Million Dollar Devil (Million Dollar #1)(30)

Hmmm. “I’m supposing a bow tie is a big no, then, huh?”

Michael doesn’t bat an eyelash. He nudges me out of the way and shows him how to tie the thing, effortlessly.

“Michael, would you be able to give James here a thorough lesson on how and when to wear each piece?” I ask.

James gives me a look. “You don’t think I know how to put on a jacket? Just ’cause I never tied a tie before don’t mean I’m an idiot.”

I roll my eyes. “There are certain occasions befitting of different pieces, and you need to understand that.”

He salutes me.

“Oh, and that snake LB,” Michael continues with a nod. “He put a call in to some of us, asking if we wanted in on a little bet he has going on. Can you believe? He’s betting on you failing at this, Lizzy. The balls on that little parasite!”

“I think we’re done for today; thank you, Michael,” I say, flushing even more because James is listening.

“Thank fuck.” James exhales, his nostrils flaring as he rips the tie from his neck and jerks the jacket off of him with an angry yank. “Fucking straitjacket.”

When he finally steps off the platform, I almost can’t look back into his eyes for fear of what I’ll see there.

“Now will you let me take you someplace?”

Surprised, I jerk my face up. He’s wearing a white button shirt, a perfectly smooth area of his tan chest exposed.

“Only if we can call it a business dinner. It’ll be a chance to practice your manners,” I say, needing to get out of here.

He laughs and starts to button the shirt back up. “Call it whatever the hell you want, if it’ll make you feel better.” He motions to his gorgeous body, clad in the shirt and slacks. He can almost pass for a man from my side of the world. “Do I meet with your approval?”

Oh, hell yes. But I can only nod dumbly.

“We can take my car.” I fish out my keys as we head to the parking lot.

I decide this is just as good a time as any to start teaching him how to treat a lady. So I stop in front of the driver’s door of my car.

“Open the car door for me, please?”

James is already heading to the passenger side like he can’t wait to get out of here.

He pauses, confused. “Why? You’ve got two hands.”

“They’re to embrace the flowers you give me, not open my own doors when a man is around,” I say.

He exhales in frustration, nostrils flaring as he stalks around the front of my car, grabs the remote, unlocks it with a beep—and swings the door open.

Our shoulders brush as I step in.

“Want me to fasten your seat belt too?” he asks, his voice gruffer than it was a few seconds ago.

I hesitate, the look in James’s eyes unreadable. “If you want . . . ,” I answer, my voice thick.

He does.

The brush of his fingers against my body as he straps my seat belt makes me stiffen, wild, white-hot shivers crackling through my system.

I exhale when he eases back, the cologne I spritzed on the guy only yesterday teasing me. I bought him my favorite by Tom Ford. I wonder if that’s why I can’t get enough?

I’m a little worried about what kind of low-class dive he’s going to take me to. I’m not a fan of fast-food places; they smell like fake food and a lot of grease, if my teenage memories are accurate, with several documentaries claiming the food is barely fit for human consumption. But he gives me directions, and we end up having burgers in Shake Shack. A first for me.

And definitely not my last.

“Gosh, this is really the best hamburger ever,” I declare a half hour later as we sit side by side in a small booth at a corner of the restaurant. I can’t really teach him table manners here, but . . . I’ll let that slide.

“Good, right?”

I nod, licking my fingers from the last bite and happy I’ve still got a lot of fries to go through. “How did I spend my whole life missing this?”

“What? You never ate Shake Shack before?”

I cringe before admitting, “I’ve rarely eaten fast food at all.”

And as expected, he gives me a look like I just crash-landed to earth in a UFO.

“Geez. So what? Do you want to talk about it? What’s the deal with Dad?” He leans back a bit and studies me.

I’m so surprised by his question I don’t know what to say for a long moment, opting to lift my drink and take a cool, quick sip from my Diet Coke.

I set it down, opening my mouth as I try to come up with some lame lie. Instead I say, “I just had a moment. My father is a rather strict man, and it’s difficult for me to gain his trust. I wish he would call me instead of LB—his right-hand man. I called him this morning just to say hello, and . . .” I shake my head. “Needless to say, I could tell he’d rather I not call.”

He leans back in his chair, eyeing me for a moment. “I can’t say I remember what that feels like. Having a difficult father. But if he’s asking someone to keep an eye on you, it means he cares in his own way.”

I’m literally not breathing. “No,” I say, frowning. “My father wants an eye on the business—specifically on the part of the business I’m managing. He’s afraid I’ll screw something up.”