Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Hollis
I have to admit, I was so unnerved after my brief meeting with Kellan and the fact that he had some “requirements” of his own, that I barely heard a word the photographer told me about the photoshoot.
Gabe Delgado is the photographer we’d hired for the event this morning who is shooting all the individual photos of Brett and the contestants. He was saying something about digital downloads and using a hashtag on social media, but honestly, I wasn’t paying attention to him.
All I could think about was Kellan and the picture he stole from me. The picture I had saved on my camera roll. I don’t know what has me more embarrassed: Kellan knowing I still have the picture on my phone or knowing he may now be using it for the same reasons I do.
And now as I get dressed for the dinner event, my hair done up in a chignon, my red wavy locks pinned back into a tight knot, I wonder what will happen tonight. I need to get him on my client list so I can go onto the second task to get my spot as President: finding a husband.
I cringe, taking a large drink of my wine and ponder this preposterous request that my grandfather has demanded of me. What year are we living in? 1952?
I hope that by Monday, with Kellan’s contract in hand, I can bring it back to my grandfather and tell him I didn’t need a husband to run this company and that it is antiquated and old-fashioned to believe that being a female boss means I have to have a husband.
I slip on my shoes, clasp my bracelet and take one final look in the mirror, satisfied that I look pretty good.
I’m not athletic like the men and women I represent, but I’m still in good shape.
I eat right, do yoga four times a week and avoid high-calorie foods in favor of a glass of wine every now and then.
Turning so my backside faces the mirror, I peer over my shoulder and check out my legs and ass. The dress I’m wearing – a tight-fitting black cocktail dress – clings to my curves in all the right places and has a really large slit up the back, showing a view of my legs.
“That’s right, Kellan Muller. Eat your heart out, handsome.”
The evening goes better than planned. Camera’s roll and they record all the prize-winning moments of the dinner event, capturing the women’s expressions and excitement over their fifteen-minutes of alone-time with Brett, and of course, the series of downcast rejections of those who didn’t win. It’s reality-TV gold.
With the dinner hour now concluded and the dancing and open bar set to begin, I check my phone for the time and to see if Kellan has messaged me about our meeting.
I haven’t seen him yet tonight and wonder if he got sidetracked and forgot about our meeting.
Knowing him, he’s probably been shacking up with a snow bunny.
But no sooner do I think his name when he saunters up beside me and dips his head down to plant a kiss on my cheek.
“Guten Abend, Hollis,” he greets in his sexy Swiss accented voice that makes me shiver from the low timber that resonates. “You’re looking especially gorgeous tonight.”
I turn to the side to give him a once over and holy hell.
This tall, strapping Nordic Viking towers over me at six-foot-three, the scent of his woodsy cologne doing some crazy halfpipe flips inside my belly, and his clean-shaven contoured jawline makes me want to purr.
He stares down at me with hunger in those thickly-lashed blue eyes.
It’s those eyes that did me in the last time we were together. They latch onto you so intently, like there’s nothing else in the world that matters for him except staring at me.
My breath hitches, and I try to smile and regain the composure that seems to have vanished in the minute he’s been standing next to me.
“Are you ready to discuss your terms so we can move forward with this union?” I ask with the tilt of my head, keeping my fingers wrapped around the stem of my wine glass for support, so I don’t do something stupid like reach out and brush them over his strong, chiseled jawline.
He makes a sound like he’s choking, his face nearly blanching at what I said but recovers quickly and nods his head.
“Not until we have a dance.”
Now I blanche, because oh hell no, I can’t be that close to him for fear I’ll really do something stupid.
I know the moment he places his hand at my lower back, my fingers will do far more damage than stroking his face.
They will wander – down his arms, his torso, his chest, and inevitably land on his firm, perfectly tight ass.
I shake my head, lifting my glass for protection. “Nope. I’m good where I’m at.”
Kellan chuckles as if this is funny to him, prying the glass from my fingers, placing it on the nearby high table, and slipping his fingers through mine. He pulls me behind him toward the dance floor as I try lamely to resist and dig in my heels.
But when he peers over his shoulder with his piercing baby-blues, giving me a look that tells me he will gladly pick me up and throw me over his shoulder if I don’t come on my own, I back down and go along for the sake of keeping the peace.
But goddamn, it would be fun to be carried fireman-style over his taut back, my hands gripping his firm butt cheeks, as his hands slide up my bare legs and underneath the hem of my dress.
Oh crap, I’m getting way ahead of myself.
That’s not going to happen tonight.
No siree. Slope King or not.
Not. Going. To. Happen.