Moonlighter (The Company, #1)(46)

“What? Only thirty-eight? I could beat that with one hand tied behind my back.”

Eric laughs. I see his back shaking. Then he collapses onto the rug. “You wrecked my set!”

“Oh, sure, blame the pregnant lady.” I step over his body and proceed to the kitchenette. “Is there any yogurt left?”

He rolls over. “I thought you said dinner was soon.”

“It is. But when you’re the speaker, you can’t eat. Too risky.”

“Risky? Like you might choke and die before your speech?”

“No, like you might get sauce on your dress.”

“Heavens!” He eyes me from the floor. “This audience is mostly men, right?”

“Sure.”

“A spill on your dress won’t be the thing they notice first. For better or for worse, those eyes will be on whichever parts of you the dress doesn’t cover.”

Yikes. I pull a cup of yogurt out of the fridge. “Thanks for making me self-conscious.”

“I’m sorry.” He sits up. “I shouldn’t be flip about your big talk.”

Twenty-one years later and it’s still true—Eric is the nicest grouch I’ve ever met. “The problem is you’re right. But I still want to look good and speak well.”

“Is this speech hard?”

I shake my head. “Not really. I’m revealing a project I’ve been developing for two years. So it’s not like I’ll forget what to say. But I still have to get up there and say it, knowing that half the audience thinks I’m only in charge because daddy gave me the job.”

Oops. That old fear just slid right out.

“Fuck them,” Eric says with a flip of his hand. “You don’t need their validation.”

My spoon hovers above the surface of my yogurt. You don’t need their validation. Such a simple idea. But it’s one that doesn’t occur to me nearly often enough. “You are very useful. Even outside the bedroom.”

His laugh is sharp and sudden. “I’m honored that you noticed. Can I have the first shower?”

“Sure, but leave the bathroom door open.”

“What, you need a show?” He jumps to his feet and flexes his biceps.

“Nice,” I say. “But I need you to avoid steaming up the mirror.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “God, you are hard on my ego.”

“I am not hard on your ego, Mr. Hot Bod. Well, unless we’re counting the night I didn’t recognize you and shot you down when you weren’t even hitting on me.”

“Oh, we’re counting it.” He walks slowly toward the pillow cam, drops his shorts, and shakes his butt in front of it.

I almost choke on the yogurt.

“But—full disclosure?” He pulls up his shorts again and walks toward me in the kitchen area. “If you had recognized me, and we did pull off a conversation in some quiet corner, I would have totally hit on you. It was only a matter of time.”

Again, my spoon stops midair, and my mouth hangs open.

But Eric is already halfway to the master bathroom, humming to himself.

And he leaves the door open like I asked.





16





Eric





It’s not until I’m wearing my suit and escorting Alex into the ballroom that I understand what a big deal Alex is. I mean—she’s already a big deal to me. And she looks ravishing in a sleek black dress that hugs her bust and then sweeps into billows of fabric, artfully concealing the rest of her body from prying eyes.

But I admit to being taken aback by the flurry of whispers that her entrance causes. “Engels, people are pointing and staring,” I whisper as we parade past a million other tables toward the front of the room. “It’s like if Taylor Swift entered a middle school cafeteria.”

“That would cause screaming, not whispers.”

“Still.”

An organizer in a severely tight bun leads us to table #1. “Let me know if there’s anything I can get you. Anything at all.”

“Thank you. This looks lovely,” Alex says as I pull out her chair. I take the seat on her right, and Rolf takes the one on her left.

“Please let there be wine,” Rolf says.

“You can’t drink until after our presentation goes off without a hitch.”

“Well, goddamnit. I’m eating, though. You can’t stop me.”

“You two are like an old married couple,” I point out.

“We get that a lot,” Alex says.

The food isn’t half bad, either, although Alex doesn’t eat anything.

“There has to be something here that doesn’t stain,” I point out. “These rolls are pretty good.” I offer her the basket.

She shakes her head. “It’s okay. I feel a little off, anyway.”

“Bet you’ll feel better when the speech is done,” Rolf says. “She gets nervous,” he stage-whispers to me.

“I do not.” She chews her lip. “You’re sure the prototype is working?”

“Working great,” Rolf assures her. “Bingley and I had a whole conversation about gifts I could get my grandma for her birthday.”