5. Temptation on the Menu
Chapter five
Temptation on the Menu
I face my own reflection. We’re both trying to pretend we don’t care. The woman in the mirror—poised, elegant, overdressed—is who I’m supposed to be. Red satin clings in all the wrong places, reminding me why I hate her. My other half—the one that’s a fraud—is already spiraling, flitting from stray hairs to wrinkled cushions, mind crashing through the idea of dinner like a kamikaze pilot. Tick, tick, tick goes the clock, steady as a drumbeat. Tick, tick, tick. Boom. He’ll be here in sixty seconds. The glass is not kind. One of us exhales.
I pull the neckline up, again, as if an extra inch of fabric could protect me from a six-foot-something quarterback with a permanent smirk and a reputation to match. Professional, Tori. Be professional. That’s what I repeat while I scan the living room for anything out of place, shuffling cushions that are already perfectly arranged. My apartment is more flawless than I am—thanks to an hour of cleaning and two glasses of Merlot—but even it can’t distract me from the fact that Jaxon will be at my door in twenty-five seconds. Ready for the performance of a lifetime.
What’s next on the schedule? I stare at my color-coded planner on the kitchen counter like it’s the Oracle of Delphi, ignoring the white-hot panic in my gut. Can you put “Falling for a Client” in the agenda? Maybe I should have worn the black dress. It’s more business casual, less oh-please-fake-date-me.
Fifteen seconds.
“Just dinner. Just PR.” I chant silently, like it’s my mantra. Hell, it really should be.
Nine seconds.
This isn’t a date. I’m helping him, that’s all. I grab my lipstick, and my hands shake as I twist it open. I’m a mess. A hot mess. He’s going to see right through me.
Six seconds.
I take one last look around the apartment. My shoes, like two flaming red sirens, lay by the door, mocking me with their bright intensity. I forgot to put them on.
The knock comes, just like I knew it would. Cool and confident. Just like him. Just like I’m not.
I take a deep breath, all glossy and shiny and composed—except on the inside, where I’m one minor inconvenience away from full-on meltdown mode. I remind myself that I’m a professional, that I can do this, that I will do this.
And I open the door.
He’s there. Of course, he’s there. Like he has nothing better to do than stand outside my apartment looking like a magazine ad for why bad boys finish first.
He lounges against the doorframe, all six-foot-something of arrogant quarterback draped lazily before me. He’s wearing a fitted black button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His hair is slightly a mess, as if he just ran his hands through it, and his sharp blue eyes roam over me in an instant, slow enough to make my skin heat under his gaze.
“Damn, Michaels. You sure this is just dinner?”
I arch an eyebrow, trying to be nonchalant but failing miserably because nonchalance isn’t one of my strong suits, especially when he’s around. “Of course it is,” I say, mustering my best ice-queen voice, “and don’t get any ideas.”
“No promises.” He laughs, and it rumbles through the hallway like a low, dangerous promise. But there’s more to it—something softer in his eyes that makes my heart stumble over itself in confusion. I pretend not to notice.
“I mean it.”
“I can’t help it. You’re putting all kinds of ideas in my head in that dress.”
Lord give me strength. “Let’s go before your ego explodes and takes out the whole building.”
He chuckles and steps aside to let me pass. I feel the heat of him at my back as I lock the door, his presence like a furnace in the hallway.
“And try not to embarrass me.” I square my shoulders like I’m heading into battle. Because maybe I am.
“Sweetheart, the only embarrassing thing about tonight is how much you’re going to be thinking about me after dinner.”
It’s going to be a long night, I think, heading for the elevator. The flutter in my stomach grows wings, fluttering in anticipation of the hours ahead with this beautiful, infuriating man.
The elevator dings and the doors slide open. I slip inside and he follows, his woodsy cologne enveloping me in the small space.
We stand side by side as the doors close, close enough for me to feel the heat radiating off his body. My skin prickles, hyperaware of his every breath, his every shift.
