Not Just Friends (Hot in the City #3) - T. Gephart Page 0,51

right time to make the jump from professional to personal. But if I was going to be with her, I was going to have to trust her. And regardless of whether he was just a meathead with a superiority complex or was in love with his boss, he’d take a bullet for her for sure. Something I could respect.

“Lunch?” he asked, his usual lack of expression MIA as he couldn’t hide his surprise.

“Yeah, I’m going out to get us something. You want in?”

He considered it, shooting his eyes to Presley before responding. “Sure, I’ll have whatever she’s having, let me know what I owe you.”

“All good, I’ve got it.” I waved, taking a step toward Presley before stopping.

Shit, without thinking, I was about to kiss her. Put my lips on hers in front of Hank and Bennett and whoever else was around.

It would have been just that easy.

But being kissed in front of her employees wasn’t only a bad idea but also stupid considering no one was supposed to know we were together. Fuck, as far as they were concerned I was the good “friend,” playing errand boy, giving her a ride so her brother didn’t lose his mind. So we were a hell of a long way from where I could just kiss her in public and it was okay.

With my reality in check, I gave her the same stupid chin tip I’d given Bennett, a weird wave and said goodbye. She looked amused as I retreated, no doubt laughing her ass off at my expense.

It wasn’t until I was at the door that my phone buzzed, the incoming message from the woman I’d just said goodbye to. No words just a kissy face emoji, the subtext not all that clear.

She’d either been taunting me or had wanted that kiss as much as I had.

There was no way to know which.

So taking my fake role seriously, I went and got her, me, and the guy who may or may not be in love with her some lunch.

Because clearly, that made sense.

Presley

SCOTT ARRIVED MINUTES after Jared left, his beaming smile unperturbed by the scowl Bennett was giving him. And without much fanfare, I welcomed him into my office and locked the door.

“So you and some of your friends want to open a club in L.A. and need a venue manager.” He’d barely sat down when I started talking, the look of surprise on his face priceless.

“Smart as well as beautiful, that’s a lethal mix.” His smile edged wider, trying to recover. “But yeah, there is no one else who I’d like on my team.”

He continued at my urging, trying to wow me with how much social influence he had which of course meant he could turn up at a yogurt bar and draw a crowd. He had no actual market research and no real theme setting himself apart, just the promise that money was no object and he wanted some of the creative control. “I mean, the place is going to have my name on it, it should look like I had a hand in it too.”

Speechless, absolutely speechless.

It was only after he’d petered out—his brilliant and compelling pitch going for a full twenty minutes—that I attempted to speak. My words chosen wisely because what I wanted to say wasn’t very polite.

“Scott, as flattering as the offer is,” where I did all the work and he took all the glory, “I really don’t think our interests are aligned. Working with the amount of partners you are talking about will be messy, too many cooks if you know what I mean. And while you seem to have a clear vision of what you want to achieve, it would cost millions and months to get a venue up and running with those kinds of operational requirements. I mean, hot tubs and massage rooms, it’s a lot. Not to mention the possible violations it opens you up to.”

“See, that’s why I want you. You come in with your brainy stuff, make it all happen. Fuck it, I’ll even let you pick a room we can include. What do you like? Puppies? Lipstick? Cupcakes? Woah… we could have a section where you dance in frosting, like those crazy foam parties in Ibiza. Shit, that would be brilliant. And let’s face it, who the hell doesn’t like frosting.”

He had to be kidding.

Had to be.

Because no man in his right fucking mind would think anyone would want to dance in a vat of frosting and pay