The Dating Experiment (The Experiment, #2)(17)

Chloe rolled her eyes. “That was never in doubt. I didn’t go into business with a clam, did I?”

“Did you just pay me a compliment? It might have been a little backhanded, but I’ll take what I can get with you.”

“Did you feel me stroke your ego?”

“If you did, it didn’t react.”

She pursed her lips into a glossy red pout. The annoyance stretched up to her eyes where her brows were slightly turned down, and her gaze belied her annoyance. “Has anyone ever told you how intolerable you are?”

“I tend not to speak with people who don’t like me. You are, of course, excluded from that narrative.”

“You’re intolerable,” Chloe continued. “I cannot believe that after a successful date, you still feel the need to piss me off. Never mind James Bond having a license to kill—it’s like you have a license to be killed.”

“Is the license yours?”

“With any luck,” she snapped. “Now, cut the shit and tell me how your date went.”

“It was perfectly lovely,” I said with a smirk.

“If you’re not going to take this seriously…”

“I never said I wasn’t. I was using the same terminology you used.” I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms. “As far as first dates go, it was a good one. She talked a little too much about herself, but what woman doesn’t?”

Chloe’s stare was flat and cold. “How the hell does anyone let you match them with an attitude like that?”

I laughed, unmoving. “I was kidding. She was great. Beautiful. She really did talk a bit too much, but whatever. I was too consumed by the way her tits tried to escape from her shirt.”

“And here I was, wondering how you made almost thirty years without getting married, you pig,” she muttered.

“Same reason you made it twenty-seven years without getting married. It takes a special kind of person to marry an asshole.”

“I’ll be sure to confirm that with your future wife.”

“You can try, but I’m determined you’ll never meet her,” I shot back. “I’d buy you out of the business before that happened.”

She snorted. “Like you could afford my half, Dominic. I match more than you, and you know it.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. So, are you having a second date with Rachael?”

Rachael. That was her name. Thank fuck she mentioned it.

“Yep,” I said. “I’m calling her tomorrow.”

Chloe’s eyes flitted across my face for a moment before her lips twitched into a smug little smile. “You forgot her name, didn’t you?”

“No,” I said through a clenched jaw.

That smile grew, and it danced in her eyes. “You’re the worst liar ever. Your date went so well you forgot her name.”

“I thought it was Raquel. Easy to mix up.”

“You’re not Paolo, Dom.”

“Who the fuck is Paolo?”

“The Italian guy from Friends who calls Rachel, Raquel?”

I shook my head.

She sighed and waved her hand at me. “Whatever. Never mind. So, we’re both going on second dates this weekend?”

I jerked my head in agreement. “With any luck.”

“All right. So, we work until then, and we’ll get together to see if we’re both going on a third.”

“Sounds about right.”

She picked up her mug and her purse as she stood. “’Kay. I have a meeting with a new client in twenty minutes, so I’ll see you later.”

I nodded, turning back to my computer. “I have a lunch meeting with a client, so I’ll be out of your hair soon enough.”

“A lunch meeting?” She paused at the temporary wall we had to separate our offices. “A new client?”

Shaking my head, I barely glanced up at her as I said, “Ruby.”

“Ruby?” She coughed, but it sounded a hell of a lot like she was trying not to laugh. “And she can’t come here?”

I knew what she was getting at. “No. She’s working and doesn’t have time to come across the city, so…”

“Sure, she doesn’t.” She dropped her hand and smirked. “You know the only thing she wants to date is what’s inside your pants, don’t you?”

“Chloe.”

She held up one hand and backed into her office. “All right, all right.”

I blew out a long breath and rubbed my hand over my eyes.

Hell, even if Ruby did want what was inside my pants, at least somebody fucking did.





Chapter Seven – Chloe


Sometimes, all you need is a lunchtime sangria and donuts.

And by sometimes, I mean all the time.

“Well.” Dom stopped in the doorway of my office and leaned against the wall—the permanent one. “You were right.”

With my lips still pursed around the straw of my sangria, I peered up at him through my lashes.

Did he just—

“Did you,” I said slowly, setting down my Styrofoam cup, “just tell me I’m right?”

“No, I said you were right, not that are you right.”