He leans against the mirrored wall, watching me through half-lidded eyes. “You know,” he says, voice a low caress, “you pretend to hate me, but your body says otherwise.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, desperate to keep my composure. “My body has better taste than that,” I quip, but it sounds weak even to my own ears.
The elevator reaches the lobby and the doors open with a cheerful ding, completely at odds with the tension thick as fog between us.
I make my way as fast as I can outside where his sleek black Audi awaits, parked at the curb. Quickly, he steps in front of me, reaching for the door handle. Instead of opening it, he cages me in, one hand on the car, the other resting lazily in his pocket.
I arch a brow. “Are you going to let me in or are we just going to stand here while you stroke your ego?”
“I’m just wondering how long you can keep pretending you don’t want me.”
I snort. “You’re delusional.”
His fingers skim the curve of my waist, just once, just enough to make my breath hitch. “I don’t think I am.”
His body is close—too close—and I swear if I lean forward even a little, I’d be pressed against the hard planes of his chest.
I grip my purse tighter, clearing my throat. “Are you going to open the door or do I have to Uber?”
He opens my door and he whispers something inaudible.
“What did you say?” I ask.
“I said you look incredible tonight.”
My heart stutters and before I can summon a retort, he’s already on the driver side, getting into the car.
At least he could’ve closed my door after I got in.
He slips behind the wheel, the engine roars to life. We merge into the night traffic, the city lights blurring past the windows.
I sneak a glance at Jaxon’s profile, all sharp angles and stubborn jawline. His eyes focus on the road, but there’s a tightness there, a coiled energy waiting to spring. We don’t talk. I focus on the passing streets instead of his sideways glances, counting them like it’s a contest I might win.
We arrive at the restaurant. Rooftop. Low lights. Flickering candles. Everything about it screams romance, date night, run while you still can. It’s elegant, classy, totally out of my league. The words of a liar ring in my ears: it’s just dinner.
The hostess greets us with a smile that borders on knowing.
“Mr. Reid, Ms. Michaels. Welcome. Your table is ready.”
His hand finds the small of my back as we follow. His touch sears through the thin fabric of my dress, branding my skin. I stiffen, muscles locked tight. It’s nothing overt, just enough to remind me he’s there…until this thumb continues to trace idle circles and it sends sparks down both sides of my body. He’s taking this role a little too seriously and when I gaze at him, I catch the edges of a playful smirk.
Our table by the window, and the view is stunning. The skyline stretches out like a promise, glittering and endless. I sit across from Jaxon, separated by the width of the table and the lies between us. He smiles like he knows something I don’t, and maybe he does. I pick up the menu and hide behind it, praying for an invisibility cloak. I can do this. It’s all part of the job. Professional, I remind myself.
“Nice place,” I say, staring too hard at the words in front of me.
His eyes are on me, heavy and impossible to ignore. “Isn’t it?”
I shrug like it’s nothing, like I’m not already a bundle of nerves and denial. “Hope it doesn’t blow our cover. Wouldn’t want people to think we’re actually dating.”
He chuckles. “Would that be so terrible?”
Yes. No. Maybe. “Devastating,” I reply, managing a shaky smile.
He’s about to say something else when the server arrives with a bottle of wine and fills our glasses. I take a large sip, my eyes darting around the room, taking in every romantic cliché that adds weight to the tightness in my chest. He lifts his glass, and his gaze doesn’t waver.
I drink more, trying to dull the edge of awareness that his presence always brings. The wine is good, smooth, with a finish that tastes like bad ideas and regret. I put the glass down, clasp my hands in my lap, and pretend to study the menu again.
He leans forward, arms resting casually on the table. But there’s nothing casual about his attention. It pins me down, makes it hard to breathe.
“You’re really going to pretend this doesn’t mean anything to you?” he asks softly.
The words catch me off guard, and I nearly choke on my own ambition. I plaster on my best PR smile, the one I’ve used a thousand times before when deflecting difficult questions from persistent reporters. “It’s PR, Jaxon. You know that.” I laugh, but it’s brittle. Not like his.
He shakes his head slowly, like he’s disappointed in my dodge. “I know what it started as. But that’s not what it is anymore.”
