Starry-Eyed Love (Spark House)

While I’d like to know more about her relationship status, I realize it’s not appropriate, or professional.

Her thumbs circle each other. “I can absolutely do that.”

I pick up my phone and dial Mitchell. “What would you like to drink?”

“Just water is fine, thank you.” She presses one thumb down with the other, presumably to stop them from twiddling.

“Still or sparkling?”

“Sparkling would be lovely.”

“Perfect.”

Mitchell appears in the doorway, glancing from London, sitting primly in her chair, to me. “Sir?”

“Can you have the kitchen send up a bottle of sparkling water? And I’d like a coffee. Milk and sugar on the side, please. London, are you sure you wouldn’t like a coffee as well?”

“I’m sure, thank you.”

“Of course, sir. I would like to remind you that you have a flight scheduled at four this afternoon to New York.”

“I’m aware. If we need to move the flight, we can.”

“If you have somewhere you need to be, we can always schedule a call at a later date,” London offers.

“That’s unnecessary. The jet is mine, so it won’t be an issue if we need to leave a little later than planned. I don’t have another meeting until tomorrow morning. Are you hungry? I haven’t had lunch. Mitchell, can you also have them send up a charcuterie board?”

“Of course, I’ll order it right away.”

Mitchell disappears, and I turn back to London, who appears shell-shocked.

I give her what I hope is a friendly smile. “Is everything okay?”

“Oh yes. I’m fine. This is all just a bit more than I expected today.”

“Would you care to elaborate?” It’s a bit more than I expected too, but I’m not sure it’s for the same reasons.

“Well, first there was the phone call yesterday from Mitchell, which was a surprise all on its own. And then my sisters and I did some research and realized how amazing of an opportunity this could be, and now here I am. I thought you were a regular guy.”

“I am a regular guy.”

London’s right brow arches. “Regular guys do not have private jets and don’t blow off meetings and flights so they can have sparkling water and share a charcuterie board with someone whose hotel he’s booked a charity event at, despite not really knowing what that event will entail, or much about the hotel.”

“Mmm, you have a point. And that makes me sound like a brat. And uninformed.”

“Are you a brat?” Her eyes flare again, and her teeth sink into her bottom lip.

I want to tell her to stop doing that, not because I’m particularly worried about her lips, but because it continues to draw attention to them in a way that’s distracting.

“If I see an opportunity, I usually take it. If that makes me seem a little bratty, well, I guess I am. Why don’t you tell me about Spark House’s setup, and we can set the parameters for the charity event. And nail down some dates.” The sooner the better for the auction.

An hour and a nearly empty charcuterie board later, we have three prospective dates for the auction, a preliminary list of essential items, possible dinner menu options, an outline of room costs for guests who would like to take advantage of the quaint hotel, and a phone call arranged for next week.

I walk London out of the hotel and find myself whistling in the elevator on the way back up to the office.

Trent is sitting in my chair when I return to my office.

“You want to tell me what the hell that was all about?” He motions to the mostly naked charcuterie board and the glasses sitting on the table.

“I’m taking a vested interest in the Teamology initiative.”

Trent is my best friend. Has been since we were kids. He’s one of the very few people in this world that I trust, so it doesn’t make a lot of sense to give him evasive answers.

He crosses his arms and pokes at his cheek with his tongue. “You mean you’re taking a vested interest in that Spark House blonde. Dude. You have never blown off a meeting, especially not one with Linc fucking Moorehead, who, by the way is directly connected to the sponsorship thing. What in the fuck, bro?”

I drop down in the chair across from him. “You and Linc have a great working relationship. I’m sure I wasn’t even missed.”

“He said you better not stand him up next week.”

“What’s next week?”

“His wife’s birthday. You’re obviously invited, and so am I. It’s on a Saturday, and since all you do is work, I’m pretty sure your schedule is clear. Now back to the blonde. What’s the deal?”

“You remember when you forced me to leave my trailer a few months back?”

“Yeah. Of course. You smelled like rotten hot dogs before you showered away two weeks of lake-water stink.”

“Do you remember the three women who were at the table across from us?”