Hell on Heels(6)

“No. He’s expressed interest in sponsoring the Gala.”

Uncrossing his legs, Kevin’s eyes softened as he leaned forward. “The Gala is this Saturday. Can we manage another sponsor this late in the game?”

The emotions on my face war—they often did this close to the gala—and he noticed. Kevin was as perceptive as he was fabulous.

“Right then. I’ll make it work.” He stood. “Want me to fetch the dream boat for you, boss?”

I nodded. “Please.”

Without another word, he sashayed out the door and my nerves filled up the space he left behind.

I was nervous. Men in general made me nervous until I knew my way around them, but having someone like Beau in my space and here, regarding the gala no less, made me edgy.

I didn’t often mix business with pleasure, as I was messy with one and not the other. Though it’d been nearly three months since my last duet with a man and I was jonesing for a high this close to the gala.

The gala that honoured the memory of Henry.

My addiction prickled at the back of my neck.

The temperature in the room seemed to spike with my unease, and the fabric around my throat seemed to suffocate me. I wished momentarily I’d chosen a different outfit. The office was a dress as you pleased atmosphere. As long as my staff looked respectable and came to work prepared to do their jobs, it was dress code at your own discretion. Today, I’d dressed in black skinny jeans that put my hourglass figure on display and a cream loose-fitting turtleneck that was shorter at the hem in the front and longer in the back. The colour of the material and the brown suede of my ankle boots played up what was left from my summer tan, as did the pale pink lipstick I was currently reapplying.

My thick hair was twisted into a chignon at the crown of my head, and in my ears were a pair of pearl earrings, a token from a time when hope got the better of me and I’d tried for something more and lost.

“Your 1:30,” Kevin beamed, his pitch a bit above professional from the doorway. Stepping aside and waving his hand out towards my office, I was graced with the head-on vision that was Beau Callaway.

Kevin was right. He was so hot.

“Mr. Callaway.” I smiled, rounding my desk expertly and extending a hand.

“Please, call me Beau,” he corrected, engulfing my hand in his larger one.

“Of course.”

He was tall, taller than me, even in my heels. If I had to guess, I’d put him at a little over six feet.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Beau. I’m Charleston Smith.”

He squeezed my hand, and the air in the room got thicker.

“Are you sure I can’t get you anything?” Kevin asked, still gawking at the politician’s backside from his position in the doorway.

Beau’s eyes never left mine as he spoke. “No, thank you, Kevin. You’ve been incredibly helpful.”

His voice was deep and kind; even simple sentences came out poised and eloquently.

I’d vote for him.

My assistant swooned once more at the sound of his name on Beau’s lips, eventually closing the door to my office behind him.

Reluctantly pulling my hand from his, I motioned to one of the high-backed chairs. “Please, have a seat.”

He waited for me to settle into my chair before undoing the buttons of his suit jacket and doing the same.

“I assume you know why I’m here?” he asked, leaning the expanse of his wide upper body back into the seat that seemed to shrink at his size.

The more privy I was to an unobstructed view of him, the more I changed my opinion. Beau Callaway wasn’t just so hot; he was beautiful. His blond hair was, I gathered, always in a permanent state of tousled bedhead and just an inch past due for a haircut. That, combined with his tan, made you suddenly crave beaches and salty kisses. His jaw worked when he spoke, the hard lines stubble-free and offset by the soft blue of his eyes. That, encompassed with full lips and a lean body, edged him into a state not unlike that of the boy next door, but the boy next door was all grown up.

He was a dreamboat, a political dreamboat, and I offhandedly felt a small bout of remorse for those running against him.

“Your assistant mentioned you were interested in sponsoring the charity gala this Saturday evening.” I reiterated the main points from the e-mail I had received from his office yesterday.

He nodded. “I understand this is very last minute and likely looks like a publicity grab.”

“Mr. Callaway, you don’t need to—”

He cut me off, “Beau.”

“I’m aware that charities look good on a political roster, Beau. I’m not offended.”

“Very well.” He seemed satisfied with my answer and I saw no need to redirect that. “Some recently acquired campaign funds have become available and I’d like to put them towards something I believe in.” I gestured for him to continue. “I’m not sure if you follow politics much, Mrs. Smith.”

“Miss Smith,” I corrected his obvious word choice. He smiled and I returned one of my own. “Please, call me Charleston.”

“Charleston,” Beau repeated after me. “That’s a very pretty name.”

The tremor in my steel shook loose a blush that crept across my cheeks. “Thank you.”

I’d never grown accustomed to taking compliments well. They often made me feel out of place in my own skin, though I worked tirelessly not to show that.