My pulse races. I’m not sure if it’s from panic or from hope. “You’re reading too much into this,” I say, my voice almost steady. “It’s just—”
“Just dinner?” he cuts in. “Just PR?”
“Yes,” I insist, too quickly. “We’re just doing what we agreed to.”
His fingers tap lightly on the table, thoughtful and calm, while I fight to keep the charade alive. “Agreed to lie.”
“Agreed to make this convincing,” I correct him, clinging to the script.
He smirks. “Guess you didn’t count on being this good at it, huh?”
“Why are you so sure I’m not?” My defensiveness cracks through my facade, sharper than I intended.
His hand reaches across the table, brushing against mine in a barely-there touch. It’s such a simple gesture, but it sets off fireworks behind my eyes. The room fades, leaving just us and the white-hot tension.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“You feel it too, Tori,” he says, voice low and steady. “You can lie to the cameras. But don’t lie to me.”
The bravado I wore like armor falls away, leaving me vulnerable and exposed. The truth sits there, raw and undeniable. I want him. And it’s more than I’m ready to admit, even to myself. I don’t pull my hand back. I don’t say anything at all. I just sit there, staring at him, wondering when this all became so real.
It’s terrifying. And exhilarating. And I have no idea what to do next.
He pours me a drink then himself.
“To this,” he says as he raises his glass.
“This?” I question.
“Yes, to this.”
We tap our glasses together and his fingers brush against mine…again.
I take a sip. The wine is rich and heavy on my tongue. “You’re staring.”
“I’m appreciating.”
I scoff. “That’s what you call it?”
“Yes. You act like I don’t see how you react to me. You pretend it doesn’t get to you, but I know better.”
I set my glass down. “You really think highly of yourself, don’t you?”
“I do when it comes to you.”
He’s still watching me like he already knows how this night will end.
“So, this PR strategy of yours,” he leans back in his seat, “it’s all about control, isn’t it?”
“It’s about rehabilitating your image.”
“Right.” He chuckles, low and deep. “Because you think I’m an overgrown child who can’t handle himself.”
“If the shoe fits.” I shrug, sipping my wine.
“Careful. You know what they say about assumptions.”
“Oh, I don’t assume.” I set my glass down, meeting his stare head-on. “I observe. And what I’ve observed is a man who needs a firm hand.”
“Is that an offer?” His voice drops, rough and suggestive.
Heat rushes through me, but I force a smile. “You wish.”
He leans forward and his fingertip traces along the back of my hand. “Tell me you don’t feel this.”
I do. God help me, I do, but I place dumb. “I feel annoyance.”
His finger stills and he doesn’t pull away. “Liar.” The word hangs in the air like a dare.
“You don’t know me, Reid.”
“Don’t I?” His finger resumes its path. “I think I’m starting to.”
He’s too close. Too perceptive. He sees too much.
I pull my hand away, reaching for my wine. “You don’t stop, do you?” I take another sip.
He just watches me.
“You’re doing the staring thing. Again.”
“Oh, am I? You know, Sloane, you’re not what I expected.”
“And what did you expect?”
“Someone... colder. More clinical. But you’re not like that. You’re... different.”
I hesitate, unsure of how to reply. “This is just a job to me Jaxon. Nothing more.”
“Doesn’t feel that way.”
I watch him slid out from his seat before he moves around the table to join me.
“Jaxon, what are you doing?” I whisper.
“Taking this to a whole different level.”
He rests his hand on my thigh.
Here? NOW?!
Suddenly the booth feels too small. I stare into his eyes, feeling his fingers create circles that move closer and closer.
“No,” I whisper. “We can’t…”
His lips finally meets mine and the kiss…damn, the kiss is slow and deep. It fills a hunger that I wanted to ignore since I met him.
His hands cups my cheeks, pulling me closer. I want to moan and my body melts into his.
He takes it a step further.
The booth feels like our own private world and the rest of the restaurant fades away.
His fingers inch dangerously close to where I need him most, even if I continue to deny it.
“West, we need to keep this professional.”
“Can’t we just... enjoy the moment?”
