The Baller - Vi Keeland Page 0,18
complex was working. I pushed the button, mentally debating if I should invite him up or not.
No. Inviting him up would be misleading.
But I really don’t want him to leave.
“So . . . I’ll call your agent to set up the interview for this weekend.”
“Call me. Not my agent.”
“Okay.”
The elevator dinged, and I suddenly felt awkward. “Do you want to come up for some coffee?”
He shook his head slowly.
“Okay, then. Well. Thank you for dinner.” I stepped into the elevator.
“You’re welcome.”
The impatient doors began to close. Brody stopped them, holding them open as he leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. His mouth lingered, and he leaned in a little farther to whisper in my ear. “I don’t trust myself alone with you. I need a little space between us, or our friendship isn’t going to end well.”
He leaned back, and we stared at each other for a moment. My heart was racing, my pulse was beating like I’d just run a marathon, and every hair on the back of my neck was standing up from the electricity running between us.
He lifted the arm that was holding the door, and as it closed he said, “Sweet dreams, friend.”
I knew they would be. Because I was certain who would be starring in them that evening.
“Guess you put out last night?” Indie spun herself around in my ergonomically correct swivel chair. I dropped my bags on the floor and glanced at the beautiful arrangement of flowers sitting in the middle of my desk.
“Where did those come from?”
She lifted the small florist’s card in her hand. “Cityscape Florists. Delivered them just before you walked in.”
“I need to run to the ladies’ room. Why don’t you make yourself at home? Oh, wait. You already have.” I stashed my purse in a drawer, tossed my cell on the desk and eyed the brown paper bag that I assumed contained the breakfast Indie had brought us. “I hope it’s something greasy . . . I need it this morning.”
When I returned to my office, Indie was talking on my cell phone. “Here she comes now. The flowers are beautiful, by the way.” She extended my cell with a cheeky grin.
“Hello.”
“Morning.” Brody’s voice was laced with morning huskiness. “What kind of flowers were delivered?”
I looked at the arrangement. “Roses. They’re beautiful. Thank you.”
“Unoriginal.”
“Pardon?”
“What asswipe sends a woman like you ordinary roses?”
“You mean . . . they’re not from you?”
“No. And the guy who sent them had his secretary send that crap and didn’t give it any thought. Probably has an account at the florist and a standard order. Guy’s a dick.”
“You don’t even know who they’re from. I don’t even know who they’re from. Yet you know he’s a dick?”
“I do.”
“Because the flowers are roses?”
“Yep. Dick. I’m sure of it.”
I chuckled. “Your assessment is amusing. I’ll be sure to keep that in mind when I actually get to read the card and find out who the sweet gesture is from.”
“Sweet gesture.” He guffawed. “That’s not what you really want, and you know it.”
After eight hours of tossing and turning in my bed last night, I was beginning to think he was right. As much as I hated to admit it, I’d thought about Brody an awful lot after he left last night. Replaying our conversation over and over about why I couldn’t have sex without a relationship, I’d begun to doubt myself. Maybe there was nothing wrong with having sex with a man I was attracted to. Why did I need to tie in some sort of commitment to enjoy the physical benefits of a sexual relationship? I was twenty-six years old—there was nothing wrong with sex just being about sex if that was what I wanted.
“Did you call for a reason other than to tell me what I want, Mr. Easton?”
He groaned.
“What?”
“I like the way ‘Mr. Easton’ sounds coming from your mouth.” He groaned again.
“What?”
“Now I’m thinking of your mouth.”
I laughed. “You’re not very good at this friend thing, are you?”
“Told you that you’d be the first. It’s harder than I thought.”
“I bet it is.”
“Are you flirting back with me, friend?”
“You have my head spinning. I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m not even sure what you called for yet.”
“Shit. Okay. Yeah. Right. I want the interview done in my hotel suite.”
“Your hotel suite?”
“Don’t sound so worried. You’ll have a crew with you. I can’t attack you in front of them.”
“That’s true.”
“I’ll have to wait until they leave.”
I was still standing next to my