Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
marlowe
“ S o after graduating summa cum laude,” Dawson drones on, “I was recruited by Deloitte. I had several other companies competing for me, of course, but Deloitte made the best offer. I was there for only a year before I got a big promotion to financial advisory analyst.”
“Really?” I widen my eyes, trying to look engrossed. “That’s so impressive.”
He chuckles with sham sheepishness. “You probably already heard all these things from Barbara.”
I smile brightly. “It never hurts to hear it from the horse’s mouth.”
Or the horse’s ass, in this case.
The uncharitable thought makes me feel guilty, but it’s true. Dawson is a self-absorbed douchebag, and that’s putting it mildly. We’re halfway through lunch, and all he’s talked about is himself: his fabulous downtown loft, his expensive car, his amazing job and cha-ching salary (yes, he actually made a cha-ching cash register sound). I’ve lost count of how many sentences he’s started with “I.” The man is clearly his own favorite subject.
The only consolation, I guess, is that he’s attractive. He has dark brown hair, grayish green eyes and perfect white teeth. His lean build reminds me of a swimmer. He told me he’s six foot two, but I suspect that’s a bit of an exaggeration. Gunner is six-four and he towers over me, even in my heels. Dawson doesn’t come close.
Annnd there I go again thinking about Gunner. I can’t seem to stop myself. I keep seeing his face and the way he’d looked me up and down, all smoldering rage and possessiveness. His words echo through my mind, taunting me with their truth. What happened between us last night wasn’t a fluke or a mistake . . . We haven’t stopped connecting since we first laid eyes on each other. Whether you believe it or not, we’re going to make love again. And again. And ?—
“Marlowe?”
I blink stupidly at Dawson. “Sorry. What’d you say?”
“I asked if you want another drink. Your glass is empty.”
I glance down to see that I’ve drained the last icy dregs of my margarita, but I’m still holding the glass to my mouth.
Dawson signals our waiter for another margarita and smiles at me.
I smile back awkwardly and put my glass down, resisting the urge to drum my fingernails on the table.
We’re sitting on the patio of a funky little Mexican restaurant that started out as a food truck. It’s pretty crowded, even on a Sunday morning. Bouncy salsa music blends with conversation and laughter from other tables. No one else seems to be suffering through an excruciatingly boring date, which makes me jealous as hell.
The sad irony is that I didn’t even remember the date until Dawson called this morning to ask if he could pick me up a little earlier. I wish I’d backed out at that point. I should have.
Dawson gestures to my empty plate. “How were your carne asada tacos?”
“Delicious. I really enjoyed them.”
“I could tell,” he says a bit snidely. “You practically inhaled them.”
I flush self-consciously before forcing a small laugh. “Guess I was pretty hungry.”
He nods, a slight smirk on his lips. “Your housekeeping duties must take a lot of energy.”
So does fucking my boss all night. The dirty thought makes me blush and grin to myself.
Our waiter brings my margarita, collects our empty plates and asks if we want dessert. Before I can say “Hell no, check please,” Dawson orders tres leches cake for both of us.
He smiles at me as the waiter walks away. “You’re gonna love it. It’s really good and totally worth the calories.”
I smile weakly. So much for my great escape.
“So you’re in grad school, right? At UT?”
I nod and take a sip of my fresh margarita.
“When do classes start?”
“Next Tuesday.”
“How many classes are you taking?”
“Three. I’ll have Fridays off.”
Dawson grins. “Are you excited?”
“Very.” It’s the most interest he’s shown in me since our date started. Maybe there’s hope after all.
“Barbara says you’re enrolled in the . . . wait, don’t tell me.” He scrunches up his face in concentration, then snaps his fingers. “School of Information. The iSchool. You’re studying to become a librarian.”
I smile. “That’s right.”
He grins, obviously pleased with himself for remembering. I wait for him to ask me more questions about school, work, family— anything .
“Did you know that your boss is one of UT’s biggest alumni donors?” he says.
I deflate in my seat.
“I read in Forbes that he’s donated over $250 million to the university, including sixty mil from his foundation’s Global Information Security Fellowship.” Dawson grins. “I fully expect UT to name a building after him any day now.”
“The school already has a Ransom building,” I murmur. “But sure, why not?”
Dawson hesitates, clearly wanting to say more. “I’d love to meet him. Maybe you could introduce us when I drop you off.”
Any last shred of hope I had collapses like a soufflé. Apparently Gunner was right about Dawson’s true motives for setting up this date. It galls me to admit it, but here we are.
Dawson leans toward me with a hopeful expression. “So what do you say? Can you introduce me to your boss, maybe put in a good?—”
“He won’t be home,” I lie.
