Tessa

Mr. Spears gasps as I take the black credit card from the bakery guy. How the hell am I going to explain this one?

“Is that Barclay Hammond’s card?” I give him a quick nod and walk as fast as my legs will carry me on the sidewalk. From across the street, Mr. Hammond peers at me with narrowed eyes, then glances between Mr. Spears and me. His jaw tightens into a knot of disapproval.

“That guy called you Mrs. Hammond. What the hell is going on?” Mr. Spears grabs hold of my arm. We’re stopped at the crosswalk, and the light tells me I can’t cross, so I’m stuck.

“Nothing, okay.” He has some nerve touching me. I shake his hand off my arm and wait for the light to change. “I just ran an errand for him.”

“Wow. You went upstairs to his office, and now you’re fetching him food in a sexy coat. Are you already working for him as his special assistant?” He ends his question with a creepy laugh.

“No.” There’s no easy or sane way to explain how I’ve found myself standing in this very spot, mainly because I don’t understand it myself. “Will you do me a big favor?”

“Maybe.” Mr. Spears’ grin relays that any agreement from him will come at a price. “What are you hiding?”

“Don’t tell Mr. Hammond I dropped off my résumé,” I beg him. I don’t want to get a job at Hammond Press because the CEO told someone to hire me. I want to earn a job on my own merit.

“I’ll act like I’ve never met you before on one account.” Mr. Spears’ attempt to make his voice sound seductive has the opposite effect, but I need his cooperation. Plus, time’s running out to get him to agree with me.

“What do you want?” I roll my eyes as the crosswalk light changes and make my way across the street with Mr. Spears at my side. I purposefully keep my eyes turned away from Mr. Hammond’s glare.

“Meet me for drinks tomorrow night.” Mr. Spears doesn’t ask, he demands.

“Okay, but only drinks.” I’d rather have a tooth pulled, but I don’t see a way around it.

“Name the time and place.” I breakout in the heebie-jeebies after Mr. Spears once again touches me, placing his hand on my lower back. Thankfully, we’re approaching the waiting town car. Mr. Hammond stands beside it, his arms crossed over his chest. His pursed lips worry me.

“Eight thirty at the Hammond Hotel.” I finish just out of Mr. Hammond’s direct earshot. I hope.

Mr. Spears leans closer to me, if that’s even possible. “See you tomorrow, Mrs. Hammond,” he whispers into my ear. His hot breath blows against my skin. How could he smell like garlic before noon? Yuck.

I need to schedule a sudden migraine tomorrow night after our first drink—or earlier.

“Hello, Barclay,” Mr. Spears addresses Mr. Hammond with an odd wave type salute and heads toward the entrance of the building without waiting for a reply, leaving me standing by Mr. Hammond holding a bag and my breath.

I crane my neck to meet Mr. Hammond’s eyes. He towers over me in a wall of Armani. How can any man be this gorgeous? I had no idea it was humanly possible until meeting him. I bite my lip to keep from sighing.

Regarding me from head to toe, Mr. Hammond opens the sedan’s door. “Be a good girl, Miss Holly, and get in,” he says in a commanding tone. So much for a warm hello.

I wonder if his sour attitude has anything to do with Mr. Spears. There didn’t seem to be anything warm and fuzzy in their interaction. I hope that’s the reason for his ticked off attitude.

“Yes, sir.” My southern manners kick in and I try to climb into the car, but wearing this short trench coat makes it nearly impossible to be ladylike. I tug down the hem and pray Mr. Hammond doesn’t get a view of anything private.

Once seated in the car, I slide over toward the window, holding the edges of the coat in place. The soft leather of the seat caresses the backs of my legs, all the way up to my panties. Outside of wearing a swimsuit, I’ve never exposed so much skin in public. My mother would be livid, and my father would have Mr. Hammond cuffed and bent over the car, likely asking about his intentions with me.

In one fluid motion, Mr. Hammond folds himself into the backseat as I gape at him in awe. His every move stirs a craving inside me I don’t recognize, making him lethal to my virtue.

Once he’s sitting next to me, his long legs spread to give him more room, taking up the empty space between us. I have no idea where to place the bag with the cherry tart in it, so I set it on top of my naked legs. The tart feels warm against them.

After Mr. Hammond shuts the door, his cologne fills the air, reminding me of the fresh pines in the forest near my home—clean, woodsy, and masculine. A couple more breaths later, and there’s a good chance I won’t survive the ride to Don Black’s house. He smells divine.

“Lawrence,” Mr. Hammond addresses his driver, sitting in the front seat. “Please place this up front. Also, can you check the trunk for a blanket?” He takes the sack off my lap and passes it through the divider to his driver.

“Certainly, sir.” His driver exits the car and walks to the trunk.

I don’t understand why he’s asking for a blanket in May, especially since the car feels warm with his body heat radiating all around me.

“Are you friends with Mr. Spears?” Mr. Hammond demands. He balls the fist resting on his strong thigh and releases it. His neck muscles strain as he awaits my answer.

“We only just met today outside your building.” Thankfully, I don’t have to lie, though I do omit some of the truth—and the fact that I have a drink date with the man in question.

“A word of warning. Stay clear of him,” he cautions with a sideward glance, and I nod.

Mr. Spears comes across as a big creeper. Meeting him tomorrow night sounds like a big mistake. How did finding a job become so complicated? I never thought I’d have to maneuver between two men.

