Page 18 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
“Why?” That smile hitches at the corner of his mouth. I want to lick it. Hell, I may have last night. Stupid, brined brain.
“Because we’ll be working together.”
His brows draw together, but the smile is still teasing his lips. It’s adorable. “I haven’t hired you yet.”
“You’re going to hire me. I’m a competent adult with an intense commitment to cleanliness, as you well know. Just because we—”
“Just because we what?” Ian grins. “Your majesty.”
“You’ve been wanting to say that since I came in, haven’t you?”
“It’s beenkillingme.”
I glare at him on principle. His grin only spreads wider, if that’s possible. It shows his canines, which are more pronounced than on most people, giving his grin a feral appeal. I’ll just assume that I mentioned that last night.
“Are you looking for an out from the job you’re trying to convince me to give you, or would you rather itemize what each of us did in that bathroom?”
I manage to lift my chin, but God help me, I could really go for some itemization.
“We were drunk. We have established that it was fun.” He tips his head, considering, and that lick-tempting half smile hooks the corner of his mouth again. “IthinkI remember it being fun, anyway. Pretty hazy, overall. But you need a job, and I need someone who can use the computer without getting distracted by their own reflection in the monitor.” He nods, and I follow his eyes to spot Alistair in his preferred state of shirtlessness, inspecting himself in the full-length mirror in the pro shop. His immaculate form is almost enough to distract me from the general disarray of the shirt display beside him, which is an eyesore.
Alistair flexes, every muscle on his right side achieving anatomy book−level definition, then nods approvingly. “Lookingcut,” he determines… to himself.
I wrinkle my nose, turning back to Ian. “No promises there. I fluff my hair a lot.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“What?” One hand flies to my scalp, fingers tousling my roots.
“You’ve done that three times since we’ve been talking. Not aproblem. You’ve already strung more sentences together than I’ve ever heard from Alistair, and you’ve yet to pull up a cat video on your phonewhileI’m talking to you, so you’re an improvement on Diego, too.”
“Good to know the bar is so easy to meet.”
“The bar isunderground.”
“So we agree that having witnessed one another in a compromised state will not impact our professional relationship. And the fact that I’m going to be sleeping in your bed? Old bed. Old bedroom!” I say, stumbling over every noun with increasing volume, like I might drown out the one that came before. I wait to crumble into dust, but Ian just laughs.
He shrugs. “It is pretty weird that you’re moving in with them.”
“Very brave and very desperate,” I remind him, though he hadn’t sounded judgmental, just… accurate.
“For what it’s worth, I never used that mattress. It wasn’t deep enough for my bed frame,” he adds, and gestures upward. Confused, I look at the ceiling, finding only exposed ductwork and I-beams. “There’s an apartment on the second floor,” he explains. “I lived with the guys while it was being renovated.”
Ah. That explains why he ended up here in the wee hours. “And yet, you passed out on the ground floor?”
“I couldn’t even make it onto a couch, so, no. Stairs were not in the cards.”
I smile. Most people wouldn’t own up to something like that. It’s disarming. Andhot. Accountability is deeply appealing.
But I’m not here to be seduced by compelling charactertraits. This is me, in defiance of everything “me,” agreeing to be employed by a man whose tongue has been in my mouth. “Then I will be professional and acknowledge your role as owner-operator with all the respect it deserves.”
“Outstanding. Welcome aboard.” He scoots to the edge of his seat, hand extended, and we shake. His palm is warm and dry, with calluses that have just enough scrape that I now know what caused the roughed-up snags along the fabric backing of the boob tape.
Ian releases my hand, expression going thoughtful. He sniffs the air. “Do you smell coconut?”
8
“SO. THAT’S ME. HOW WASthe conference?” I ask and take a drink from my coffee. In the time it’s taken me to recap my past forty-ish hours, the beverage has cooled to a non-scorching temperature, and I enjoy a few sips while waiting out Heather’s and Mark’s stunned silence.
