Satisfaction Guaranteed(5)

Her father would have hated him.

Her father hated everyone she dated.

He once remarked after she'd stopped by the office that he despised the guy she was seeing. No one was good enough for her, he’d said. I'd arched a brow asking, “No one?”

He shot bullets with his eyes. "No one, Casanova."

That was years ago, but it was all he needed to say, especially since he’d already told me not to get any ideas. When the man who signs your paycheck makes it clear his daughter is off-limits, something you already knew by virtue of the fact that BUSINESS PARTNERS’ DAUGHTERS ARE OFF-LIMITS, you listen. You take it to heart.

I remember his warnings perfectly, just like I remember all the times I’ve seen her. “A year or so ago. Yes. It was something like that,” I say, answering her question. The truth is I could give her chapter and verse of all the times I’ve seen her since we met—the time in Grand Central; the anniversary party her dad threw; an awards ceremony where I was tempted, so damn tempted; and the time she stopped by the office when her dad made the comment. Instead, I gesture to her getup. “So what are you doing in the city these days?”

“I just started an animal rescue here. About a month ago, and I’m getting it off the ground.”

I’m surprised her dad hadn’t mentioned it, even though the rescue is in its early days. But a smile takes over my face. “That’s great. You always wanted to.”

“I did. And I’m glad to do it. It’s hard work, but so rewarding. I’m actually living in Brooklyn, in the tiniest place imaginable. But I was shopping here because I’m staying with a friend in the city tonight. Do you still have Evil Genius?” she asks.

The sneaky orange senior cat I adopted several years ago skulks through my memory. He was the wiliest cat around, slinking into cupboards and inside cabinets, even in his old age. I had him for the last five years of his life. “Nope. He crossed the rainbow bridge a few years ago. Good cat. He had a nice, long, and happy life.”

She touches my elbow. “He did. You were good to him, though I’m sorry to hear he’s gone. Is there a new cat in your life?”

I shake my head. “Not yet.”

“Such restraint.”

“I know,” I say with a chuckle.

“But then, you always did have good restraint.”

“And so did you.”

She grins, a little flirty. “One of my great regrets.” Okay, maybe a lot flirty.

She tips her chin at my jacket, shifting gears immediately. “Nice duds. What are you doing in that suit?”

I run a hand down the silk of my royal-blue tie. “I sing now at Gin Joint. A few other places too, now and then.”

Her lips quirk up. “Is that so?”

“Yeah, I decided to take it up. Someone once told me I should.” Ha. Take that, Plant Brick. I bet he doesn’t sing, or wear a suit, or run his own motherfucking business. I bet he can’t remove ovaries from a cat either.

“I’m glad you listened to that someone. That someone always liked the way you sang,” she says, using her sexy bedroom voice, and I don’t even care if Plant Brick is the regular recipient of that smoky, sexy tone of hers. I’ll enjoy it right now, thank you very much.

“That someone has excellent taste.”

Sloane smiles, a bright, gorgeous grin that threatens to rattle loose words. Words like What are you doing right now? and Go home with me.

“I do have good taste.” Her gaze lingers on my face, her eyes locked with mine. The air between us crackles, and for a moment, we’re the only ones in New York City. “I still do,” she adds.

Dear God. Plant Brick doesn’t deserve this woman.

I do.

I fucking do.

I step closer and lift a hand, every instinct telling me to haul her into my arms and kiss the breath out of her.

I don’t, because Truly’s wrong. Sure, the score might technically change when the deal’s done. Her dad won’t be my business partner once he officially asks me to take over the business, as I suspect he’ll do on Friday night.

But Doug has also been my mentor. We have a long history. He taught me how to run a practice from the ground up. He’s a guiding force in the work I do, and my work is everything. Even if we’re no longer business partners, I have a feeling his daughter would still be off-limits.

I backpedal, digging my feet into the ground, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my suit pants. “We should . . . have lunch,” I offer, because lunch is harmless.

“Lunch?” She asks the question as if I’d suggested we take up crocheting. “Really?”

I decide to make light of it. “What’s wrong with lunch? What did lunch ever do to you?”

She hums, as if she’s considering it. Then she lowers her voice, like she’s sharing a tawdry secret. “Sometimes lunch disappoints. What if there’s no burger or fries? What if you can’t get the toasted panini of your dreams? Lunch can get you down.”

“Let’s do breakfast, then. It’s a satisfaction guaranteed kind of meal,” I say, playing along, since I don’t want to say goodnight to her.

“Do you still love pancakes?”

“Do I look like the kind of guy who hates pancakes?”

She studies me once more, her gaze traveling over my clothes. Then she drops the routine. “You don’t look like you hate pancakes. But, Malone, you know exactly why we shouldn’t do that.”