Executive Engagement
Page 150
“Lucky me, then.”
Brad
Some women are smart, some women are hot. Some are funny, others seductive. But some women are just…something else entirely. They’re part of a rare breed of women, the kind that knock the air out of your lungs the moment your eyes meet theirs.
And one of those women has just walked into my bar.
Elegant strut, tight-fitting dress, and the kind of face capable of turning a cold-blooded asshole into a romantic wimp.
“Brad,” I say, offering her my hand. Hesitantly, she reaches for it and shakes it.
“Sam,” she tells me, the sound of her voice so sweet that I can’t help but imagine how she’d sound like moaning out my name.
What? It’s not my fault I have an active imagination. Besides, sex isn’t dirty and taboo anymore, right? Yeah, we’re not in the 19th century anymore—and thank god for that.
“So, who did exactly bail on you?”
“Why do you say that?” she asks me, and I can tell by her guarded tone she’s not used to being approached by men.
Which is weird—she’s a beautiful woman and, more than that, she’s fucking hot. And that can only mean one thing…this girl doesn’t go out that much. Like I said: a rare breed of women, that much is for sure.
“Well, you have that look on your face.”
“What look?”
“That one,” I laugh, pointing at her surprised face. I take the chance to take a mental picture of her cherry red lips, and my heart skips a beat as I imagine how they must taste.
“Alright,” she laughs back, slowly loosening up. “I was supposed to meet here with friends, but I guess they went somewhere else.”
“Well, their loss, ain’t it? Why would anyone choose to go somewhere else when they could come to
the best jazz club in town?”
“The best jazz club in town?”
“You bet,” I nod.
“You’re too protective of this place for a bartender,” she comments, and I can’t help but laugh again.
“What? Can’t bartenders be protective of their place of work? But, anyway, I’m not just a bartender. I own the place,” I tell her.
Does it sound like I’m bragging? Because I’m not. It’s just a fact of life—I worked fucking hard to get this place up and running, and if I have the chance to tell a beautiful woman like this one that I own it…well, you better be sure that I’m gonna use it. If it sounds like bragging, I don’t give a fuck.
“Oh. That’s nice…I suppose.”
“You’re not that good at making conversation, are you?”
“Not really,” she laughs, that voice doing something to me.
Fuck, is my heart rate going up? Chill the fuck out, Brad, I tell myself, doing my best to keep my cock under control.
“I noticed. Here.” I push a glass across the counter and, grabbing a whiskey bottle from the shelf behind me, I pour her some.
“Oh, I don’t like—”
“Yes, you do. You’ll like this one,” I insist, pouring something for me as well.
Yeah, I just grabbed the most fucking expensive bottle I have around. But so what? It’s not like women like this walk inside my bar everyday.