The Singles Table (Marriage Game #3)(70)

“Even if I can’t give you more than I’m giving you now?” She bit her bottom lip, watching him intently.

“I’ll take you any way I can get you,” he said. “We don’t need a label. Whatever you have to offer, just so long as you’re in my life.”

Now her eyes glistened. “You shouldn’t say things like that when I’m half-naked on your desk.”

“I can’t think of a better time to be open. I’m not the kind of man who easily shares his feelings.”

She reached for him, pulled him down for a kiss. “I feel calm when I’m with you,” she whispered against his mouth. “You quiet the voices in my head. You make me feel safe. You were the first person I wanted to call when I found out I might lose my job, but I was afraid you’d think it meant something it didn’t. I’m not relationship material and I don’t think I ever will be.”

“It would have meant you needed me and I would have liked to be needed. Promise me next time you’ll call. My help never comes with strings.”

“I promise,” she said softly. “And I’m sorry.”

He grunted his approval. “You grovel very nicely.”

She tipped her head to the side, gave him a sensual smile. “Now, do I get that ride?”



* * *



? ? ?

    He waited until after. When they’d made use of the desk, and then the window and the wall. When the light had gone and the darkness flooded his office and the streetlights twinkled below them. When they lay naked on his couch, wrapped in a soft blanket Elias had ordered as swag when they’d attended a conference a few years back. When she was his again and not trying to set him up with rhino whisperers. When her head was on his chest and she lay languid in his arms.

“The banker who’ll hopefully be financing our international expansion has invited Elias and me to a celebrity charity event on Friday night at the City Club.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “They’ve invited quite a few big stars. I thought you might like to come.”

“Seriously?” She pushed herself up but instead of a smile he got a scowl. “You’re just telling me about this now?”

“You didn’t give me a chance earlier,” he protested in mock innocence. “You marched into my office and told me the deal was back on and then proceeded to bombard me with details about women who would never interest me because they aren’t you. I didn’t know what was going on.”

“I told you right before . . .” She cleared her throat, her gaze dropping to their clothes scattered across the floor.

“Before you rode the big one.” He gave her a self-satisfied smile. “The first time.”

Zara threw off the blanket and left him to walk across the room. He would have enjoyed watching her if she hadn’t been walking in the wrong direction.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m checking it out.” She pulled out her phone and stabbed at the screen.

Silence.

And then a scream. “Oh my God! Lin-Manuel Miranda is going to be there! Jay! Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.”

She ran toward him. Naked. It was everything he had hoped for and more. He held out his arms and she threw herself on him.

Too late, he realized he was utterly exposed.





? 21 ?



Zara knew she’d made a mistake before she stepped out of the cab in front of the City Club. She should have worn the teal and blue dress with the crisscross front and the fluttery skirt. Instead, she’d put on the petal pink Chanel suit her mother had bought for her birthday a few years back. With its tiny bolero-style jacket and narrow pencil skirt, it had been uncomfortably tight on her curvy frame. Now, three years’ worth of biryani, ice cream, and samosas later, it had been almost impossible to get on.

But this was Jay’s event. He was meeting his most important investors, and they had the power to make his dreams come true. The pink suit was elegant and sophisticated, corporate but also classy. She’d accented it with chunky gold jewelry, pink stilettos, and a knockoff Chanel bag. With her hair straightened, her nails painted, and her makeup done to perfection, she was everything the future CEO of an international company could want in a party plus-one.

At least that had been the plan.

“Do you need a hand getting out?” The cab driver looked over his shoulder as Zara struggled to move. Something had happened in the last thirty-five minutes that had turned a slightly tight outfit into a torture device. Unable to contain the volume of her thighs, her skirt was straining at the seams, and damned if she couldn’t move her arms in the extra skinny three-quarter-length sleeves. Even the shoes were now too tight, her flesh puffing up around the toes like she’d shoved two brown fluffy pavs beneath the delicate diamante straps instead of feet.

“I’m good, thanks.” She drew in enough breath to finish the sentence, wondering if it was possible for a waistband to saw a person through the middle.

By the time she’d made it out of the cab, sweat had beaded on her brow and trickled between her breasts, staining the white silk sheath she’d worn beneath the jacket. She fastened the buttons to hide the evidence and looked for Jay.

Another problem emerged when she spotted him near the entrance. Extra-tight pencil skirts and extra-high stilettos were not a good combination. She shuffled along at a snail’s pace as seniors with walkers raced past her to the door.