She had to laugh. This was sounding more like a mission by the minute. “I’m not a sitcom character, you know. This isn’t a romantic comedy where you can concoct a plot and a specific outcome.”
“I know! This is your life.” Glo opened her palms to the heavens, then shook Kimber’s arm. “And your life doesn’t have to be this much pressure! You’ve gone from long-term relationship to long-term relationship. Trust me on this. You need laid, not encumbered.”
She could get behind that. The very last thing she wanted was to be encumbered. Again. “But Angel’s my friend. Won’t that be awkward?”
“Why? Do you go to her house for Christmas or something?”
Valid point. “What if Landon tells Evan and Evan talks to you about it?”
“They’re men, sweetheart, they don’t gossip like we do. If Landon did tell Evan, it’d never get back to me. Plus, I’d already know because you’re going to tell me everything.”
“Everything?” Kimber asked with a weak smile.
Glo waggled her brows. “Everything.”
“A fun-night stand,” Kimber murmured to herself. “It does have a nice ring to it.”
Gloria grinned, satisfied. “Does, doesn’t it?”
Lyon picked a dandelion and handed it to the very little girl who had walked by with her mother a moment ago. She was sitting in the sandbox, her chubby knees poking out of the sand. He offered again and the girl took the weed and rolled it between her tiny fingers. Then he patted her on the arm and smiled that charming Downey smile.
“God, he’s cute,” Glo said, something wistful and rare lining her happy-go-lucky voice.
“I know,” Kimber replied softly.
You should see his uncle.
* * *
Landon hadn’t wanted to go to work on Saturday, not when it was Lyon’s last day here. He’d appeased himself by promising he’d come home early. He did; right around six, which wasn’t half-bad.
And yeah, he’d been hard on his designers this week. Harder than necessary, truth be told. They weren’t as dim or imbecilic as he’d accused them of being. He could be a tyrant when he was laser-focused. He’d gifted them with certificates to a local restaurant, enough for them to treat their spouses/significant others. They’d earned it. Windy City now had a solid visual concept everyone was behind. No slogan yet, but he breathed a sigh of relief at having made it this far.
When he’d overheard several people making plans to go out tonight, he’d found himself feeling the rare urge to be included in the celebration. Not that he’d intended on going—he never hung out with his employees in a casual environment. They didn’t want him to, and he understood why. Who wanted to hang out with the boss? Watch everything they say? But he’d entertained the notion, picturing Kimber on his arm, her body decked out in a vintage dress showcasing the length of her legs, her hair a bright red twist at the back of her neck.
That’s when he’d concluded the fantasy had nothing to do with going out with his co-workers. He wanted to go out with her. Especially after the kiss on the balcony last night. How many times had he caught his mind straying to the memory of her fingers on his neck, the press of her breasts against his chest, the erotic way she slid her tongue along his lips? Too many.
Or not enough.
The thought of Kimber at one of his work functions made him smile. Her presence would go over a lot smoother than Lissa’s. Lissa saw herself as a work of art. As a result, she was constantly striking a pose or pulling her lips into a moue for whoever might be looking in her direction. She’d told him once her job was to be “consistently beautiful.” At the time, he’d understood. His job was to be consistently professional; he could relate to the pressure of meeting expectations.
But Kimber wouldn’t have to justify why she was doing what she did. And he’d bet she’d go a long way to bridging the gap between his employees and him. She wasn’t just good with people. She was real. Real, and so darn likable. If they arrived arm in arm, he had no doubt everyone in the restaurant would wonder how he’d gotten the natural, fidgety, sexy redhead to accompany him. He wondered if she would go out with him. Odd that he wasn’t sure what she’d say if he asked her.
Art board for Windy City under his arm, he stepped into his house planning on making a beeline for his office. Until the tantalizing smell of peppers and cheese stopped him cold. A pizza box stood on the countertop and he drifted to it like it was outfitted with a tractor beam. Or like those cartoon characters that lifted off the floor and floated toward the scent. He’d been so out of the habit of eating pizza—thanks to living with a raw-food-diet supermodel—he couldn’t remember the last slice of Giordano’s he’d had. Four years ago? No. Five.