Come As You Are(28)

“You did,” she whispers, her voice wobbly. She doesn’t meet my eyes. She runs a hand over her skirt and crosses her legs. Taking a deep breath, she raises her face. “I swear you did.”

I like her response. Hell, I needed her response. But once it’s voiced, a kernel of doubt wiggles insidiously through me, burrowing into my chest.

What if she’s setting me up?

I throw her question back at her. “But how can I be sure you didn’t know who I was?”

She rolls her eyes. “Please. I already said I thought you were a VC.”

But what if she’s lying? What if she knew who I was and seduced me to soften me up for the piece, like Annie came back to me to try to pry open my accounts? “How do I know?”

She arches a brow and straightens her shoulders. “How do you know? I guess you don’t. You’ll have to take my word for it. All I knew was you were a guy I liked spending time with. I had no idea what you did for a living. I didn’t care. I liked dancing with you. I like talking to you. And I really liked kissing you. I liked that the best.”

Dammit, she’s making my heart roll over, and there’s no time and space for that.

“I liked it too,” I say, but I can’t let myself be fooled. I can’t be Annie-fished again. I need to zero in on boundaries. “But obviously we’re not going to do it again.”

“Obviously.” She agrees almost too quickly. “I don’t sleep with sources, or people I interview.”

She takes a drink from her yellow teacup then sets it down. Her drink has a sprig of mint in it. Mojito. Yeah, she obviously likes torturing the bartender, since those drinks are hard as hell to make. I tended bar briefly after college while working on my first start-up, and anyone who ordered that drink might as well have used me as a voodoo doll. It’s best that I learn now she’s an evil bartender-torturer.

She pushes the teacup away and lifts her chin, her jaw set hard. “And I’m not going to recuse myself from the story.”

“I don’t think you should recuse yourself.”

“Good. Because I don’t need to. I didn’t know who you were when last night happened, so I wasn’t sleeping with a subject then. And now that I do know, we’ll proceed as if it’s business as usual. Plus, I could wind up covering your company or your sector on an ongoing basis for this magazine, or honestly, for any publication, so it’s best if we just move on.” Her tone is all-business, no flirting, and no soft underside.

I nod in agreement because, hell yeah, do I agree. “Business as usual means I also don’t sleep with people I work with.” Though, to be fair, I’ve never confronted a situation where I considered sleeping with a reporter covering my company. Nonetheless, I get that it falls in the same Very Bad Idea category as sleeping with a business partner, investor, banker, or lawyer.

I haven’t done those either.

See? I do deserve a lollipop.

“Besides,” she adds as she lifts her teacup, “I can’t risk this story. I have bills to pay, and I need this assignment . . .” Her voice trails off in a waft of desperation.

And the red warning buzzer goes off.

Money troubles.

She needs money.

Instinctively, my hand goes to my back pocket, covering my wallet. I’m a generous guy. I donate to charity, I’ve funded scholarships at my alma mater, and I have no problem sharing the wealth.

But it’s good I’m learning her deal now. If she’s mentioning money this early, then how would I ever know going forward if she likes me for me? I wouldn’t. It’s good the universe is looking out for me, giving me this info before I fall harder for her. Last night was one night, one moment, and that’s all it’ll ever amount to. I need to be ruthless about who I let into my heart.

“I have your halo still,” I say, cool and businesslike.

She waves a hand dismissively. “I don’t really need it.”

“So I’ll just toss it?”

“Sure,” she answers, then furrows her brow. “But I do like the headband I used. Can you just hold on to it for me, and I’ll get it next time?”

“I’ll bring you the headband.”

“You can just toss the other parts.”

That feels fitting. I’ll dismantle her halo, trash the fake money, and bring her the only part that matters. Just rip to pieces the thing she left behind.

There’s one more item she discarded though.

I finish off the tequila, then reach into my pocket. “Here are your panties.”

She stuffs them into her purse.

Like I said, I’m no Prince Charming.

Dirty or clean.

Prince Charming would have gotten the girl. Dirty Prince Charming would have found a way to take her home again, spread her out on the bed, and take her all night long.

Me? I’ll be heading home alone to listen for little green men on the radio.

Before I leave, she lifts her chin and taps the bar. “By the way, I like your glasses.”





13





Sabrina



If something is too good to be true, it usually is. That’s what I’ve always taught my brother.

That’s why I’m not in the least bit surprised.

Luck doesn’t twirl around in spectacular fashion, transforming the beast into the prince before the last enchanted petal falls. Nope. That’s the stuff of fairy tales. In real life, you don’t get the gig, the guy, and the great sex.