“You look gorgeous,” a deep, manly voice says from behind me, nearly making me jump. Turning around, I inhale sharply, taking in the vision before me. Nate Becker is wearing a suit, and he’s looking damn fine. He so rarely wears a suit that he knocks me off my feet every time he does. The first time I saw him in one was at one of Bennett Enterprises’ collection shows. I was young and impressionable, and he was gorgeous. Now I’m not so young anymore, and I’d like to think I’m less impressionable, but he’s still as gorgeous as he can be.
The black color of the suit jacket and the white shirt underneath are clearly meant to send the message that he means business.
“Thank you,” I reply. “You clean up well yourself.”
Nate scrutinizes me, his gaze traveling down my body and then upward again, resting a split second longer on my waist and chest than on my other parts. My mouth and lips instantly feel dry, and I involuntarily wet my lower lip with the tip of my tongue just as Nate focuses on my face again. He catches the gesture, and his irises darken a notch. Damn. No matter how hard I try to stay at the top of my game with this man, he’s always one step ahead of me. It’s probably part of what pulls me to him like a magnet. He has a kind of power over me no other man has ever had.
Just as I mentally whip my thoughts back into line, promising myself not to let myself be affected by his presence, he adjusts one hem of his suit jacket, revealing he’s wearing cuff links. Well, hell.
Nate in a suit is my weakness.
Nate in a suit and cuff links is my kryptonite.
To my surprise, he asks for a visitor badge himself.
“Why do you need one?” I ask as we head to the elevator.
“Anyone who doesn’t work in this building needs one, even if they work within the network.” He walks a step behind me, so close I can practically feel his breath on my neck.
“You did something with your hair,” he comments as we come to a halt in front of the elevators and I press the button to summon one. “I love that it gives me easy access to your neck.” As if to prove the point, he brings his mouth to my ear, adding, “I’ve always loved your neck.”
Every nerve ending on my neck and face snaps to life, buzzing with his proximity.
Damn it, this won’t do. We’re about to go into a business meeting, and I don’t want to appear anything less than a hundred percent professional.
“Nate,” I admonish, stepping to one side and turning to face him. He looks amused. “Please behave during the meeting. I don’t want anyone thinking you only agreed to this because we’re….”
“Yes?”
“Dating.”
His smirk grows more pronounced. “Might I remind you that we haven’t been on a single date yet. You’re playing hard to get, Alice.” His green eyes scrutinize me with an intensity that nearly has my knees buckling. As if knowing the exact effect his words have on me, he steps closer, leaning slightly forward. Without breaking eye contact, he adds in a low, gruff voice, “It’ll be my immense pleasure to chase you.”
With a ping, the elevator doors open and half a dozen suits step out. Nate and I move out of their way, and I’m careful to keep my distance from him because holy hell. This man has a dangerous way with words. Several other people join us in the elevator ride, and they serve as an effective buffer between Nate and me.
Our stop, the third floor, arrives all too soon. As we step out of the elevator, he whispers in my ear, “I never play by the rules, Alice. You should know that by now.”
I don’t get the chance to admonish him because a blonde bombshell—for lack of better word—welcomes us.
“Welcome, Ms. Bennett. Welcome, Mr. Becker. I’m Sarah, Mr. Andrew’s assistant.” She shakes hands with both of us, and she all but drools over Nate. Irrational jealousy rears its head almost instantly, and I barely bite back a snappy reply. I remind myself we haven’t even been on a date yet, as Nate correctly pointed out. Theoretically, he’s a free agent. I discreetly observe him as Sarah leads us down a maze of corridors to the meeting room. He makes polite conversation with her, and his body language is perfectly professional. Or maybe I’m just reading into it what I want.
Five men and three women are already in the meeting room when we enter. I recognize one of the women because she regularly appears in front of the camera on Delicious Dining. They all sit on one side of the long table, and Nate and I are asked to sit on the opposite side. I feel like we’re in front of a jury.
The moment Mr. Andrews, the head of the team, asks me if I can tell him why I’m a good fit for them, I begin with my pitch. Shoulders squared, chin held high, I speak with confidence, knowing my numbers are good, my food even better. The most efficient way to become confident in an area is to be the best at it. I’ve done this before when I talked to partners such as tourism agencies and local attractions, and I roped them in to recommend my restaurants to their customers.
But a few minutes into my pitch, I notice some of their expressions turn skeptical, and my confidence wavers. Drawing in a sharp breath, I try not to panic. Truth is, I’ve never been good with first impressions. Or rather, I make the wrong impression. More than once, people have told me they thought I was a stiff, unapproachable ice queen when they first met me. I refused to believe it at first, outright dismissed it. But after receiving the same feedback multiple times, I knew there must be some truth to it. I can usually shake off that impression as I get to know people better, but here I only have this one shot.
Casting a glance in Nate’s direction, I notice a crease on his forehead as he looks around the table. My stomach sinks. This isn’t all in my mind. When I finish my pitch, Nate steps in, retelling a small anecdote from our childhood. It only loosely ties to my restaurant business and what I was saying moments before, but the atmosphere at the table instantly changes. Several of them chuckle, and the others openly laugh. I’d worked in three funny lines in my pitch, and I didn’t get nearly the same reaction.
Then again, Nate always had this incredible charisma. It takes me some time to realize what he’s doing: he’s projecting his own charisma on me, and damn if it isn’t working.
The winning moment is when Nate tells them he was the first tester for my now-famous casserole, and I nearly poisoned him, it was that bad. He adds how proud he is that I’ve come this far. Everyone at the table bursts out laughing, and I smile sheepishly.
“Ms. Bennett, your restaurants will be a wonderful fit for our show,” the head of the team exclaims, with a few others nodding in agreement. A weight lifts from my shoulders, a knot unfurls in my chest, and I cast a glance full of gratitude at Nate, who winks at me and then offers one of his trademark Cheshire cat smiles. Confused, I cock a brow at him. In response, he merely glances downward to my legs. Oh no! My dress inched waaaay up my thighs, probably because I nervously crossed and uncrossed my legs too many times during the pitch. As inconspicuously as possible, I rearrange my dress, and Nate accidentally on purpose touches my outer thigh with his knee. He’s done being on his best behavior.
***
Nate