I’ll have to tread carefully, make sure I keep this strictly professional. It’s not that I’m opposed to a fling, simply because we work together and it may get awkward. No, I’m opposed to a fling because this man will be married in under six months’ time, if I do my job well, and I always do. I’m not going to be stupid enough to get involved with him and then end up with a broken heart when he rides off into the sunset with someone years younger, twenty pounds lighter, and of course, millions richer than I’ll ever be. No fucking thank you. My ego isn’t robust enough to withstand such torture.
Besides, I do have the bonus money to think of. Between the bill collectors calling me and being behind on my rent, I can’t overlook the fact that I’ve landed in a precarious situation, one I’m desperate to get out of.
“What’s next?” he asks finally.
“Now that I know what you’re looking for, I want to take some time to create a comprehensive game plan. Why don’t you come by my office on Monday, and we can go over everything?”
He pulls his phone from his pocket and checks his schedule. “I’m slammed at work next week. Are you free in the evening?”
“Yes, that might work perfectly. Meet me on Thursday at nine at Ex’s and Oh’s nightclub.”
“Fine. Thursday it is, then.”
It will actually give me the chance to see him in his native environment, understand which types of women he’s attracted to and watch him in action. And then I can develop a plan that will totally knock his socks off. Which is exactly what I plan to do.
“Shall we go, then?” he asks, and when I nod, he helps me from my chair.
There is just something so elegant about him. Maybe it’s because he’s British with his accented English and proper grammar, or it could be because he’s ridiculously attractive with his stylishly messy hair, square jawline, and tall, muscular physique.
His intelligence is sexy too. I know from poking around online that he’s a brilliant attorney who skated through undergrad and law school with impressive ease. Meanwhile, most days I feel like a hot mess. Sniffing the wrinkled clothes piled on top of my dresser to see if they can get one more wear out of them, and crunching on dry cereal on my way to work. I’m guessing that the deliciously well-put-together Sterling Quinn never has that issue.
I need to find him a classy woman. Someone smart and equally as well put together. He’s an educated man, and it’s refreshing to hear that he wants someone who is his equal. He’s not intimidated by intelligence; in fact, he welcomes it. The idea of someone to spar with, to hold a stimulating conversation with, excites him.
This will be my mission: to find him someone great. I just hope, in turn, it will force the not-so-innocent thoughts I harbor for him from my brain.
I shared more than I wanted to divulge tonight. Is it this sexy, sensual man who opened me up like a flower in bloom, or is the wine to blame?
Sterling kisses the back of my hand like a perfect gentleman, and tucks me inside a waiting taxi.
I watch, wistfully, as his form grows blurry in the distance.
Chapter Eight
Sterling
Thursday night, I head upstairs to the rooftop bar of the nightclub where Camryn suggested we meet. I’ve arrived early, wanting to get a table so I’m ready when she arrives.
It’s not a place I frequent regularly, but I’ve been here once or twice over the years. Its clientele is mostly single twenty-somethings looking to cut loose after a day at work. A sleek long stainless-steel bar top runs the length of one wall, bar stools lining it. Instead, I choose one of the high-top tables that sit under strands of white lights. The evening sky has turned dark, and the night air is cool but not yet cold.
This week dragged by at a snail’s pace. Between work and seeing the inside of a courtroom more times than I would like, I’m tired and on edge. It didn’t help that my uncle called almost daily inquiring about updates, and hopeful women still flocked, following me wherever I go.
But then I see Camryn heading up the stairs, and my sour mood drifts away. Strange how she has the ability to do that without saying a single word.
I rise from the high-top table and raise my hand in a wave. She spots me and smiles, a wide grin that reaches her eyes, before catching herself and fixing her mouth into a line again. But I saw it, her raw and honest reaction to me.
“Hi, Sterling,” she says while I pull out her chair.
“Hello, love. You look lovely this evening.”
Her light floral scent drifts up to tease me while I help her into the seat. Her hair is loose over her shoulders, and she’s dressed in jeans and a black top cut low enough to let me catch a glimpse of the swell of tempting cleavage.
The waitress swings by our table, and Camryn orders a fizzy champagne cocktail while I request a gin and tonic.
We make small talk by discussing our work weeks, and Noah and Olivia, and then it grows silent for a minute.
“So I know we know each other, but tell me more about you,” she says.
“What do you want to know?”
“Let’s see. You’re British. You like drinking tea. Before he got hitched, you and Noah wreaked havoc on ovaries around the city.”
“True, true, and fuck yeah.”
“God, you are crude,” she says with a chuckle.
“Hey, you brought it up. But yes, love, I like pussy.”
Her cheeks flush, and I give zero fucks about making her blush. There’s something in me that likes getting a rise out of her. In fact, I’d love to rile her up even more.