Dawson frowns. “He won’t?”
“No. He plays golf on Sundays”— every other Sunday —“and gets back pretty late.”
“Oh.” Dawson looks disappointed. Crushed, even.
Pushed to my limit, I shake my head at him. “Did you ask me out because I work for Gunner Ransom?”
His face registers shock, then guilt. “Of course not! Why would you say that?”
I narrow my eyes. “You’ve shown more interest in my boss than me.”
“That’s not true!”
“Sure looks that way from where I’m sitting.”
He stares at me, his mouth flapping open and closed. He obviously wasn’t expecting to be called out.
I calmly sip my margarita, waiting for him to scrape together some bullshit response.
“Look, I won’t lie to you,” he finally says. “I’m a huge fan of your boss. I’ve followed his career since his company went public and shook up the whole stock market. As much as I love my job, I’d jump at the chance to work for Gunner. He has a brilliant mind and killer business instincts. I didn’t think it’d be a big deal to ask you for an introduction. But that’s not the only reason I wanted to go out with you,” he hastens to add. “I think you’re really smart and pretty. Even though I generally prefer skinny blondes, I’d like to get to know you better.”
Feeling more than a tad insulted, I paste on a saccharine smile and say, “If you really want to get to know someone, you might want to spend a little less time talking about yourself. It makes you look and sound like an egotistical douchebag.” Seeing his mouth tighten, I add sweetly, “Just something to keep in mind for your next date. Which, I’m afraid, won’t be with me.”
An angry flush crawls up his neck and over his face.
When our waiter returns with dessert, Dawson asks for separate checks. His snippy tone raises the waiter’s eyebrow.
“No need for separate checks. Lunch is on me.” As Dawson’s jaw clenches, I sample a forkful of cake and hum my appreciation. “Wow. That is good.” I grin at the waiter. “I’ll take another piece to go.”
He grins back and promises to return with the check.
When we’re alone again, Dawson gives me the sullen look of a man who’s feeling emasculated. “You don’t have to pay for my lunch.”
“I don’t mind. It’s not like I can’t afford it.”
“Can you?” He smirks condescendingly. “You’re a housekeeper.”
“A well-paid one.” I lower my voice as if confiding a secret. “Not to brag, but I make even more than you.”
He scoffs. “I seriously doubt it.”
“Oh, but it’s true. Mr. Ransom is an incredibly generous employer. Honestly, I think the only thing he loves more than making money is giving it away. No wonder you’re dying to work for him.” I wink. “If you ever get a chance, you should totally jump on it.”
Dawson glares at me for a moment, then looks down at his untouched cake and scowls.
It’s all I can do not to laugh.
when i get home, mrs. calder is in the kitchen stirring a pitcher of her addictive lemonade.
She looks surprised to see me. “Back already?”
I shrug. “We ate fast.”
She lifts both eyebrows. “Did you at least have a good time?”
“Sure.” I smile and hold up my to-go box. “I brought you some dessert. Tres leches cake.”
“Oh, how lovely. Thank you, dear.” She beams at me. “Stick it in the fridge so I can enjoy it later.”
I cross the room to do as she asks. “Is Ms. Billingsley still here?”
“No, dear. She went to stay with Maverick.”
“Oh.” I can barely hide my relief.
Mrs. Calder’s eyes twinkle knowingly. I’m sure she’s well aware that our employer’s mother is kind of a bitch.
I mosey over to the center island, hands tucked in my back pockets. “So, um, where’s Mr. Ransom?”
“Down at the dock sanding one of his boats.”
I stare at her in surprise. “He doesn’t pay someone to do that? He . . . does it himself?”
She smiles at my reaction. “He enjoys working with his hands. When he and Maverick were kids, their father taught them how to change a tire, pump gas, jumpstart the engine and identify all the parts under the hood. Dale said he’d be damned if he raised pampered rich boys with butter-soft hands and shiny nails.” She chuckles, dumping ice cubes into the pitcher.
When drops of lemonade splash the marble counter, I automatically grab a dishrag to wipe up the spill.
“Gunner likes to tackle tough projects when he has something heavy on his mind.” Mrs. Calder slants me a probing look. “Any idea what that might be?”
I swallow hard and shake my head.
She purses her lips, and I can tell she doesn’t believe me.
