IRL: In Real Life (After Oscar, #1)(21)

Wells: Good. I’ll make it up to you later tonight.





NotSam: I’ll text you when I get back to my room?





He was so earnest and sweet. Part of me wanted to wreck him, but part of me wanted to wrap the kid up in a cashmere blanket and set him in front of a warm fire.

I took a minute to picture him there in my penthouse with me. Perhaps stretched out naked on the plush cream carpet of my hallway floor, whimpering and begging for me to take him before we even had a chance to make it to the bedroom. His eyes would be wide, pleading like they’d been earlier in the conference room. Perhaps he’d even take his bottom lip between his teeth, scraping across the sensitive flesh. Inviting me to do the same.

I groaned.

Wells: You’re going to be the death of me, NotSam.





I glanced at the words I’d typed in surprise. While the sentiment was true, there was no need to let him know just how much he was affecting me. That knowledge would give him power, and I preferred to be the one in control.

Control I desperately needed to reassert unless I wanted to blow this entire project.

I deleted what I’d written and typed something else.

Wells: No. I’ll text you when I’m ready for you.





I tossed the phone on the coffee table and rubbed my face with my palms. What the fuck was I doing? If it was just sex I wanted, there were other ways to go about it. Smarter ways. I thought about the last person I’d had a sexual arrangement with and wondered if I should simply reach out to him and tell him to meet me here later tonight.

But then the way we’d ended things flashed through my mind. Ugly and emotional. Tangled in bullshit feelings and expectations. On his end, of course. Not mine.

No, thank you.

Maybe I could flip through other previous sex partners and find someone for later… I sighed and stood up, pulling my tie loose as I headed back to my bedroom.

The problem was I didn’t want someone else.

I wanted Conor Newell. And that was a very big problem indeed.





Once we were seated at the trendy Italian fusion restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen, my wallet several large bills lighter than before, I couldn’t help but stare across the table at Conor.

We’d shaken hands when he’d arrived, and it had taken all my self-control to let his go after the appropriate interval. The tips of his hair had still been wet from a shower, and he’d smelled of a high-end fragrance. It had taken me a moment to remember the Four Seasons probably used Bulgari bath products. No way was Conor the kind of guy who normally smelled like that. More than likely, his normal scent was supermarket deodorant combined with Dial soap. Maybe Axe body spray for special occasions or something equally nightmarish.

But I was completely sure he could carry it off like nobody’s business, and, if given the chance, I’d suck it into my nostrils like a tweaker snorting a mountain of blow.

I forced myself to focus on the menu in front of me. What the hell was agnello arrostito? I tried recalling the semester of Italian my mother had forced me to take at Penn.

No dice. I guessed I was having the risotto after all.

“Um…” Conor mumbled into his own menu. “Do you think they have an English version of this?”

I glanced up at him, prepared to suggest the risotto, but James answered before I could. “I speak Italian, tesoro. What are you in the mood for?”

I knew enough from his tone to figure “tesoro” was a term of endearment. I wondered idly what “pretentious asshole” was in Italian.

Conor smiled sweetly and murmured back and forth with James, who leaned in awfully close in order to hear what Conor asked. They chuckled over some of the descriptions until finally making a decision.

Thank god. I’d been about to take out my text app and order Conor back to his hotel room just so I could put some distance between him and the older attorney. I took a deep breath. I needed to relax or else this was going to be a very long dinner.

Once the server had taken our orders and menus, I lifted my wineglass in a toast. “To new partnerships and smooth negotiations,” I said, smiling at Conor.

“To saving lives and helping others,” James cut in with a judgmental glint in his eye. At least that’s the way it appeared to me. I wondered what the man’s problem was, and if it was with the deal in general or me specifically?

“Of course,” I added smoothly. “To the future of vessel prosthetics and continued research as well. And to Dr. Elizabeth Newell without whose hard work and dedication, none of this would have been possible.”

Conor’s face flushed, and he gave a slight nod of appreciation in my direction. Despite having spent the day in the office together with the same team around the restaurant table, he still seemed uncomfortable and nervous.

When the young waiter serving the wine leaned in to refill my water glass, I whispered to him to make sure to keep Conor’s water glass full as well. I wanted him plenty sober for our texting later that evening.

“Of course,” he murmured back with a flirty smile. “And I promise to take care of you too, sir.”

I nodded my thanks and glanced over to Conor, only to catch him glaring at the young server over my shoulder.

Interesting.

Instead of acknowledging it, I turned to the senior R & D tech who happened to be sitting on my right. “Nigel, did you have any other questions or issues we need to go over before moving forward?”