International Player(35)

My tiny living room wasn’t designed for pacing. I could only manage two and a half steps before I had to turn around. But that hadn’t put me off. Propositioning Noah had seemed like a good idea when I’d weighed up the pros and cons instead of sleeping, then an even better idea when I’d messaged him. But right now, with three minutes until his arrival, it seemed like the worst idea in the world.

I needed stationery.

Pens, paper—not pink. Not bone ivory. White would be more . . . professional. Less emotional. Black pens. White paper. Because that was what my proposition was—black and white. Take it or leave it. Head not heart. I pulled out two fresh pens and ten sheets of paper and was just about to close the door to my home-stationery cabinet when the Post-its caught my eye. Yes. We might need Post-its. Again, yellow. No fancy colors.

This was the perfect solution—a way of getting him out of my system, stopping me from wondering if there was more to his touch or whether he meant what he said, that I was beautiful. This was my opportunity to take back control. I just needed to get through the actual proposition and then I could relax.

I’d not changed out of my office wear. I couldn’t negotiate an agreement for casual sex in a comic-book t-shirt. I needed to be businesslike about this, although I’d taken off my shoes and opened a bottle of wine. I’d only had half a glass but my muscles were looser, and my brain a little fuzzy. I’d hoped it would take away my urge to pace but, no, not even pinot noir was that powerful.

I jumped at the sound of the buzzer as if I were guilty of a crime and about to be arrested. If Abigail knew what I was up to, she’d definitely tell me I should be locked up for criminal stupidity.

I reached the intercom just after the buzzer sounded for the second time. I didn’t speak, just released the door and began to count my breaths—in, two, three, out, two, three.

In, two, three. Out, two, three.

Yeah, I definitely needed liquid courage.

I scooped up my glass from the table where it sat with the bottle of wine, stationery, and an empty glass for Noah. No one could accuse me of not being prepared.

I opened the door to find Noah waiting.

“Hey,” he said, his smile curling around the word like it was a secret between us.

I held up my glass. “Hey,” I said.

He frowned suspiciously, and before he could ask me how long I’d been drinking, I headed back to my living room, hoping he’d follow.

“Wine?” I asked, looking up at him as I perched on the edge of my sofa, topping up my glass.

His gaze tracked my movements. “Are you okay, Truly?”

“Of course,” I snapped. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He smirked as he raked his fingers through that beautiful blond hair. “No reason. You don’t normally drink on a weeknight, that’s all.”

“Well, things change,” I said, pouring the already open wine into his glass. “You’re in a suit.” I avoided looking at him, scared that the sight of him in all that cool, navy wool would have me pawing at him, given the wine I’d now drunk.

He sighed and shrugged off his jacket, placing it over the back of the chair that no one ever sat on.

I held out his glass, and he took it with one hand, loosening his tie with the other. I pulled my eyes away from his long fingers and the way he always seemed so confident everywhere he went.

“How was your day?” he asked as he sat on the other end of the sofa, one long arm stretched across the back of the cushions, almost touching me like he’d done the night we’d kissed at the tequila bar.

“Good,” I said, nodding furiously.

He chuckled. “What’s going on, Truly? Do you have bad news you need me to help you deliver to Abigail? An issue with the foundation?”

“Not exactly,” I replied, tipping back some more wine. “Not at all, in fact.” I had to tell him what I was thinking, but it seemed so stupid now that he was here, all perfect and gorgeous. Why on earth would he want me?

“I just thought we could have some wine and talk. You know.”

His smile faltered. “Okay.” He took a sip of wine. “You said you had a proposition.”

“Yeah, but I’m not drunk enough yet,” I replied. I wasn’t sure I would ever be drunk enough. “And neither are you.”

“I have to be drunk to hear whatever you have to say?” He glanced around my book-lined room. “Are you going to tell me you’re MI6 and that you want to recruit me? Because I’m in. I always thought I’d enjoy a life as a spy. It just doesn’t pay enough. But I could do it part-time.”

I fixed him with a glare. “I’m not trying to recruit you into MI6, Noah.” I rolled my eyes. Men. Why did they always think they were a step away from being the next James freaking Bond?

He grinned. “Yeah, I didn’t think so. You’d make a terrible spy.”

I leaned back into the sofa. “There’s no way I could do that job.”

“For one thing, they look for people who don’t stand out—you’re way too beautiful for people not to notice you.” He twisted my hair in his fingers, and I closed my eyes, forgetting for a few seconds how that wasn’t normal behavior between us.

My eyes flew open. “That’s a perfect example.” I shifted to look at him properly. “Things like that. The fingers. The telling me I’m beautiful. I need you out of my system. And Jesus God and a banana, I need some sex.”