“What’s up with Harlow?” The question comes out before I can stop it.
His face hardens. “The fuck? Did you take her home?”
I hold both hands up. “Easy, asshole. I meant with business.” I technically haven’t lied to him, just segued to a new topic. “You said you wanted to set up a meeting. Jesus.”
He relaxes a little, just slightly.
“Fuckin’ a, hit a nerve there. What would be so wrong about me dating Harlow if I wanted to?” Why the hell am I doing this right now? Am I sabotaging myself? Jesus, and why do I want to push him into a corner and make him tell me it’s fine if I want to do something with Harlow?
He glares for a long second.
“I’m not saying I want to, but fuck. You know me, don’t you?”
He grinds his teeth and stares down at his scotch. “I don’t like where this conversation is headed.”
“She’s like twenty-six, man. She’s going to date someone at some point.”
He holds the rocks glass up to his mouth. “I’m sure she has, but I don’t need to know about it. She’s like my baby sister. You know what it’s like to protect people close to you, right?”
Not really, no. Pedro, Bill, and my business are pretty much all I have, besides Dex and Covington, I suppose. I guess I would fight to the death for any of them, but still. There’s something between Harlow and me, and it gets stronger by the minute. The damn urge, it’s so strong. I’ve never felt like this before.
Finally, I exhale a long breath. “Anyway, I set up a meeting with her, but she seemed wary, like maybe she didn’t want to.”
He shakes his head and takes a sip of scotch as Jimmy drops off my water.
“You know what you want?” Jimmy asks.
“Nah, I need to run soon. I don’t think I have time to eat.” I slide a five across the bar to him because Jimmy always takes care of us and I’m taking up one of his seats.
Dex’s eyes roll over to mine, like he’s thinking hard, judging the situation before he speaks. “I’ll talk to her. She can’t afford to turn down anyone’s business right now. I went by her office and she works in there alone, all by herself. It’s not safe.”
I don’t know why but my defenses immediately come up. She works in a downtown high-rise, and I know she doesn’t leave until late at night. She’s a workaholic like me. Which means she’s in that building all by herself. Sure, maybe they have light security, some eight-dollar-an-hour rent-a-cops, but the parking garage is dark as fuck, I’m sure of it. At least I imagine the worst possible scenario in my head when I think about her walking to her car.
It’s irresponsible and she’s going to hear about it. Thinks she’s tough as shit, and she is, but she’s no match for a man twice her size. What if some guy jumps out of the shadows and catches her by surprise? Ties her up and puts her in the back of a trunk?
That escalated quickly.
Who the hell am I right now? I didn’t have these thoughts last week. Shit.
“She doesn’t even have a partner or a receptionist or anything?”
“Nope, does everything remote. All her employees are in another state or country for all I know.”
I stand up and attempt to relax after what I just heard. “Well, I gotta get to the office or they’ll send out a search party. People probably losing their minds already.”
We shake hands again. I don’t squeeze his hand as hard this time. Have to take it easy on his little fingers. Once was enough.
“All right, I’ll make sure everything’s coming together with the presentations so we can get them to you to review.”
“Sounds good.” I turn and walk toward the door.
“Go see my suit guy.” His words hit me in the back.
“I will, dick.” After I meet with Harlow and tell her how reckless she’s being working alone.
Chapter Eight
Harlow Collins
I should not be doing this.
I repeat, I should not be doing this.
I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me, but here I am, on my way to meet with Cole Miller about his “business.” A million things could go wrong, and I know they’re all because of my fucked-up hormones. It’s been a few days since our heated phone exchange. A little over a week since the one-night stand of a lifetime.
I took thirty minutes longer than usual to get ready, and I’m wearing the same thing I always wear—black. It’s my color, what can I say? I spent two hours longer putting together information for a client consultation than usual. For some reason, I want to knock this thing out of the park. Make him see I mean business, even though I’m almost positive this is a ploy to get me in bed again. In fact, I know it is.
I pull in, park, and carry my stuff to the Eleven City Diner off Wabash. Who picks a diner to have a business meeting? Why aren’t we doing it at his office? I’m sure he doesn’t even want to talk about business. I shouldn’t be here.
Yet, in I walk, one foot after the other, carrying my bag with all my numbers and strategies to pitch. Wasted time I could be using in a much more efficient manner. And yet, my palms are already clammy, my throat is dry. My heartbeat pounds in my ears as I walk through the door.
He’s at a booth in the back with that condescending, cocky smirk on that stupid, gorgeous face I want to smack. He stands up before I get there, as if he’s a perfect gentleman after he told me my pussy was wet on the phone. What an asshole.
“Hey.”
I glare and take a seat, not bothering to respond, then yank my bag up and start pulling papers out.
“Want something to drink?”
I shake my head vehemently. “Absolutely not, I want to tell you about my business and leave.”
“This is some business decorum you have going on.” He leans back in the booth and smirks. “Do you treat all your clients this—coldly?”
I whip my head up from my papers to glare at him. “Who are you? Decorum? I wasn’t aware that word was in your vocabulary.”
He shrugs. “It means good taste in manners.”
“I’m aware.”
He looks over at the window. “Wouldn’t know. Our conversation at the hotel was limited to you moaning my name.”
I shove my papers back in my bag and start to stand up.
Cole follows suit and reaches across the table for my forearm. “Wait.” He inhales a deep breath. “Just stay, please.” He gestures with his head down to my seat.
Why can’t I even form words right now? And why did him touching my arm send a shockwave through me? This is so bad. I’m like a kid playing with matches. You’re not supposed to fucking play with matches when you’re a kid. Everyone knows it’s bad. They tell you every damn day a thousand times.
I want to say a million things and my brain is short-circuiting all over the place. Neurons won’t fire correctly. My brain’s a jumbled mess of words that don’t make any sense. I just stare at him, breathing heavily, seething, then I slowly sit back down.
“Good.” He acts like he’s breathing with me, to calm things down. “This is progress, right?”