His fingers feel feather-light and it is enough to make me tremble. “No,” I reply. “We can’t.”
They inch closer and closer until they find their mark. They slip in and brush against my wetness, moving with expert precision. I force my eyes shut.
“Sloane,” he says. “Look at me.”
I open my eyes and the look he gives me is more than enough to forget why I’m there in the first place.
He then pulls out and lifts his fingers, just underneath his nose, and breathes in deep. “Damn, you smell good.”
Dangerous, my mind whispers. This man is dangerous.
***
The cool night air is a relief, a momentary escape from the heat of Jaxon’s gaze. But it’s short-lived. As we slide into the car, the atmosphere shifts, thickens with the weight of unspoken tension.
Jaxon’s jaw is tight as he navigates the city streets, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. I pretend not to notice the way his eyes flick to my legs when I cross them.
I try to ignore him but it’s damn near impossible. His presence fills the car, fills my senses. The scent of his cologne, the sound of his breathing, the heat of his body so close to mine.
He pulls up to my building and kills the engine. He doesn’t unlock the doors. Not yet. Instead, he turns to me.
“Want me to walk you up?”
The question hangs in the air, loaded with unspoken implications.
“No, thank you.” My voice trembles slightly.
He leans closer.
“Thanks for dinner,” I say.
“Tori,” he says, his voice low and smooth, the kind of tone that can melt steel. I turn to look at him, and the moment our eyes meet, I’m lost. The way he looks at me—like I’m the only thing in the world that matters—makes my heart race. “I’m not done with you.”
He leans across the center console and he slides his hand up my arm to the back of my neck. His breath is warm as he closes the distance between us.
His lips brush against mine. Too soft. Again, it’s a tease; just a glimpse of what he wants and I can’t help myself. I’m losing and I know it and there isn’t anything I can do about it.
His lips move up my arm and to the base of my neck and now his hands move lower to just beneath the fabric of my dress. I gasp as he finds my nipple, hard.
He knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Not here.” I manage to say but you’d think he’d listen?
No.
He places his mouth against my breast and his tongue flicks my nipple.
I moan again and shift in my seat.
“Jaxon, please.”
“Please what?” he asks.
“Please…please don’t stop,” I finally admit.
His lips curve into a smirk, and he leans in again. His mouth finds mine in a kiss that is all heat and hunger.
And without warning, he stops.
I collapse in my seat, my eyes closed, still reeling through the wave of emotion within me.
“Like I said, I’m not done.” He steps out of his car and he makes his way to my side.
He opens the door. “See you soon.”
***
The elevator ride to my floor is a blur, my mind still spinning from the charged encounter in Jaxon’s car. I fumble with my keys, cursing under my breath as they clatter to the ground.
Finally, I manage to unlock the door, stumbling into my apartment on unsteady legs. I kick off my heels, not caring where they land, and lean back against the door, closing my eyes.
Breathe. Just breathe.
But my traitorous mind conjures up images of Jaxon - the heat in his gaze, the promise in his words. The way his fingers brushed my thigh…
No. Stop it. This is just a job. A means to an end. I can’t let myself get caught up in Jaxon’s games.
No matter how much my body wants to play.
A buzz from my clutch jolts me out of my thoughts. I dig out my phone and I see his name on my screen. I open the message. Three words stare back at me.
Sweet dreams, Michaels.
A laugh bubbles up in my throat, edged with hysteria. He’s relentless. Incorrigible.
Irresistible.
I stare at the text, my thumb hovering over the screen. I should ignore it. Delete it. Pretend it never happened. But I can’t. Because as much as I hate to admit it, Jaxon’s gotten under my skin. He’s the itch I can’t scratch, the craving I can’t satisfy.
The dream I can’t shake.
My knees go weak as the realization hits me. This isn’t just a game anymore. It’s a battle.
A battle for control. For power.
And as I stand there, phone clutched to my chest, I know one thing for certain. Sleep won’t come easily tonight. Not when Jaxon Reid is the one haunting my dreams.
And maybe, just maybe...
I don’t want him to stop.