Chapter 17
By 10 p.m., the stragglers were edging out, not quite drunk enough to forget their goody bags. Jack and I shook hands and made promises of follow-up calls, like a bride and groom in the lineup at their wedding reception. My clutch bulged with business cards that I couldn’t wait to rifle through.
Stray napkins littered the terrace, while empty glasses with lipstick marks adorned the tables and surfaces. The event company had begun to dismantle everything in preparation for the cleanup crew arriving in an hour.
I waved the last of the guests out and shut the door, sliding down against it until my ass hit the floor. “Fuck, what a night.”
Jack watched me. “Have to say, I’m pretty impressed.”
I looked up at him. “They seemed to like it. The guy from Key Homes thinks his buyer will put an offer in for Penthouse Three.”
Jack looked down at his shoes. “I meant I’m impressed by you.”
I faked keeling over to the side. “What were those words you said?”
“I mean, how you handled the fight thing. Stormed right in there and took charge.” He pulled at the knot of his deep purple tie. My favorite color. Why did he have to look so good in it?
I righted myself and picked at a piece of fluff on my dress. “Nobody fucks with my business.”
“And that’s why they call you the barracuda,” he said.
“I’ll bet some momma’s boy who couldn’t lick my shoes came up with that,” I snorted.
He held his hand up in mock surrender. “Don’t shoot the messenger, but Fermin started it.”
“Vermin. Of course. Am I supposed to apologize for being good at my job?”
His blush clashed with his lilac shirt. “You don’t apologize if you don’t mean it. You’re honest always. Unlike some people in this business, you do have a smidgen of integrity.”
“That’s almost a compliment,” I pointed out.
He wagged a finger back and forth. “Almost isn’t quite.”
“Close enough.” My ass grew cold from being parked on the marble floor. “Well, time to go.” I moved onto my knees to stand up. There’s no way to look graceful on all fours.
He offered a hand to help me up. “Fancy a nightcap before you go? Celebrate the night not being a complete disaster?”
I had all those business cards waiting for me to follow up. There were phone calls to make, units that needed selling, negotiations to start. Or I could pat myself on the back for once and relax for an hour. Sixty minutes wouldn’t kill me.
I took his hand and hoped he didn’t hear my knees click as I stood up. Already, the caterers were packing the bar into boxes on the terrace. “Ugh, think we’re a little late.”
Jack looked to where I nodded and winked. “I may have stashed some in the butler’s pantry.”
That wink was a weapon of mass destruction. “May?”
He took me by the arm and led me through the wide corridor toward the kitchen. “Yes, in case I’m doing a showing and require hydration. This place is bigger than Central Park.”
The skin on my arm prickled under his fingers. “The consummate professional,” I remarked as we walked through the swinging door at the back of the kitchen and entered a smaller carbon copy of it.
He released me from his grip, reached up to a top cabinet, and pulled out a bottle of Glenmorangie and two crystal-cut glasses.
My arm burned ice cold where he’d touched me. “I’m not a whisky drinker.”
He poured out two measures. “You will be after this,” he instructed and handed me the glass. “That’ll put some hair on your chest.”
Our fingers entwined as I took it from him, and he held on longer than necessary before releasing the glass.
It seared my throat until it hit my stomach and spread a warmth through my bones. “Ah, that’s why I’m single. Not enough chest hair.”
Jack took a neat sip from his glass. “You don’t care that you’re single.”
I took another sip. “I don’t.”
“Why?” he asked, popping the top few buttons of his shirt open to reveal his collarbone.
Wonder how it would feel to run my tongue across it?
I jumped up onto the counter. “Because people come and go. Why get upset over the inevitable?”
He jumped onto the opposite counter and poured himself a second measure, eyes skipping over my legs as I twirled my ankle. “Cynical way to look at it.”
“Never been accused of being flowery.” I waved my hand to decline his offer of a refill. Any more alcohol and I would be licking his body like a popsicle. “So why are you single?”
He sucked in his cheeks. “You ever gone to your favorite restaurant, and ate, say, a steak? It’s the best thing to ever hit your mouth, so you can’t wait to come back the next day for more. But hours later you’re in the bathroom with food poisoning, wishing for death to get some relief. And when you recover you vow to never eat steak again?”
“I have IBS, so I can imagine,” I answered.
“Well, my ex-girlfriend was that steak.”
That stumped me. “You’re comparing women to salmonella-infested meat products?”
“Never thought about it like that,” he admitted, swinging his legs like a schoolboy on a wall and leaning toward me.
I had so many questions. “So I assume you eat… hotdogs now?” I raised an eyebrow.
His shoes bashed off the counter and he stopped, probably imagining the cost of fixing a dent. “No, no, no.”
My fingers slid around the rim of my glass. “Can’t blame me for asking.”
“Look, nothing wrong with liking… hotdogs… but I’m a steak kind of guy.” The green eyes trained on my cleavage backed up his statement.
“Which you never want to eat again,” I pointed out.
He swilled the last of his whisky and threw it back. “Someday I will. Maybe I’ll pass a farmers’ market and order a piece. Give it a try. Maybe it doesn’t make me pray for death.”
My stomach dipped. “When you get married, you should put that in your wedding vows.”
He jumped down from the counter and landed in front of me, my knees between his legs. “If you promise to sit in the front row.” His voice sank deeper with each word.
My neck flushed—in five seconds, it would be pinker than a Nicki Minaj wig. “Oh, I wouldn’t miss the look on the future Mrs. Shane’s face as she hears those words.”
I hopped down onto the tiled floor, trapped between his powerful thighs. This would be the part in the romcom where we kissed. Move, before your hands touch something they shouldn’t. Eyes on the prize, Munroe. “We’d better go make sure everything’s cleared. Long day tomorrow.”
“Listings?” he asked, following my lead back out to the patio. A quick look over my shoulder confirmed he’d been checking out my ass.
“We have that meeting with David in the afternoon.” I swung my hips. “Then four listing pitches and an open house. Then I wanted to paint my bedroom, but I’ll be a zombie by then, so it’ll need to wait.”
“If you wait until next week, I could help out,” he offered, moving to help the waitstaff fold down a table.
“You want to help paint my bedroom?” I double-checked. “Are you planning on stashing fish in my vents?”
“I planned on stealing your underwear and dropping it along the Brooklyn Bridge walkway.”
“Yeah, no thanks.” I stepped out of the way of a woman carrying a box of dishes.
He nudged me with his elbow. “Kidding. I enjoy painting. It’s therapeutic.”
“So I could charge you for therapy?” I licked my bottom lip.
“It’s more of a quid pro quo. I help you; we get time to go over deals, who we’re chasing, etc. At least this way you’ll get the pleasure of throwing me out if I annoy you. Can’t do that in a restaurant.”
I hummed. He had a point, but my apartment was my turtle shell. I rarely let any male in there apart from the maintenance crew and any guy who lasted more than ten dates. However, free labor and a chance to talk business? I’d be a fool to say no. Even if it was with Jack Shane.
“All right.” I cocked an eyebrow. “But don’t be expecting steak.”
Jack’s pink tongue ran over his bottom lip in a slow, deliberate stroke. “Pizza will be fine.”