Stripped Bare (Stripped #1)(14)

A deep, familiar voice rumbled through the air. “Ms. O’Halloran?”

My head snapped up and my gaze landed on the man the voice belonged to.

Dark hair.

Sharp jaw with a five-o’clock shadow.

Plump lips.

Bright. Blue. Eyes.

“Oh shit,” I whispered then clapped my hand over my mouth. Mia! You can’t swear in front of clients, even if you’ve f*cked them! I forced myself to get my shit together and stood, holding my hand out. “Mr. Rykman, I presume?”

His lips curved into a dirty, sexy smirk, and his grip on my hand was firm. “You presume correctly, Ms. O’Halloran. And, if you don’t mind my saying so, you make this awful Monday morning a lot brighter.”

My cheeks flushed. Damn my blush reflex. “Thank you. Should we get started?”

He was still holding my hand.

Houston, we have a problem. A really f*cking big one.

This was bad.

Apparently, my day was determined to really go to shit, because there I was, staring into the eyes of the stripper...who was also the owner. And who, three weeks ago, had f*cked the ever-loving shit out of me. And had the most wonderful cock.

Oh god. Why was I thinking about his cock? I shouldn’t have been thinking about his cock. What was I thinking?

About his cock, obviously.

Damn it, no! Thinking about his cock was off-limits. Any kind of anything to do with his cock was off-limits.

Why was I thinking cock so much?

I had to stop thinking about his...dick.

There. That made a nice change. But I was still thinking about it.

“Are you all right? You look a little dizzy.”

I forced myself to stop thinking and focused on the way he was looking at me. With that smirk still firmly in place, there was no doubt it was amusement, pure and simple.

I snatched my hand away from his. “Let’s get started, shall we? Michelle didn’t tell me anything you’d discussed, as she needed to leave town, so I’m behind on your thoughts.”

He motioned for me to take my seat again and sat opposite me. “Actually, I’d like to hear yours.”

I swept my hand down my skirt and peered up at him. “I only started work on this yesterday. I don’t have very much at all.”

“Well, what do you have?”

Was that smirk painted on? Had to be. Either that or he had very resilient facial muscles.

I tightened my jaw but released it before I spoke. I had to keep my cool. Professionalism would be key to getting through this job.

“I think you need to rebrand,” I told him.

“As in…a new logo?”

“Maybe an entire new look, but certainly, a new logo. It’s not a secret that a new look is the first key to getting attention.”

“Is there something wrong with the one we have now?” He slowly raised an eyebrow, still amused.

“Nothing, but it’s always my first suggestion. Usually for slow businesses, not ones that are still booming. But, considering the budget I’ve been given, I’d try it.” I tapped my pen against the table. “The next is what you do inside. Have you thought about a theme night? A once-a-week show?”

“No. Great ideas.”

“Thank you. And, since your primary audience is women between the ages of twenty-one and forty, you could bring in a mixologist to create a custom cocktail. Keep the ingredients secret, offer it in shots, drinks, and fishbowls.”

“I like that. Have you done something like that before?”

“For a client?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Once or twice, but they decided not to keep the ingredients secret, and they had two or three cocktails instead of one.”

“So you know someone who could create one.”

Not a question. A statement. Man, he was enthusiastic.

“I live two hours outside of L.A. I don’t just know someone—I know the best someone.” I clicked my pen and scribbled a small note to call Lili. She was the best damn mixologist I’d ever met—and if she couldn’t get there, she’d know someone closer who could.

“Great. These all make my ideas look like child’s play.”

“That’s why you hire a professional.”

“It is, indeed.” His lips moved back to the smirk, and despite the tug it forced between my legs, I couldn’t not ask my next question.

“Mr. Rykman—”

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. His white shirt was rolled up to his elbows, and the tightening of the fabric stretched against his muscular arms. “I think you know me well enough to call me West.”

“Mr. Rykman,” I repeated, looking him right in the eye. “Excuse me for asking, but why have you hired a professional? From what I saw, you don’t need any marketing help. Your club is booming. We’re usually called into failing businesses who use their last profits to hire us or independent traders or new companies who need to get their name out there.”

“We haven’t done anything with the club for two years.” He doesn’t move, and he keeps his bright eyes trained on mine. “We did an initial marketing campaign, got the best male dancers we could, and now, the club runs itself, but it’s getting stale. A full club most nights doesn’t mean business is growing, Ms. O’Halloran. It’s steady, but now, I want more. Strip clubs aren’t exactly rare in this city. We have to stand out before someone else does. For all I know, someone’s already planning to.”