The car shakes when the driver returns to the front seat and shuts his door. “Sorry, sir. There isn’t anything in the trunk.”

“Thanks for checking.” Mr. Hammond mutters something else under his breath. I love watching his full lips move, though I can’t make out what he’s saying. “Mrs. Mackenzie gave you the address, correct?”

“Yes, Mr. Hammond. It’s plugged into the GPS,” the driver responds, pulling the car into busy Manhattan traffic.

Hardly a minute passes before Mr. Hammond twists and turns in his seat, attempting to remove his suit coat. His wrestling act takes up even more space in the backseat, so I move closer to the window to give him more room.

Once he’s out of his jacket, he turns toward me for the first time since we entered the car. His eyes blaze and his jaw is hard set, but the intensity he displays doesn’t feel like anger, more an internal struggle of some kind.

“In case you’re cold.” He lays the suit coat over my exposed legs. When his fingers caress the skin on my upper thighs, I gasp, and he jumps like he touched a hot flame. “Pardon me.”

“No worries.” With shaky hands, I smooth his jacket over my legs. The soft wool feels warm from being wrapped around the larger-than-life man.

“The bakery owner assured me I bought the best cherry tart in Manhattan.” I decide to try some small talk.

“Thanks for helping me out.” Mr. Hammond looks at me with his intense dark eyes. My heart flutters as this beautiful man gives me his full attention. “We are on a mission to ensure he makes the Warwick Awards dinner this Saturday night. He’s up for book of the year, and his attendance is uncertain.”

“Why wouldn’t he come?” I ask.

“That’s the multi-million-dollar question. Literally.” Mr. Hammond rakes his hands through his inky black hair, releasing a breath of frustration. “Since he’s not answering our emails or calls, we’re going to him. I’m banking on your fresh face versus my old mug getting us past the front door.”

“I’ll do my best not to fangirl too much. Where does he live?” I remember Mr. Black’s bio mentioning New England and figure it can’t be too far if we’re driving there.

“In Greenwich, Connecticut. About an hour away.” He shifts a bit closer to me, and our legs touch. He doesn’t pull away, and our connection lingers, making my pulse race.

No man has ever had such an effect on me. I cross my legs and look out the front window for a few seconds, worried over what he’ll see reflected in my eyes if I stay turned his way.

“Not far at all then.” My voice trembles. Does he notice?

“I was raised in Greenwich too.” He’s sharing something personal with me, and I can’t help feeling closer to this powerful man.

“I was raised in Alabama. Though, I’m sure that’s not a surprise, considering how I talk.”

“So was my mother. Your accent matches hers.” My mouth flies open while the corners of his lips rise, turning into a full smile that makes me forget how to breathe. “Surprised, right?”

“Totally,” I say in a weak voice.

I imagined his mother to be a refined socialite from the Upper East Side, educated at the finest prep schools where girls are polished to perfection. I wonder how she ended up in New York City and married to one of the most influential publishers in the city.

“She worked for the company after graduating from Brown University.” He either read my mind, or I asked my question out loud. The latter is likely.

“An office romance then,” I say with a sneaky smile.

“Something like that.” He straightens his already perfect tie. I do love watching his long fingers, though I wish he didn’t skip over the juicy details.

Still, today, girls from Alabama rarely get accepted into Ivy League colleges. I can’t imagine what it was like years ago when his mother went to school there.

“Your mother’s smart,” I blurt out.

“So are you.” I wonder how he can say this about me based on our limited interaction. At least I’m not coming across as a country girl from the sticks.

“Thanks.” My face blushes at his compliment, and he smiles back at me, only making my condition worse. I’m not used to having a man’s attention aimed at me like this. It’s all so overwhelming.

“Do you live in the city?” He finally asks me a personal question, but it still floats on the surface of small talk.

“Just visiting for a few days. By myself.” I have no idea why I included my lone wolf status.

“I’m still unclear how you ended up in our lobby.” He tilts his head and pauses. “But I appreciate your help today.”

“I hope it works.” Mr. Black’s lack of cooperation is etched on Mr. Hammond’s face, so I truly hope we can change his mind about this awards dinner. It sounds super important, especially if his book wins.

“Me too. Well, I need to make some calls while we’re driving,” he says in a firm, deep voice, like he’s switching from casual conversation to business mode.

“Of course.” As CEO, nonstop calls and meetings have to fill his day. I can’t expect him to entertain me the entire ride. Though I’d love to talk with him and get to know him better, I have to be realistic. He has a corporation to run.

Mr. Hammond stares at me for a few silent seconds, then drops his eyes to my mouth and follows a straight line down to my chest.

I squirm in my seat. He clears his throat and looks forward. This tension between us rises to a point where I might combust. I worry the windows will soon fog up, just like Maggie mentioned—and we haven’t touched each other.

Dream on, Holly. The man is way out of my league.

He extends one leg and digs his phone out from his front pocket. I can’t help but notice the fabric straining over his crotch, and there’s something rather large outlined by his wool trousers.

Whoa.

I can’t believe it. This hot, older man is turned on … by me.

His insistence that I cover my exposed legs makes sense now. He wanted them out of his sight. It had nothing to do with me being cold. I gaze out the side window as the road flies by, a slow smile building across my face.