The Baller - Vi Keeland Page 0,15
lipstick, purposefully swiping some on my front tooth. “You don’t like my outfit?”
“Seriously? You look a little insane.”
I smoothed my jacket down and picked up the giant dowdy brown church-lady purse. “What? You don’t think I look sexy?”
“Are you wearing bloomers under there?”
I flipped off the light switch in my office. “And a nursing bra.” I actually had a G-string and a demi cup bra on, but the appalled look on Indie’s face was worth the little white lie.
She followed me out of my office. Luckily, the building was already mostly empty, or I might have gotten some strange looks. I really did look a bit nuts.
“Did you get that crap from wardrobe?” Indie asked.
“Nope. I bought it for my date.”
“You bought that getup?”
“Sure did.”
“I think you’ve been under too much stress lately.” She kissed me on the cheek before jumping on the up elevator to head back to her office. “Breakfast in your office at eight. I can’t wait to hear all about this date.”
Ten minutes later, I exited the glass turn-style door of WMBC and saw a fancy car double-parked right at the curb. Brody got out and walked around the car to open the passenger door. As his eyes swept me up and down, his brows drew together. Then he blinked repeatedly. “Hi.”
I gave him a goofy ear-to-ear smile. “Hi. Where are we going?”
“Um . . . to the . . . um . . . the restaurant at the Regency.”
It was everything I could do to not crack up. He had no idea if my outfit was serious or a joke. Although he earned a point for being polite enough not to say anything. I couldn’t resist screwing with him a little more after we settled into the car.
“You look nice.” He was wearing a hunter-green cashmere sweater that fit him well, snug across his broad shoulders, but not too tight, and simple black slacks.
He glanced at me and back at the road. “Thank you.” I wasn’t sure if I liked him more or less because he didn’t lie and feed me a compliment back about my outfit.
“You look different with your hair up. I like it.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. It’s sexy librarian.”
“Sexy librarian, huh?”
“I’ve always had a thing for librarians. You know . . . unpin her tight hair, let it loose down her back. And then make her moan between the stacks.”
“How romantic.” I shifted in my seat at the visual he painted.
“I don’t think women want romance as much as they think they do.”
I cackled. “You don’t know women very well.”
“Oh, but I think I do. I think most women, especially women who work hard and have a lot on their mind, prefer a man to come home, lift her off her feet and take her against the wall rather than hand her some bullshit flowers and pussyfoot around with sweet gestures all night.”
“We like bullshit flowers and sweet gestures.” Though I could use a good wall banging.
“Then you haven’t been fucked properly against a wall.”
“Let me guess. You could demonstrate?”
“We could skip dinner.”
“Big of you. But our deal was dinner for an interview.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
We arrived at the Regency, and the valet who opened the car door for me knew Brody by name. “Usual time in the morning, Mr. Easton?”
“Actually. I’ll probably be using the car again tonight. Why don’t you keep it close by?”
“Sure thing, Mr. Easton.”
Brody walked around the car. His hand went to the small of my back.
“Probably?”
“A man has to hold on to his dreams.” He winked.
As we walked through the lobby, more employees greeted him by name. He was a household name, but they spoke to him with the familiarity of a frequent visitor. “Do you come here often? Dinner at a hotel? How convenient for dessert.”
“I live here.”
“You live at the Regency?”
“During the season, I do. The field is less than an hour from here, even with traffic.”
“Where do you live in the offseason?”
“I have a cabin upstate. I stay there mostly.”
“A cabin? In the woods?”
“Yes. I’ve been working on it for a few years now in the offseason. I figure it should be done in about . . . I don’t know . . . twenty or thirty years.” He chuckled.
“Sounds like you work fast.”
He steered me down the hall toward the restaurant and leaned into me as he spoke. His voice was raspy. “Actually, I like to take my time.” The timbre of his voice made my toes curl in my sensible shoes.
A part of