Sway (Landry Family 1)

If I weren’t so in love with the house, I'd probably be more nervous. I have no idea where I'm going or who is awaiting me. I just hope it isn't a dying old woman like in an old movie because that's exactly what this reminds me of.

The door facing me at the end is closed and I glance around, but there's no one to be seen. All of the other doors are closed. There’s just a table sitting on a white rug and a vase full of multicolored marbles on top.

I take a deep breath and knock, hoping this doesn't take long. There’s still hope for that bath if I can get out of here in a snap.

"Come in," a man's voice barks from the other side. It's low with a touch of authority dripping from it in such a familiar way.

My stomach somersaults and I pull my hand away from the door. I stare at it like it's going to give me the answer to the question running through my mind—why do I know that voice?

Before the door can tell me like in a Disney movie, it swings wide. And there Barrett stands, poised like he's ready to have his picture taken.

Oh. Fuck.

One hand in the pocket of his dark grey pants, one resting against the door frame, his eyes shimmer as they wait for my reaction.

My reaction . . .

I start to speak but can only sort of laugh, the words stolen by the sight of him. A crimson-and-white gingham shirt, buttons open at the top to expose a tiny sliver of tanned chest, is nearly my undoing. How he can look better than he did in a suit and tie is beyond me, but it's clearly possible. He's standing in front of me, smirk deepening by the second, gaze dancing across my flushed skin.

Waiting for my reaction . . .

"You ordered food?" My head bobs with the words, my voice much cheerier than I intend it to be. It seems like such a strange question because obviously he did or security wouldn't have let me in here. But the odds of Barrett ordering food from Hillary's by chance and me ending up here are what? Zero? Negative three?

And then it hits me.

“You’re the Mayor. Figure it out.”

My words from last night ring through my head and my cheeks flush in remembrance. Figure it out he did, but did he have to do it when I smell like a deep fryer and he looks like a fashion model?

He grins, flashing his perfectly white teeth, and takes a step away from the door. His shoulders seem to fall, a wash of relaxation waving across his features. "I believe Rose ordered it, but yes, I'm expecting lunch."

The gruffness in his tone from before is suddenly gone.

I take a few steps into his office. Barrett removes some papers from a table beneath a window and then leans against it. He crosses his arms, and much to my dismay, doesn't say a word. It's like he wants me to break the ice, but that fucking grin on his face is melting me faster than I can think.

"How are you today?" he asks carefully, feeling me out.

I consider the inappropriateness of my real answer. Telling him that my body is tingling, that the flame that's just been ignited in my core is smoldering, that the way he touched me in my dreams last night was the best I've ever felt would probably not be the right conversation opener.

"Where would you like me to set this?" I ask instead, holding the box in front of me.

"Right here." He steps out of the way and I place the box on the table. I'm so close to him, I can smell the same spicy scent from last night, the one I haven't been able to get out of my memory. My brain is fuzzy; the look, smell, and energy that surround him are more than my little wits can take. I need air. I need space.

I need a vibrator. Again.

"Enjoy," I say and wait for him to talk, but he doesn’t. I flash him a smile and turn to go. My head is spinning like a top and instead of standing here, feeling awkward, I figure I’ll just leave. But before I can take two steps, a gentle yet firm hand is on my shoulder.

Everything misfires at the connection and I physically jump. My eyes dart to his and I hope he hasn’t seen my reaction. Like the gentleman I know he probably really isn't, he pretends not to notice.

"Do you have somewhere you have to be?" The way he asks the question does to me what it does to everyone else when he talks—it compels me to answer. He speaks in a way that somehow lifts your words right out of you, even if you don't want to say them, like they know better than to deny him.

"Yes." At least my words still remember how to lie.

"I was hoping you'd be able to have lunch with me."

My body screams to stay. Hell, it wants to be lunch. But a part of me is yelling to run while I can because getting swirled into the orbit of Barrett Landry is probably more than I’d bargain for.

He moves effortlessly around the table, not waiting on an answer, and pulls out a chair. I sink into the soft leather, my breathing ragged, as I realize I’ve just committed to lunch with him. As a bubble of panic starts to develop, he pauses, looking at me over his shoulder. His eyes shine, a quiet grin settling over his lips. The look is intimate, his guard down, and I don’t think many people probably see it. My heart flutters.