Blurred (Connections, #3.5)(20)

“I can’t stand the smell of scotch,” she says.

“The scent of Band-Aids doesn’t appeal to you?” I mock.

“That’s exactly how it smells. Oh my God, you’re so right.”

“They’re both made from the same phenols. That’s why they smell the same.” I tell her.

“TMI,” she answers, the tip of her cigarette flaring as she inhales it. “I may never drink that again now.”

I laugh and sit back down. “Are you ready for this?” I ask.

She nods, blowing out a stream of smoke as she does. I press record on my recorder and set it on the table. I used the same Sony version for years until I had to “die.” I wonder for a moment if the old one is anywhere in my shit that’s stored in my mother’s attic. I make a mental note adding it to my list of things to look for. I clear my throat and start asking her the ridiculous interview questions I prepared. Although she answers each one in a rather flirty manner, the matter-of-factness tone of her actual answers makes me question her motive for marriage. Thirty minutes and one drink refill later the interview is complete. Thank f*cking God.

Sloan reaches into the seat cushion and pulls out a small baggie. “Okay, Goody-two-shoes. Time to prove you’re not Dorothy.”

I shake my head but can’t help but smile. She’s holding a bag with at least a dozen joints in it. She lights one up and inhales, handing it to me before breathing it out. I look at it, and I look back at her. I figure what the f*ck and grab it.

A few hits later she asks, “Can I ask you a question now?”

“Sure.”

“Do you like being blown?”

I cough, choke, and almost spit. “Come again?”

“I asked, do you like blow jobs?”

“Is that a trick question?” I wave off any more of the weed she’s trying to pass me.

“No, just answer the question.”

“Um, yeah, what guy doesn’t?”

She snorts and takes one last hit. “My fiancé, that’s who.”

My eyes meet hers. “Well, baby, shame on him.”

And as if what I said was the cue for a scene she’s been rehearsing, she unties her robe and lazily reclines back on the arm of the couch. I watch her with amusement. What the f*ck world am I in? Of all the things I expected from this crazy job, this was the last thing I envisioned happening. She pulls her knees up and spreads her legs. I can see she isn’t wearing anything underneath her robe. I haven’t gotten any in a while and the sight of her slick bare flesh makes me harden on the spot.

Raising her brows as if she’s daring me, she runs her tongue over her lip. I don’t move a muscle toward her, yet I can’t help but stare. I try not to, I really do, but skinny or not, she’s got a hot body and looking at her * is an absolute turn-on. I shouldn’t even be thinking what I’m thinking. What she’s offering should never happen on the job. Plus she’s engaged for Christ sake. I know all of this—but I’m only human.

A quick fifteen minutes later, I leave her suite. She closes the door behind me and I lean against it. My stomach is in a knot again. My first interview and I let the bride-to-be blow me. Fuck me, I can’t believe I just did that. What the hell is wrong with me?

I’m mentally scolding myself when the elevator doors slide open and I lift my bowed head. Needing to look twice, I can’t believe who’s walking my way. Her hips sway in her tight little dress and she walks like a runway model in those high heels. My heart pounds at the mere sight of her. I prop a foot up against the door and watch her slow her pace. She fumbles around in her purse and when I clear my throat she looks up. Our eyes meet, but she quickly drops her gaze. Keeping her head down, she continues to walk in my direction. I catch her peek up a few times from under the curtain of red hair now shielding her face. I stifle a laugh. She knows I’m watching her, there’s no way she can’t. When she walks past me I consider putting a foot out to stop her, but she takes a step back and pauses right in front of me. She doesn’t look at me, but her lips straighten into a thin line. I can’t help but grin. “Can I help you?” I ask.

Her mouth falls open, but no words escape. She immediately closes it. Crossing my arms over my chest, I have to drop my head to stop from laughing at her pouty lips. She tucks a lock of that long red hair, no longer wild, but smooth and straight, behind her ear and when she looks up her emerald green eyes bore into mine. The hallway is so quiet I can hear her breathing, or maybe it’s mine. She points to the door I’m leaning against and asks, “Is that room 1516?” Her voice is mildly shaky.

I swivel my head to look at the number, even though I already knew it was. I shove my hands in my pockets and tilt my gaze to hers. “I believe it is, S’belle Wilde.”

She bites her lip and I can’t tell if she’s flirting with me or in deep contemplation.

Her eyes narrow. “It’s Bell, actually, and you’re in my way.”

I can safely tell by her tone now that she’s not flirting. She shuffles her feet back and forth and I realize she might be nervous. But when she scrunches her nose and huffs like she’s annoyed with me, I have to laugh.

“Hmmm . . . I like S’belle myself,” I tell her, and for a second I think she might actually clock me.

She huffs again and adds an eye roll. “Whatever.”