Big Man

“Social event will be different though,” I say. “Yesterday you could write off as a work necessity. This is voluntary.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I know.” He locks eyes with me for a long moment, and my heart leaps against my throat. But before I can ask anything else, he finishes the last of his sandwich in one huge bite. “Seven work for dinner?” he asks as he shoves his way out the back door once more.

“See you then,” I confirm as the door swings shut between us. Then I dust off my own hands and get back to work.

8

Sasha Bluebell

Dinner turns out great. I make chicken oregano and Caprese salad, which Grant has never had before. He didn’t exactly gush about the homemade pesto sauce I mixed in for added flavor, but he definitely helped himself to four servings, then admitted between bites that it was “addictive.”

There was something weirdly calm, almost familiar, about sitting across the dinner table from Grant and chatting about the day. He told me all the progress he’d made, and any problems he’d run up against, and I did the same. We charted out plans for the rest of the week, what we’d aim to fix up and what we were okay with letting go. It felt weirdly… fun, to plan like that. To tackle a problem like this, a simple, concrete problem that we could fix with our hands.

Nothing at all like my usual work explosions, which have twelve different possible solutions, half of which depend on other people in the office who are unreliable.

That, and it helps that the whole time we’re talking, his hand keeps brushing past mine, his knee touching mine under the table, both of us cracking flirtatious jokes that make me blush and him smirk wider, a look that says he has plans for me later tonight…

Then he takes over the dishes—he insists—and I slip out to my room to change for the party. After digging through my suitcase, I settle on the little black dress that I packed—just in case, I’d figured when I was tossing half my NYC closet into this suitcase. Thanks a million, past Sasha, I think as I pull it on and turn before the bedroom mirror, grateful for the thinking ahead.

This dress is one of my favorites at home. It’s chic, stylish, and couture. It hugs my every curve, showing off my slim waist and my hips to perfection. There’s beading along the chest, hugging the neckline, which plunges just far enough to hint at cleavage without revealing too much. In the back, the skirt hugs my thighs tight, shows off my pert ass.

I twirl a little in front of the mirror and grin. Perfect.

Pair that with a pair of heels—not the mud-stained pair I tripped in on day one, but the backup pair of Manolos, neon red heels flashing under the sleek black-and-silver top halves. Then I just have to do my makeup—I keep it simple, mascara, cat eyes, and a hint of gold lipstick that lets the rest of my outfit speak for itself—and shift my possessions into the little silver clutch purse I brought, the one shaped like an old Cuban cigar case.

I twirl before the mirror, loving the effect I have. I look like a million bucks. I look like my old self, my New York self. I look ready to slay whatever this party holds.

I stride out of my room into the hallway. Grant, for his part, is already waiting by the door, truck keys in hand. Oh no.

“I’ll drive,” I say before he even looks up from his phone, which he’s checking for his usual once-a-day stop to make sure he hasn’t missed anything.

When he does look up at last, his eyes do a slow, steady sweep of my body that sends shivers down my spine. When those eyes finally lock back onto mine, he’s grinning, a sly, knowing look. “Are you trying to skip this party tonight?” he asks.

“What?” I frown. “No, why?”

His grin widens. “Because wearing that makes me want to throw you over my shoulder and drag you right back into the bedroom,” he says.

My legs clench, as the shivers race all the way down into my pussy. So let’s, I almost say, but Grant doesn’t give me time. He’s already opening the front door and holding it for me to pass, half-bowing at the waist, ever the gentleman.

“After you,” he says.

Only then do I really take in his outfit, and remember where the hell I am.

He looks good, don’t get me wrong. He looks hot as hell, actually, in clean black jeans and a loose V-neck gray T-shirt. But he doesn’t look like this is a party party. At least not the kind that I’m used to.

But of course it isn’t. I’m not in New York. I’m in my hometown, home to no more than 2,000 residents max. I wince. “Crap,” I say, hesitating.