Ah. That’ll be her old employer who tried to sue her when she left, taking half their client portfolio with her.
Excellent. So this consultation is personal. In more fucking ways than I’d like it to be.
“Make sure we get this contract,” Mom orders me, stalking back toward my door. “I’m counting on you for this, Bee. Carter Hughes is incredibly influential and if he hires us and is happy with us, it opens even more doors for us.” The door clicks shut with an echo that’s all too final.
Believe me, Mom. I know exactly how influential Carter Hughes is—he’s also real convincing. After it, it took him all of ten minutes to get his hand inside my panties.
I shudder at the memory. God, what are the chances? I’m certain Karma is royally fucking with me right now. I’m not sure what I did to the temperamental little bitchtit, but maybe it’s as simple as she thinks it’s about time I came face to face with one of my conquests.
The barista at Starbucks doesn’t count. I mean, I totally knew he worked there when I slipped him my card. He had just handed me a caramel hot chocolate, after all. I just didn’t expect him to call me.
I sigh and rest my cheek on my hand. I probably should have guessed that my carefree personal life would catch up to my professional one in the end. Just, for the love of fucking God, why does it have to be with Carter Hughes?
Damn it. Damn it all to hell and back again.
This truly is karma at her finest. I can still feel the sweet burn of pleasure from his skillful touch. I can still remember the way he played my body as though I were a piano.
I think I’m still having the goddamn orgasm.
Seeing him is not going to work out.
Shit.
***
I wring my sweaty hands together as I sit in the back of the cab.
This is such a bad idea. Me going to this restaurant and seeing this man is exactly what nightmares are made of. What was I going to tell Mom though? Let’s be real. I could hardly tell her that I couldn’t complete this consultation because I screwed the man on Saturday night.
Shit. Charley’s gonna have a fucking field day with this.
“Ma’am? We’re here,” my cab driver says.
I take a deep breath and hand him the fare before stepping out on the New York sidewalk. The sun is glimmering its way through the skyscrapers, its warmth unbothered by the tall, glass buildings in its way. I revel the in the sensation on the sunshine on my skin and turn my face into it.
For a moment, I can pretend I’m not here. I imagine I’m on a beach in the Bahamas, sipping on a fruity cocktail. I’m stepping out onto the balcony of my hotel in the Jamaican morning sun. I’m dancing in the afternoon Mexican heat.
The illusions are broken by the tooting of horns and distant whirr of a siren.
Ugh. New York can’t even give me two minutes, can it?
My stomach coils in apprehension as I study the outside of the restaurant. With its clean lines and black mirrored walls that are broken by perfectly polished windows, not to mention the thick, block letters proclaiming it to be Carter’s, it’s a wonder I never noticed its striking look at the weekend.
Then again, I never have paid much attention to my surroundings. Ironic, considering my job. Or perhaps it’s because of.
Who knows?
Not to mention that this place apparently has two doors in, because this is the door I came out of.
I glance at the dainty watch circling my wrist. Five to eleven. I should really make my presence known or risk being fired from the company I own thirty-three percent of.
Mom would too, just to teach me a lesson.
I approach the heavy wooden black door just to the left of the restaurant, per the email instructions Carlos finally emailed to me five minutes ago. Apparently the man has never mastered the art of preparation and his organizational skills resemble a toddler’s far more than mine ever could.
With a deep breath filling my lungs to the brim with oxygen, I clasp the thick sample book to my chest and rap my knuckles against the door. Two seconds later, I notice the bell, black too, and press it.
More horns beep as the traffic merges at the end of the block.
Slowly, the door opens. A young woman who can be no older than my own twenty-six years fills the space in front of me. Her blouse is perfectly pressed and well fitted, and her black pencil skirt leads down to skyscraper heels. Blue eyes peruse me as slick blonde bangs graze her eyebrows. “Can I help you?”
I force a smile. “My name is Bee Donnelly. I’m here on behalf of Donnelly Designs.”
Blondie purses her lips and grasps an iPad seemingly out of nowhere. “We have a Carla Donnelly on the schedule.”
“My mother,” I confirm. “Something came up for her. She said she’d called ahead and informed you I’d be coming.”
She rolls her eyes and sets the iPad down. Who the fuck knows where? Seems like any area behind her is made solely of darkness and possibly bitch-pill-fed demons. She produces an iPhone from the same blackness and scrolls. “Oh yes. I have a missed call from her. Two seconds please.”
I take a deep, calming breath as she turns away, the phone to her ear.
“For fuck sake, Joanna. Let her in. She’s hardly a terrorist.”
I’d know that voice anywhere.
Mostly because the last words I heard it say were that I’m a ‘fucking delight.’
“Sir, I’m simply confir—”
“Joanna. Escort her into the bar. Thank you.” A shadowy figure strolls behind her.
Blondie—apparently named Joanna, although I will assume her parents missed a damn good trick on the Barbie front—looks to the ceiling. Her cheeks flush as she takes a step back and opens the door wider. “My apologies, Ms. Donnelly. Please come in and forgive my rudeness.”
I wave it off. “Don’t worry, honey. I have a demon-boss of my own.”
Her lips twitch. “Your mother.”
“Ssssh.” I touch my finger to my lips. “Don’t say the word. You may just summon her.”
She glances down, fighting a smile, then sweeps her arm elegantly. “Follow me. Mr. Hughes is waiting for you.”
Yes. He sure does have that habit of waiting… Once you’re at his mercy, that is.
Holy fuck, Bee. This is not the kind of thought you need to be having right now. You’re here to design his—wait. No. I’m not here to design a thing. I already designed the man an orgasm for the love of fucking God.
The contract though.
Right. The contract.
Focus, Bee.
Sweet fuck. How can I? This wasn’t in my plan. Nowhere near it. Neither was the blind date, so really, this is Charley’s fault. The bitch.
“Take a seat,” Joanna offers, motioning to a black bar stool. “He’ll be right with you.”
“Thank you.” I set the giant portfolio down on the black glass bar. Another fact I missed this weekend. Holy hell, was I truly that wrapped up in Carter Hughes that I didn’t notice a thing about this… bar? Restaurant? Whatever it is he’s running here?
Yes. I was. Because I’m a slut and I’m proud of that.
And there’s a sentence I never thought I’d have to say to myself.
Judge me all you like. We all have an inner whore inside us.
Charlie Hunnam. Ryan Reynolds. Adam Levine. Julian Edelman. Jamie Dornan. Brad Pitt. Channing Tatum. Ian Somerhalder. Cristiano Ronaldo. Matt Bomer. Joe Manganiello.
If you can think of them and have dry panties, then you’re clearly an alien who has no place on this world.
I close my eyes briefly to center myself. Work. Consult. Give opinion. Be a real woman. Don’t be a puddle. I’m here to work and I need to remember that.