The Two Week Arrangement (Penthouse Affair #1)(15)

He stands up to shake hands with Dominic. “Great to see you again. As you can tell, I got here a few minutes early and decided to get a head start on the evening.” He chuckles at his own joke.

Giving him my best customer-service smile, I offer my hand and he shakes it. “Hello, I’m Presley.”

“A pleasure to meet you, miss. I’m Roger.” Then he looks at Dominic. “Boy, you just keep getting them younger, don’t you?”

It takes effort not to let my face fall. Jeez . . .

Dominic’s expression stays pleasant, but the look he gives Roger is razor sharp. “Presley is only four years younger than me, actually. She also happens to be brilliant. She went to Brown University on full scholarship, she’s interned at several of the Northwest’s top companies in finance and leadership, and in high school, she won the national coding competition four years in a row.”

Roger and I both blink at him, stunned. Butterflies fill my stomach. Dominic has every reason to flatter this guy, but I secretly like the way he leaped in to defend me.

And how did he remember all that stuff? Dominic has my résumé, it makes sense that he’d know everything about my career accomplishments, but I’m surprised he can rattle off so much from memory. The warmth in my chest grows at the thought.

Roger clears his throat. “That, ah . . . yes, that’s quite the list. Should we have a seat and order some dinner?”

Dominic’s lips twitch with the hint of a smile. “Perfect,” he replies in a sunny tone. “I’m looking forward to getting down to details, but first we need some refills on drinks.” He nods to Roger’s wineglass, which is half-empty.

We sit, with Dominic between Roger and me. I try not to look visibly shocked at the prices as I study the menu.

Dominic leans close. “What would you like to drink?”

It’s unnerving having him so close, but not entirely unwelcome. His crisp, masculine scent—leather, and cedar, and something I can’t name washes over me, and the heat from his thigh is so close.

“Um . . .” It’s hard to think with him almost touching me . . . not to mention that deep, smooth voice practically murmuring in my ear. “Is there a white wine here you recommend?” Hopefully that sounds sophisticated enough to mask the fact that I usually just grab whatever has the smallest price tag.

“They have a pinot gris that’s quite good. I’ll order us both a glass.” In a softer tone, he adds, “You’re doing fine, by the way.” Then he pats my knee reassuringly under the table.

I almost gasp when his touch sends an electric jolt straight up my thigh and beyond.

He’s just being nice, I sternly tell myself. Absolutely platonic. But my body doesn’t care. It reacts the same way it would if any attractive, eligible man were touching it.

Pressing my knees together, I force my attention back to the menu.





Chapter Seven


Dominic



Presley leans in as she speaks, her eyes sparkling along with the candlelight and crystal of the dimly lit restaurant. She’s telling Roger all about the ballet programs in the city.

For the very first time, I’m the speechless one. Usually, my escort keeps her words to a minimum, sprinkling in the occasional nod and laugh. But Presley has me beat for Roger’s attention.

“Really, I think Julie would love it. Especially if she’s inclined toward dance,” she says, placing an encouraging hand on the table between them.

“She is definitely chock-full of energy, that kid.” Roger’s granddaughter is five, and his wife keeps her after school on weekdays. From what he’s told us, she’s a little terror. Rampaging around the house, breaking things both accidentally and on purpose. “Meanwhile, I find myself running lower and lower on energy every day.”

He raises his glass to us. “Not that you younger people can relate. You don’t have to worry about kids for years,” he says with a wistful sigh.

I snort, to which both Presley and Roger turn.

“Thank God,” I say, covering smoothly, and I tip my glass toward his. We clink our drinks together, and I can see Presley eyeing me inquisitively over her wine.

“To preserving energy,” I say.

“To ballet,” Presley responds, and Roger laughs heartily. If I haven’t won him over, my date certainly has. And how could she not? She’s gorgeous, smart, funny . . .

My intern turned escort.

I mentally chastise myself. I’m not dating Presley. Don’t get too comfy with this, Dom.

It’s easy to talk to her, easy to work with her. She’s young and bright and beautiful, but that doesn’t mean I get to picture how her pouty mouth would look taking my cock, or get myself all jacked up on her pheromones—no matter how good she smells, or how warm she is sitting beside me.

I’ve seen interest flickering in her gaze when our eyes meet, but still, Oliver is right. I can’t fuck her. Which really puts a damper on tonight.

I lean in and try to compose myself. “Roger, tell me. What’s your opinion on a financial partnership with us?” Okay, so this was a little more straightforward of an approach than Ollie would have suggested, but I’m rolling with it.

“You’ll have to tell me more.” He leans back against the tufted booth. “What kind of partnership are you thinking?”