Holding frustration in my lungs, I pull out of the parking lot.
“Jorge is at the Palmer House. Drop him off first,” Nick says, gingerly rubbing the man’s brow as Jorge smacks his lips.
It’d be kind of adorable, Nick playing caretaker to a guy who’s even wilder than he is, if only my boss didn’t look like he just walked off the set for a bad X-rated film.
Where. Is. His. Shirt?
I want to ask the question so bad, but with a client in the car, I’m better off keeping my mouth shut.
So, I give Nick the only communication he’s come to expect from me.
I nod.
This time, when Nick grins back in the mirror, it’s sheepish. He throws his damp white shirt over his shoulder like a workout towel.
Is he feeling a hint of shame? Does Nicholas Brandt do embarrassment?
“Uh, since you’re probably wondering...there was a dance-off. I couldn’t just leave Jorge hanging. I had to jump in and help him.”
Okay. That explains the sweat and Jorge’s near coma, but why are they shirtless?
I raise an eyebrow. It’s all the encouragement Nick needs when he can only see my eyes in the mirror.
“That place was overcrowded. Total zoo, packed wall to wall, and the heat was cranked up like a sauna. We were packed in like sardines and dancing gets pretty damn physical when you’re trying to win. So, we lost our shirts. That got a standing ovation.”
I glance into the rearview mirror to catch another glimpse of Jorge. His man boobs sag. One guess who the applause was for.
He flops over in the seat and snores.
Good luck getting him out at the hotel, boss.
At least Nick’s underwear model vibe saved the day. I’ve glanced at his Instagram a few times and there’s an obvious pattern in every photo where he’s on some tropical beach, all glowing muscle.
Likes, comments, and marriage proposals through the roof.
Whatever else he is, the man could give Hercules himself some brutal competition.
“I’m sure my dance moves will light up the tabloids by tomorrow, but whatever,” he says. “It’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before. Sometimes it’s the price of business, and I like closing deals.”
I nod.
Nick slumps back in his seat and belts out a laugh, still watching my eyes in the mirror.
“Dude, why are you always so quiet? Are you pissed at me? Does late-night driving like this keep you from a hot date or something?”
For a second, I bite my lip. He actually pauses long enough to answer. Long enough to blow my cover.
But Abby said have fun with it, didn’t she?
I shake my head.
Driving him around reminds me why staying single feels like the smartest idea ever.
We don’t inhabit the same universe.
He’s made of drive, abs like Jason Momoa, and a splash of stupid. All he does is work his butt off and dive into debauchery the second he’s off the clock—or in this case, still technically on it.
Nicholas Brandt is my new anti-date. The man has heartbreak written all over him, if we pretend for a second there’s some whacked-out scenario where I’d ever wind up dating a man like him.
No way.
A drive with Brandt a day keeps Tinder at bay.
Also, I wish he’d put his shirt on. Stovetop abs aside, it’s hella awkward escorting your half-dressed boss around.
“You’re going to party with me one day,” he says quietly with a low growl. “I’m going to find out what makes you tick.”
I’m tempted to tell him I flat-out don’t party with my boss. It would be beyond inappropriate, but he’s drunk. I’m just hoping he won’t remember this conversation in the morning.
I pull up to the Palmer House while Nick snaps out of his haze.
He taps Jorge on the shoulder. The big businessman doesn’t wake up until my boss locks a hand around each shoulder and starts shaking him.
“Eh?” Jorge sits up, rubbing at his bleary eyes. “Huh?”
“We’re at your hotel, buddy.” Nick steps out of the car and holds the door open wider, ignoring the bitter Chicago wind sweeping over his naked back.
It’s a five-minute spectacle waiting for Jorge to move his feet just the right way to exit the car. He almost falls face-first in the dusting of snow.
Nick catches him, somehow—no easy thing considering his bulk. He’s lucky. Losing a client to death by drunken slip after closing a good-sized deal would suck.
“Jorge, what’s your room number?” Nick asks.
“Three...three thirty-five. I think,” he grunts.
Nick nods. “Can you walk?”
Jorge mumbles something in Portuguese I don’t follow, but it sounds like a litany of curses. He doubles over, then takes a step and tilts forward again.
Bossman laughs with a confidence I can’t believe he has, considering the situation.
“Don’t worry, man. We got you.” He peers into the car. “Halle, can you step out? I need a hand.”
Oh, boy. I signed up for babysitting as a favor to Beatrice, but this...this can’t be in the job description.