Hot Asset (21 Wall Street #1)(36)

His voice is light and teasing, and a laugh bubbles out before I can stop it, my head dropping forward in defeat. Only he’s right there, so my forehead rests on his chest. I mean to pull back, but his hand moves from my arm, slipping under my hair to cup the back of my neck. He squeezes lightly, as though wanting to take away some of my tension. And maybe he can, because I let myself stay still, just for a moment, and I know it’s crazy, but when I pull away, I feel a little bit steadier.

“Thanks.” My throat is dry, and I clear it, try again. “Thank you.”

His hands fall away. “You’re welcome.”

Our gazes lock and hold for a long moment, and I find myself wishing so badly that things could be different. That I wasn’t SEC. That he wasn’t Wall Street. That there was no investigation. That the stakes weren’t my dream career of the FBI versus his career and reputation on the line.

I wish he wasn’t a notorious womanizer. I wish I knew how to flirt . . .

My phone buzzes, and I glance down. It’s Gabby telling me that she’s going home with her ex but that they’re happy to share a cab back to the apartment to drop me off first.

Third wheel. Just what I don’t need right now.

I text her to tell her I’m fine—that I’ll get a cab on my own.

I drop my phone back in my purse and look up at Ian. He smiles, but it’s a sad smile, like he knows what I’m thinking and he understands. Because he feels the same.

“You good?” he asks quietly.

“Better, yeah.”

“You think people will recognize us.”

I lift a shoulder. Yeah.

“Say no more.” Ian beckons for my purse.

I reluctantly hand it over. “I might have a Tide pen in there, but it won’t make a dent in your stain.”

“You know, most women bring one of those small envelope-style purses to a club, not a suitcase,” he says, rummaging through my stuff.

“Well, in case it wasn’t terribly obvious, I’m not exactly experienced at the club thing. What are you doing?” I ask in a panic as he pushes aside a tampon.

He pulls out my sunglasses case and waggles it at me as he hands my bag back.

“If you’re checking to see if they’re designer, I assure you they’re knockoff.” I stop short of telling him that some of us make a five-figure salary, not a seven-figure one like him.

He ignores me and opens the case, pulling out the sunglasses. Then he slides them onto my face and grins, clearly pleased with himself. “There. A disguise.”

I use one finger to pull the glasses down my nose an inch and give him a look over the top of them. “Seriously? It’s almost one a.m.”

“People will think you’re famous and wonder who you are.”

“Fantastic. Because I was really hoping they’d stare more.”

He jerks his chin toward my purse. “So, about that Tide pen . . .”

I shake my head. “No chance. But if you’re embarrassed . . .”

After a quick glance to see we’re in the shadows near the emergency exit with no one around, I step closer and button the top button of his dress shirt.

Yes, that’s right. I’m re-dressing Ian Bradley.

I try to keep it casual, almost maternal and businesslike. But then my fingers accidentally brush against his throat, and we both have to pretend not to notice. Or at least I pretend. Maybe he really doesn’t notice.

I pull out his pocket square—because yes, the man’s wearing one—and tuck the corner into the neck of his now buttoned-up shirt so it fans down over his chest in a ridiculous diagonal square.

Did I mention the pocket square is lavender?

“There,” I say.

He looks down and smooths a hand over the purple silk. “This is nice. A really manly look.”

I nod in agreement and push the sunglasses back on my face. “Like a man bib. Too bad you weren’t wearing it earlier to catch the spill.”

He looks at me expectantly. “All right. Are we disguised enough to Bonnie and Clyde our way out of here?”

I want to. So badly. But . . . “Ian.”

He sighs. “I’m thrilled we’re on a first-name basis, but I’m not digging that tone.”

I lift my eyebrows. “Do you even know that tone?”

“I’ve heard of it once. Rejection, is it? Never happened to me. Till now.”

I open my mouth, wanting to tell him that I’ve never felt the way he makes me feel before, but no words come out. I don’t know if I’m smart or just a coward. But when he presses the pad of his thumb gently against my bottom lip, I know I’m a fool.

He gives a quick smile. “Come on. Let’s get you a cab home. I’m pretty sure your friend’s gonna be a while.” A moment later, he ushers me out into the warm night air.

“How’d you know the alarm wouldn’t sound?” I say, gesturing at the emergency door.

“They turned off the alarm a few months ago. Too many drunk couples stumbling outside to make out.”

“Speaking from experience?”

He winks. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I think I already do,” I grumble.

“Now, now, Ms. McKenzie,” he teases. “Have we learned nothing today about making assumptions?”