Diary of a Bad Boy(35)
Forget the sensitive bastard that showed up this morning. You’re back to your normal self. If anything, Sutton expects him and I can’t let her down, not anymore.
The elevator dings and the doors slide open.
I got this.
Sutton takes a step into the room, beaming with a sweet and excited smile, wearing leggings past her belly button and a loose-fitting, off-the-shoulder crop-top sweater that reveals a patch of her stomach as she moves. Jacket in hand, she makes herself at home, resting it along the back of a chair and then making her way into the living room after she takes off her boots.
“Gosh, it’s cold out tonight.” She removes her hat and swishes her head back and forth, fluffing her long blonde hair.
Fuck.
Fucking hell.
This is not good.
Nope.
She has to go home. That sweater, what the hell was she thinking? Her breasts are shaped like perfect round globes against the fabric, and the black lace of her bra strap is revealed by the wide scoop of the neckline. Getting work done with her wearing that is going to be next to impossible.
And then she turns around.
Christ. I drag my hand over my face.
Her high-waisted leggings mold to her delicious little ass and extend up the small of her back, leaving nothing to my imagination. And not a goddamn panty line in sight. Just perfect.
“What did you say was for dinner again?” she asks, digging in her purse.
You. You’re for dinner.
“Uh, no clue. It’s in the oven.”
She pops her head up, notebook in hand, completely oblivious to how hard she’s making me in what I’m sure she considers a “comfy” outfit. To me, she might as well be wearing lingerie. “It smells amazing. Is it ready? I’m starving.”
“Yeah, just warming.”
“Perfect,” she answers with cheer. “Shall we sit at the table to eat and work?”
“We can eat first then work.”
“Great. Want me to set the table?”
“Nah.” I get my legs to start working and make my way to the kitchen, where I pull out the casserole in the oven and then grab plates and silverware for both of us. “Looks like he made shepherd’s pie.”
“Oh, isn’t that a traditional Irish dish?” She bounces next to me. When the hell did she get there?
“Yeah. Have you had it before?”
“No.” As if she lives here, she moves around the kitchen, grabbing a water from the fridge and then holds up a bottle to me. “Would you like one?”
“I have a drink—”
“No booze while we’re working.” She points her finger at me. Sternly. “I need you coherent.”
I divvy up some portions and take the plates and silverware to the table where I set them down. “Sorry to disappoint, but I started drinking before you got here.”
With a saunter in her step, she tosses a water bottle at me and flips her hair over her shoulder. “Well then, sober up, we have a lot of things to get through tonight.”
When she says shit like that, it makes me want to reach for the bottle even more. Enduring a long night with her in that outfit, smelling so incredible, it’s going to be pure torture trying to keep my hands to myself.
She takes a seat across from me, folds the napkin I grabbed from one of the drawers over her lap, and holds up her water bottle to me. I reluctantly hold up mine. “To a wonderful partnership.”
“You’re fucking cheesy.” I clink my water bottle with hers, the colliding plastic making a less-than satisfactory sound.
“No, I’m excited. We’re going to bring this camp to the next level. I can feel it.”
Really? Because all I can feel is my raging boner against the zipper of my jeans.
“Did you mutter something?” she asks, fork halfway to her mouth.
“No.”
I’ve made some really bad decisions in the past week, but inviting Sutton here for dinner before we work has to be the worst idea of them all. Despite the scent of potatoes and beef, I can smell the faint fragrance of lavender, a smell I’ve come to connect with her now. The way her mouth wraps around her fork . . . hell, I keep envisioning my cock as the utensil feeding her shepherd’s pie rather than her fork, and it’s fucking with my messed-up brain.
Silence stretches between us as we both make a dent in our dinner. Mine is intentional silence, but Sutton’s isn’t. She’s way too consumed by the taste of her dinner and making little appreciative sounds that she hasn’t spoken a word.
“So, what part of Ireland did you live in?”
Small talk, no fucking thank you.
“We can just eat in silence.” I stuff a large forkful into my mouth and chew, looking away from her.
“You know, we’re going to be working with each other a lot, so it might be nice to know a few fun facts about one another. Don’t you think?”
“No.”
Chew. Swallow. Chug water.
“How about you tell me three things about you, and I’ll do the same. How does that sound?”
“No.”
Her fork clanks on the plate, finally pulling my attention away from the very entertaining and vastly interesting wood grain of my hardwood floors. “Do not shut down on me, Roark.”
“I’m not shutting down. I’m choosing not to share.”