One Night Wife (The Confidence Game 1)

“I am a bad, bad person.”

Why was that statement a virtual invitation to get hot and bothered? “Stop helping me make wrong choices.”

“Like the one you made as Marilyn Monroe?”

Her heart seized. “How do you know about that?”

“My brother, Zeke, was at the Blarney. Mentioned a certain entertaining interlude.”

“That could be anyone?”

“Right up until you said how do you know about that.”

Dang. “You’re tricksy.” He was one of those scary listeners who connected the dots in conversations, instead of letting them float past like dust motes.

“You have no idea.”

The right choice here was to be professional. Divorce the lust from the need to get good advice, be a better person. “Are you still willing to help me on my pitch?”

“Ready, willing, and able to acknowledge you made a good choice.”

She smiled at Scungy, who was taking up space on the rug at her feet. Why did Cal Sherwood’s approval feel like her girl parts being stimulated? “When can I come—I mean in, when can I come in?” Cool, like ice, baby. Not. Shit. “I don’t know why you make me nervous.”

What he made her feel was a kind of stage fright. He lit her up, sharpened all her senses, and made her feel like someone new.

“Save the nerves for giving your pitch.”

She could do that. Anticipation was stage fright’s first cousin.

She made a time to see Cal the next morning. Arriving at the glossy, ultra-modern offices of Sherwood Venture Capital early, which felt like the smart thing to do, a chance to get familiar with the stage for her next performance. Calling the fizzy feeling she had inside nerves was the understatement of the century.

Caleb Sherwood was a big deal. The kind of fat cat she’d served fine wine to at toffy fundraisers. It’d been different when he was a grumpy man on a bar stool, whose body she’d handled. She’d been frustrated, desperate, excited. Now she was sober and flat-out terrified.

This time she was on a mission. No bantering with Cal, no letting him derail her. She’d nailed dressing the part, wearing her black pants suit, classy mid-high heels, and a white cami. No one need know they were designer knock-offs. And her pitch, she had it down, ready to rock, which was weird because she was here to improve her pitch.

Craving approval had led her to acting and then back out of it. And there was no reason to think Cal cared enough about her performance to be let down if she was awful. That would imply he cared about her more than was sensible to dwell on.

Being in lust with your professional mentor made for some exhausting shifts of logic. On the one hand, Cal was her ticket to a winning sales pitch and introductions to people she could pitch to. On the other, he was the night to remember that got away.

“Fin.” He stood in front of her with his hand outstretched.

She blinked at him. Wished he was uglier than she remembered. Shorter, stouter, balding, hair growing out of his ears and bad teeth, with a voice that grated like an engine without oil and claws for fingers. God sunbathing, if only that were true. She stood and took his hand. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“My pleasure.”

She flushed, her face going hot, her hand still inside Cal’s much bigger one. How were those words considered suitable for business? Why did they allow hand-holding in a work environment? It was just wrong. Too intimate. Socially acceptable madness. How did people do this all day and not disintegrate?

“You have an impressive office.” Since she’d last seen him, his eyes were bluer, his hair thicker, his whole self more, more somehow.

He cast a look over his shoulder and released her hand. “That’s the plan.”

“That it’s impressive?”

“With what we spent on it, yes. If impressive didn’t matter, we could all be working from the back of a pickup en route to the state fair.”

Okay. It felt like there was a lesson there. Be impressive no matter the cost. Bonus points if you could do it effortlessly like Cal.

“Come through.” He made a sweeping gesture that encompassed a hallway and a series of doorways beyond.