Page 30 of Not Before Game Night
“Good. I want this to be a success. It’s the next thing we do, and there’s potential to do so much more with the ideas I have. I want this ideally to be a monthly publication, Vanessa. Are you up for that? I mean, you wouldn’t have to write every month. We could hire people.”
“I think it’s a great idea, and I’m up for it. We don’t need to hire anyone. I can do it. After this first issue, I could come up with ideas on what we could cover. So, please, don’t worry about me,” I assured her. She looked proud of me.
It was the kind of pride that made me take courage and home in on the professional I was.
I called Cole’s PA and scheduled the meeting for tonight.
His place.
His place like he said, and tonight, there wouldn’t be any temptation.
I just wanted my article, and that would be all.
He could look at me like he wanted me all he wanted.
Business was business.
Chapter 8
Vanessa
* * *
I gotto his place at seven thirty.
I was actually surprised by what I saw and how tasteful his house was. I’d expected a penthouse apartment or something comparable to the Playboy Mansion.
When he answered the door, I even expected him to be dressed in a silk robe like Hugh Hefner. It was because of all the articles I’d filled my head with.
Everything had been circling around my head and came to a standstill when he opened the door and looked like a regular guy.
His hair was slightly damp, like he’d just washed it, or maybe he’d been working out. It curled up at the ends by the start of his sharp shoulder blades, brushing over the cotton of his long-sleeved T-shirt.
“Hi,” I said first because he was just looking at me, probably didn’t like that I’d spoken to his PA when I could have spoken to him.
“Hey.”
“Can I come in?”
He stepped aside so I could go in.
When I did, the aroma of freshly made bread tickled my nose.
“We’re down here. In the sitting room.” He pointed toward the corridor. It was a long dimly lit pathway. Ahead was what appeared to be a room that had floor-to-ceiling windows.
He walked on ahead of me, and I followed in silence, engulfed by the tension between us.
As we entered the room, I saw that I was right.
All except one wall was made of glass, and the surrounding shadows of the trees outside gave the place an interesting vibe.
It complemented the beige leather furniture and the oak wood flooring. The whole place was very tasteful.
Then, in the center of the room, was a coffee table with a bread platter with little pots of butter, balsamic vinegar, and olive oil.
“You have a nice home,” I stated with a smile.
“You look like you expected to come and find a sex dungeon.” He smirked, but the smile faded, and he gave me that sharp assessing look he used to sport back in high school.
