mental notes on the inroads to a fellow executive’s ego.
“Well, honey,” Lyle said, leaning a little closer. “Just between you and me, the secret to success is ball-sack.”
Holly blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s an acronym,” Ben supplied, not sounding nearly as enthusiastic about it as his father did. “BALSAC. Stands for brains, attitude, luck, skill, aggression, and confidence.”
“Served me well my whole life,” Lyle said, raising a toast to himself and his BALSAC. “That, and aligning myself with the right sort of people.” He gave her another appraising look, this one slightly less lecherous. “Having a sweet, pretty girl by his side can help a man get ahead, too.”
Ben edged closer to Holly, which felt like another effort to shield her from his father. “We should probably get going—”
“It’s okay,” Holly said, giving Ben’s ass a reassuring squeeze to let him know she could handle his dad. “You must be very proud of your son following in your footsteps the way he is.”