Diary of a Bad Boy(15)

And her tits . . . Foster needs to tell her to lock those things up. Her shirt is way too low-cut. I keep catching myself as my eyes are like magnets to her nipples, trying to see right through the fabric of her shirt.

This little lunch date is uncomfortable for many reasons, and one big one is pressing against the zipper of my jeans.

If I knew I’d be this attracted to the girl, I might have returned the phone a little sooner and then taken her out . . . for a drink. I don’t do dates.

“If you have any questions about the specials, just let me know,” the waitress says, giving me a sly once-over before retreating, an extra sway in her hips.

Nice.

Uh, what were the specials? Between Sutton’s tits and the waitress eye-fucking me, I don’t know what happened over the last few minutes.

“The chef’s salad sounds good, don’t you think?” Foster asks. “But iceberg lettuce, I don’t know.”

Sutton leans over, a grin pulling at the corner of her lips. Sexy. “But Dad, the iceberg is of such high quality.”

“With zero nutritional value. Might as well eat the guacamole burger and onion rings.”

“Not even close to the same.” Sutton gives her father a look.

He pats his stomach and says, “It’s the off-season, Sutton Grace, which means your dad can eat whatever he wants.”

Well, isn’t this just fucking cute. Dad and daughter with playful banter. It’s not nauseating at all.

And the asshole in me is tempted to make a snide comment about wanting to throw up after that little display of family ties, but I hold back because Foster Green is one of my biggest clients, and I want to keep him, especially given the endorsements I’ve been able to score him lately.

Instead, I sit back in my chair, bring my tumbler to my lips, and take a long swig, letting the amber liquid slide down my throat, coating me with numbness.

“What are you going to get, Roark?” Foster asks, peering at me over his menu.

I lift my tumbler in his direction and give it a little shake. “Drinking my lunch today.”

A disapproving sound comes from his daughter that I ignore as I take another—long—chug from my drink. When I set down my empty tumbler, she sneers at me, clearly not on board with my lunch idea.

“Do you have a problem with my lunch, Sutton?” I ask, her name rolling off my tongue with ease.

Chin held high, eyes still trained on the menu, she says, “No problem. I just don’t think it’s very professional, but I guess you skipped right over being professional, didn’t you?”

“I think your father would be concerned if I didn’t have a drink at one of our meetings.”

We both look toward him, and like the smart man he is, he lifts his menu, avoiding eye contact with both of us. Playing Switzerland. Foster Green has always been one of my more intelligent clients.

“Maybe try a meeting without it,” Sutton suggests. “Get some fiber in your system.”

“Fiber, when all they’re serving is iceberg lettuce these days? Fuck that.” I pick up the menu and spot the first thing under the pasta dishes. I set it back down. “I’ll get the mac and cheese. Happy?”

“I couldn’t care less. It’s your choice.”

“Couldn’t care less?” I laugh. “You just lectured me about not drinking my lunch. I’m only getting mac and cheese so you’ll stop judging me with that sneer in your lip.”

She covers her mouth. “There is no sneer in my lip.”

Foster leans to the side and speaks quietly, but not quietly enough. “There was a little sneer in your lip.”

“Dad!”

“What?” He chuckles. “There was,” he answers with a shrug and then sets down his menu. “Besides, you two are going to have to start getting along if you’re going to work together.”

That makes me sit up straight. “Work together?”

“What?” Sutton practically shouts, eyes wild.

The feeling is mutual, sweetheart.

Tamping his hands down to control our outburst, he says, “Let’s order and then we can get to business.” Turning toward me, he points at my tumbler and says, “That’s your last drink for this meeting. Get some food, man.”

With a smile tugging on her lips and a lift in her shoulders, Sutton proudly picks up her menu again and peruses it, acting as if she just bested me.

It’s going to take a lot more than that to best me, lass.





And this is why I don’t really eat food, or heavy meals for that matter.

Mac and cheese was such a bad idea. It feels like I just swallowed a brick of cheese. It’s swirling around in my stomach with my whiskey in the worst way possible.

I’m bloated.

I want to pass out on this table, forehead into half-eaten plate.

And the burps. Christ. So many unflattering, what feels like beer burps that I’ve had to discretely hide because, heaven forbid, I let one out with Miss Manners sitting across from me. She might wilt in her chair.

“You look like you’re ready to take a nap.”

I glance at the all-black Gucci watch on my wrist, making a show of it, and say, “Well, we are closing in on my nap time.”

Foster chuckles but Sutton doesn’t look the slightest bit amused.