Park Avenue Prince(24)

I was looking forward to seeing him. I wanted to check if I actually found him as attractive as I remembered. I wanted to know whether that jawline was quite as sharp as I pictured. Whether that quiet smile was as beguiling as lived in my mind.

Clearly, being ten minutes late was bad form if this was just a client meeting, but this was something a little more complicated. A business meeting with someone who’d been naked the last time I’d seen them called for slightly different etiquette. If it had been a drink with a casual fling, I’d have been twenty minutes late. Ten was a compromise.

“Grace Astor for Sam Shaw,” I said to the receptionist behind the high, shiny maple desk. She was the girl men loved—a younger, hotter version of Jennifer Lopez, if it was at all possible.

“Please follow me, Ms. Astor,” she said and she and her fabulous ass led me along a plush carpeted corridor to a corporate dining room. “Make yourself comfortable,” she said before shutting the door as she left. Well this lunch was all business, that was for sure. I’d expected to go out to one of the numerous restaurants around midtown that specialized in meals for suits. But it seemed we weren’t leaving the building.

The large, polished maple table was set for two, complete with what looked like crystal glassware and china tableware. If I hadn’t already been to Sam’s apartment, after seeing this I’d assume it to be similarly expensively furnished, no expense spared.

I knew differently.

I was peering at the blue and green abstract painting on the wall above the wet bar when the door swung open. “Grace Astor, you’re late,” Sam said.

“Deepest apologies for my tardiness. It couldn’t be helped.”

He waited for a beat for me to elaborate, and when I didn’t, he chuckled. “We’ll eat here if you don’t mind. Saves time.” He held out his hand for me to take the chair to the right of the head of the table.

His tone was friendly, but businesslike, as if we’d met once or twice before, but not as if we’d seen each other naked, as if we’d pulled and scratched at each other, each begging the other to push them over the edge into a soul-blistering orgasm.

Okay, well I could work with that.

“So, this is the catalog,” I said, pulling out the glossy book from my tote and placing it in front of us. “I’ve marked the ones I think are probably going to go for less than their real value with a Post-it.” We hadn’t really discussed budgets, so I’d labelled absolutely everything I thought would be a good buy. His picks should give me some indication of his budget.

He flicked his thumb down the line of multicolored Post-its and smiled before opening the catalog and regarding my choices.

We were interrupted by three waiters arriving with large white plates. Sam didn’t even look up as the food was set in front of us.

The silence bordered on uncomfortable. “Is there anything you like? I mean, if you want to discuss my reasoning behind any of the pieces I’ve marked, then do ask me questions.”

He set the book down and picked up his fork, pausing when he saw I hadn’t started eating yet. I picked up my silverware and we began to eat.

“What do the different colors mean?” he asked.

Was he asking me what colors represented in paintings?

“Your Post-its,” he clarified.

“Just ignore them, they don’t really matter for your purposes.”

“But there is a reason they’re different colors.” He set his silverware down and sat back in his chair, giving me his full attention.

“Not a business reason,” I replied, focusing on my plate.

“I think you like the ones you marked green the best.”

He was right, but how could he possibly know that? “Why are you always trying to figure people out?” I asked.

“Not always,” he said, picking his silverware back up. “Only people who I want something from, or who want something from me.”

“And which box do I fit into?”

He looked up from his plate and grinned. “I think you have a box all of your own.”

The room was quiet, and I was pretty sure I could hear my own heartbeat. What did that mean? Was he just avoiding my question, or was he paying me a compliment?

I wanted him to touch me because when he had before everything had made sense. I’d been so focused on the moment and the way our bodies worked together, I hadn’t second-guessed anything.

“I agree, by the way. I like the green ones, too. But I want to see them,” he said.

I glanced up and he was watching me as if he were checking every reaction I had to him.

“You want to see the green ones?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“You should keep an open mind about some of the others. There may be some other good buys among those that I’ve marked in something other than green.”

“I’m good with the green. I think we should go with your gut.”

“And you’re not going to tell me how you knew the greens were my favorite?”

“It’s no secret. I’m getting to know you. The way you like the intimate or unexpected.” He grinned. “In your art.” He shrugged and took a forkful of food. “And you clearly hadn’t marked them on price or period. It’s cute. Don’t be self-conscious about it.”