Risky Business

I help myself to the seat beside him. “More like I wasn’t sure I trusted you to behave.”

He turns back to his drink, picking up the tumbler and swirling the clinking ice cubes around. “I’ve been a good boy.”

“Doubt it,” I reply as the bartender sets down a fresh bourbon in front of Carson. He holds the wine the other woman ordered for a moment, seeming confused about the abrupt change in Carson’s companion situation. “I’ll take it. She had to leave suddenly.”

The bartender shrugs and sets it down for me. I take a sip and find it’s a rich and fruity merlot. “Not bad,” I tell Carson, who’s watching me closely. “I’m more of a margarita person myself. I like something with a little bite.”

I clack my teeth together, letting my lip curl slightly, and he chuckles, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Is that one of those deep, dark, highly guarded secrets of yours?”

The alcohol or the change in scenery seems to have relaxed him from this afternoon’s cold shoulder. Or maybe it’s my sudden appearance?

“One of many,” I answer coyly, as though intrigue and mystery are my best friends when the truth is, my besties are lightly salted popcorn and The Ultimatum: Marry or Move On.

Carson waves at the bartender. “Can you get the lady a margarita instead, please?”

The bartender looks at me for approval and I smile. “Teremana margarita with double lime?” He nods and slips down the bar to make my new drink, leaving me and Carson alone once more. “I can definitely use one of those after the day I had.”

I smile brightly, making sure Carson knows I’m kidding. Thankfully, he plays along. “Rough one?” he asks. “New client’s an asshole?”

“I’ve had worse. But some clients just don’t like to admit they need help.”

Carson runs his finger along the rim of his glass, looking thoughtful but staying silent.

I press on. “It’s hard. I get that. But if I needed heart surgery, I’d go to a cardiologist. If I needed my car worked on, I’d consult a mechanic. So when you need PR work, you get a PR person.”

The metaphor is one I’ve used before with a decent amount of success. Companies and clients aren’t always overjoyed to see me, especially when I come in and start bossing people around mid-crisis, but that’s my job.

“I should be able to fix this myself,” Carson mutters so quietly I almost don’t hear it.

It’s my first look at the real Carson Steen. The man with high expectations, not only of everyone around him but of himself. This whole clusterfuck, as he called it, is weighing on him heavily, despite his broad shoulders and bold confidence.

“You ever see a barber cut their own hair?” I ask. “I have. It’s a mess. Even the best barber has to get a haircut from someone else. There’s no shame in getting outside help from a specialist. This is what I do, and I’m damn good at it. You can trust me, Carson.”

He turns to me, not only his eyes, but his entire body. He’s either going to tell me to fuck off or that he’s in. There’s no middle ground. I can sense it. I turn too, my knees going between his widespread ones as I look him directly in his eyes. “What’s it going to be?”

My breath pauses in my chest, awaiting his verdict. This assignment is a big deal for me, a big trust from Patrick, but more importantly, I find that I want to help Carson. He’s not this monster the media, and Abby Burks, especially, are making him out to be. He’s a dedicated worker who believes in his family business and thought he was doing what was best for people he considers to be part of the Steen Amusement family.

“I’m in.”

Two little words, but it’s a huge concession on his part. He’s giving me control and cooperation, two things I think he rarely offers anyone. Even in his tone, I can tell that this is a major, major effort on his part.

“Good,” I answer softly, even as inside I’m doing excited backflips. “I’m glad, because I can help you. I can help Americana Land. But I’m not going to lie, this is going to be rough. I’m going to ask you a lot of personal questions, and I need your honesty. And I’m going to make suggestions you’re going to hate, disagree with, and want to veto. We can discuss them, and I can explain my reasonings, but you’re going to have to work with me.”

His eyes fall to his lap where his hands rest on his thighs, and my gaze follows. The tan skin of his fingers is inches away from the paler expanse of my thigh. Beneath my skirt, my core clenches, but I fight the urge to spread my knees to give him access.