I start backing away. “Well, uh?—”
“Hang on.” She adds a few lemon slices to the pitcher, smiling reminiscently as she says, “Gunner and Maverick couldn’t get enough of my homemade lemonade when they were growing up. I used to whip up a batch while they were playing outside. As soon as it was ready, they’d come running into the house, faces streaked with dirt and hair sticking up every which way. Before I could tell them to go wash their hands, they were chugging down my lemonade and clamoring for more. Sunshine in a glass, that’s what Gunner called it.” She pours a tall serving and hands it to me. “Here, take this down to him.”
I balk. “Um . . .”
She arches an eyebrow. “Is there a problem?”
“No, ma’am.” As I scurry from the kitchen, I swear I hear her laughing at me.
I leave the house and make my way across the expansive lawn leading down to the lake. The sun is warm, beating down on my head. But the beads of sweat gathering between my breasts have more to do with anxiety than the summer heat.
My nerves intensify as I approach the boathouse and dock. I hear loud rock music and the whirring roar of a power tool before I come upon my boss.
He’s on his knees sanding the hull of a sailboat mounted on a platform. He’s wearing gray athletic shorts and an orange Longhorns T-shirt molded to his chest and upper arms, outlining hard muscles. He has on a protective face shield, heavy leather construction gloves and scuffed work boots.
I’ve never seen him like this before. It’s such a stark departure from the urbane, bespoke-suit-wearing CEO that I’m used to. Unfortunately for me, the handyman version is just as droolworthy as his other persona.
Between the electric sander and blaring music, I know he won’t hear me if I speak. So I take a deep breath and nervously step into his line of sight.
He glances up from the boat, his gaze locking on me.
My mouth goes as dry as the Serengeti.
“Hey,” I croak.
His eyes narrow behind the face shield, and for one awful second I think he’s going to tell me to get lost. But then he turns off the sander, flips his mask up and grabs his phone to mute the music blasting from hidden speakers.
I hold up the sweating glass of lemonade. “Mrs. Calder asked me to bring this to you. She thought you could use a little sunshine.”
He looks at the glass, his face softening ever so slightly before he grunts, “I have water.”
“She insisted.” I give him a desperate look. “Please don’t send me back there with an untouched drink. She won’t be pleased, and you know how terrifying she can be.”
I detect a smile twitching at his mouth. But then he jerks his chin toward a wooden table and says gruffly, “Leave it over there.”
“You should drink it before it gets warm.”
He stares at me a few seconds longer. Then he pulls off his mask and gloves, tosses them down and stretches to his feet.
My breathing becomes shallow as he saunters over to me and takes the lemonade, his callused fingers brushing mine.
I bite my lip as he tips his head back to drain the glass. Watching his strong throat muscles work sends heat curling low in my belly. He smells like sweat, dust and hardworking man. Totally delicious.
He hands the empty glass back to me. “Thanks.”
I swallow hard and nod.
His body heat invades my personal space as he stands in front of me. His black hair is dusty and rumpled, his jaw bristly with stubble. I can see his muscled pecs straining against the worn fabric of his T-shirt. The color has faded and the white longhorn logo is chipped.
Feeling more than a little intoxicated, I glance away from him, staring at the boathouse and then at the gleaming white yacht moored in the slip. Hook ’em Horns is painted on the stern in flowing black letters, and water laps gently against the bottom. It’s the only sound between us until Gunner finally speaks, his voice low and cool.
“How was your date?”
I turn back to him, smiling brightly. “It was great. We had fun.” I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing that my date was an unmitigated disaster.
“You weren’t gone very long,” he observes.
“Dawson had previous dinner plans with his parents. That’s why we met for lunch instead.” That part, at least, is true.
Gunner studies my face, his eyes narrowed and intense. It takes everything I have not to squirm like a guilty teenager caught breaking curfew.
“Are you going out with him again?”
“Maybe,” I lie.
His jaw tenses.
“Probably not,” I whisper.
Something flickers in his eyes, and I can’t tell if it’s relief or triumph. Probably the latter.
As my boss, he has the upper hand in our relationship. But I wonder if he knows just how much power he holds over me. I wonder if he knows that I shiver every time he laughs. When he smiles, I melt. When he calls me kitten, I want to curl up in his lap.
I wonder if he knows how hard I’m trying not to fall for him.
He’s still looking at me, his eyes boring into mine as if he’s waiting for something. Did he ask me a question that I missed?
“Sorry. I?—”
“Was there something else you wanted?” He sounds impatient now.
I hesitate, watching as a warm breeze blows a lock of hair across his forehead. My fingers itch to stroke it back. Under different circumstances, I might have.
“Thanks for the lemonade.” Abruptly he turns and walks away, the hard muscles of his ass flexing beneath his shorts.
I lick my dry lips. “Guess I’ll, um, let you get back to work.”
He’s already cranking the music back up, dismissing me.