Game On(74)

“The hell kind of pick-up line is that?” I said, flummoxed by both his nonchalant demeanor and the sweet scent of masculinity radiating off his delicious body. Stop it Ally, I mentally scolded myself. You’re indignant. Be indignant!

“I’ve got all kinds,” he promised. “Want something more traditional? I’ll give it a go: let me buy you a drink?”

I gestured at the drinks already in front of me.

“I think I’m covered,” I said wryly.

“Then do you mind if I buy myself one and drink it here with you?” he asked.

I considered. I was doing research here. Important research. Research that could change the very trajectory of my career and make all those dreams come true. I didn’t need any distractions.

On the other hand, those shoulders. And those lips, mm-hmm. And truth be told, for all my defensive posturing, there wasn’t a damn thing about him that didn’t scream ‘charming’ and ‘good company’ and, most importantly, ‘eye candy.’

My old science teacher did always say that it was important to have a research partner.

“Well, it certainly would improve the view,” I said, relieved to have finally given myself permission to cozy up to this intriguing stranger.

He grinned wider then, sliding into the booth opposite me, our legs bumping together slightly. Butterflies danced in my stomach. Damn, what was this, sixty seconds and I already had it this bad? Guys this hot should come with a warning label. Not that I’d stop to read it.

Hottie McHotterson—also, damn, how had I not asked his name yet, was I really that far gone into the Lust Canyon?—flagged down the waitress, and ordered a Knox whiskey.

I made a face.

“Not a fan?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Of the whiskey? Sure,” I said. “It tastes great and gets the job done.”

“What is it, then?” he asked. He seemed genuinely curious, and that made me open up. “What’s missing?”

“Well, it’s just—” I gestured at the label. “Look at this packaging. Just the name stamped on there in an old-timey font, and the same barrel logo they’ve been using since B.F. Skinner first strolled up to an ad agency with some rats in a box and a lot of fancy promises. It does nothing to catch the eye.”

“The label?” He raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

“That’s hardly it!” I shot back. “Their whole branding approach is the same, stuck in the past! Print ads whose copy never changes, radio jingles with slang from the second World War, TV spots with the same Bob Hope lookalike every year—it doesn’t matter how good it tastes, it looks old-fashioned. Like something my grandpa would drink.”

My mysterious visitor’s drink arrived, and he quirked a brow in amusement and raised his glass in a salute. “To your grandfather—a man of excellent taste.”

I snorted, but raised my own glass to match his. As they clinked together, his fingers brushed against mine, and I felt a spark leap where our skin met. He must have felt it too—he started, looking up at me, and our eyes locked. His eyes were so deep, golden-brown like molasses swirled in honey, and they warmed me up inside with a heat like the sun, spreading out from my heart down to my toes, and up to my head until I was dizzy, my heart pounding. I wanted nothing more than to sink into those eyes. I wanted nothing more than to keep touching his fingers.

I wanted nothing more than to invite him up to my room, then and there.

Focus, Ally! You have a presentation tomorrow! No rando is worth throwing away your entire career for a roll in the hay.

Maybe the whiskey was just getting to me.

I pulled away hastily and downed my drink, all of it this time. This sample had more of a honey flavor, less of a bite. If I were writing copy I’d call it ‘soothing, charming, a genteel liquor.’ Since I wasn’t, though, I didn’t pull any punches. “The truth is, though, my grandfather and his friends aren’t the customers of the future. You see this same trend in advertising for comic books—the company panders to its original base—not even all of the original base but a small, vocal fraction of it—and alienates all of its potential new customers in the process.”

“Tell me more about what you think,” he said intently.

Which would have been catnip for me even if I hadn’t been storing up a host of criticisms that went unheard at work, and even if he hadn’t been so damned hot. I didn’t need telling twice.

“This is your typical Knox buyer.” I launched into an imitation of my grandfather. “‘I jus’ don’ know how much longer they can be ‘spectin’ this centralized government t’ last. Times wuz much simpler when a man jus’ brewed his own whiskey and shot at the revenooers.’”

The man laughed, and waved a hand in acknowledgment of my point before raising a challenging eyebrow. “So what would you do if you had control of the rebrand? Throw in some hashtags and make a Facebook page? Get a celebrity endorsement?”

“As if,” I snorted. “Millennials might be self-absorbed, but we can still see through pandering just fine, thanks.”

“Oh?” His thumb brushing over my knuckles was an invitation, and a challenge, and both made my breath catch in my throat. “A pink label, then?”

I watched his eyes dip to the side and a lazy grin spread across his face, and I knew that he had spotted the pink strap of my bra peeking out from the side of my short-sleeved button-up shirt.