“None for me. Thank you, though.” I put my hand up to cover my glass as Chris tries to pour wine into it. Again.
“C’mon, Em. Just because we’re working, doesn’t mean we can’t relax some and have a drink.”
His cologne overpowers the scent of food in the restaurant, and there’s a soft whistle in his nose every time he inhales. I try not to focus on it, but now that I’ve heard it, I can’t unhear it.
“Where were we?” I clear my throat and lift the profit and loss statement we were talking about before the waiter came with the bottle of wine. This, of course, came after the three glasses he had already had.
“I forget. Where exactly were we?” he says in a playful voice as he scoots closer so we’re shoulder to shoulder. Again.
Trying the same move I’ve done several times tonight already, I shift in my seat to put some distance between us. When I do, Chris reaches out and puts his hand over mine.
Alarm bells sound off in my head, but I do my best to appear unaffected. It isn’t the first time a man has tried to flirt with me when I didn’t encourage it.
I nonchalantly pull my hand out from under his to pick up the income statement. “We were talking about last year’s net income of Blue Skies compared to the proposed loan amount.”
“Yes, we were.” He reaches across me to pick up an untouched glass of water, his elbow grazes against my breasts. I chock it up to being an accident, but I don’t like it one bit. “But I think it’s better suited if we talk about you and me.”
“What about you and me?” I ask, befuddled where this conversation is going.
“You know I’m the only loan officer in town who would take a chance on you, right?” His voice is low, and he’s so close that I can smell the wine on his breath.
“Yes, and as I’ve said before, I appreciate that.”
“Nothing is guaranteed though.”
“I know.” I nod and shift my body again when he leans in closer. “Oh, you know what I forgot to ask about? What’s it called? Crap. I forgot. Can you get the other papers off the seat?” I feign stupidity to try to get him to go back to his side of the booth. His excuse that he needed to explain a calculation in order to sit beside me was clearly a ruse.
“Forget the questions, Emerson. I know one surefire way to make certain you get that loan.”
“Hmm? What’s that?” I ask without looking at him, even though I’m pretty damn sure what he’s going to suggest next.
“C’mon.” He chuckles and the sound of it makes my skin crawl. “I’m always up for a little game of hard to get, but don’t you think we’re past that point?”
I choose my next words wisely because I’m in a precarious position. Do I tell him to back the hell off and piss off the only banker who would take a chance on me? Do I do that and risk losing my loan? Or do I just bite my tongue, politely refuse him, and bide my time?
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand. ” I decide to pick the second option and hope it works when every part of me begs to do the first one.
“This loan process would go much smoother and be a little more certain, if you’d just give into our chemistry.”
I turn to look at him and startle when I find his face within inches of mine. His eyebrows are raised and his stare is unwavering.
“Let me get this straight. You’re saying that, if I sleep with you, my loan will get approved?” I try to hide the disgust I feel and wonder if he senses it. Then again, it seems he’s in an alternative universe if he’s interpreted my indifference to his advances as my being interested.
His chuckle rumbles in the small space around us. “Now, now, I didn’t say that, did I?” The smirk on his face and suggestion in his eyes says he meant exactly that. “Don’t go putting words in my mouth.”
“And if I don’t give into our chemistry . . .?” His shrug is the only answer he gives. “I have a preapproval letter, Chris. The lender has already told me that so long as I get them the information they need and it’s accurate, they’ll give me the loan.”
“Preapproval letters aren’t a loan approval,” he states, eyes hardening.
“I’m aware,” I say with confidence while hating that his veiled threat only serves to intensify my anxiety over getting my loan.
We stare at each other for a few seconds. I refuse to back down or be intimidated by him. The man clearly isn’t the type of person I thought he was.
“Oh my. Is it already six o’clock? Where did the time go? I need to get going.” I begin putting the papers into a messy stack as a way to show him I’m serious about needing to leave. He doesn’t budge. “Excuse me, Chris, can you please let me get out of the booth?”
He narrows his eyes and tilts his head to the side as he studies me. “I need the rest of this information by tomorrow night.” His voice is cold when moments ago it was warmth laced with suggestion.
“Tomorrow night?” I laugh as if he’s joking but then realize he’s not. Panic hits me. It’s going to take me all night to pull this together. “I don’t understand. You told me I had until next Friday.”
“Yeah, well, plans changed. I need it by tomorrow night.”
“You’re serious.” I state the obvious, still dumbfounded by the personality switch he just flicked over to the asshole side.
“Deadly. Unless of course . . .” He leaves the words unspoken, but his fingertip trailing down my bicep says it all for him.
I yank my arm away and start scooting myself out of the booth, my hips hitting his to try to push him along. He relents but makes sure to stand well within my personal space as I gather the rest of my paperwork. I hate the feeling of him watching me as I bend over to grab my purse and briefcase from the inside of the booth.
All I want to do is get the hell out of here but I grit my teeth, force myself to face him, and sound cordial.
“Thank you for the dinner and for answering my questions. I’ll do my best to get the documents to you by tomorrow night.”
“Don’t try, Emerson. Make it happen.”
With bile in my throat and a film of disgust coating my skin, I walk out of the restaurant as quickly as I can.