Sienna. You showed your ass today, and you aren’t going to talk your way out of this. For the next forty-eight hours, your communications manager and I will have to tapdance our way out of that shit show. I need peace. I need to think. I need quiet.”
I gave him quiet.
* * *
Chis tugged his tie off and then went for his cuff links. He waved toward the buttercream suede sofa. “Sit.”
I tilted my head and narrowed my eyes. So, yeah, I might’ve gone the middle-school playground route with Keith, but that didn’t mean Chris could be a jerk.
“Excuse me?”
“Sienna.” He clenched his jaw. The skin beneath his sandy brown goatee stretched with tension. “Please, take a seat.” Chris strode to the kitchen.
“All right, then.” I smoothed my black pencil skirt and sank into his couch. A clinking sound grabbed my attention. I couldn’t see him from where I sat, but I could guess he was making himself a whiskey neat, as he typically ordered and slowly sipped during our weekly schmoozing obligations.
While he poured himself a stiff one, I took in the tall plants in the corner and the elegantly decorated living room. A small glass sculpture rested on a side table. Art—by the looks of it, a mixture of African and French-style canvases—decorated his wall. Stylish, but not pretentious. Just like Chris.
My attention was snagged by something that definitely didn’t fit into his obviously expensive yet tastefully decorated condo.
Ignoring Chris’s earlier request to sit down, I was drawn to a picture framed in a dried-macaroni frame. In the photo was Chris, who looked to be in his preteens, and a white woman who looked to be in her late thirties. They were standing in front of a yellow house that had lots of long windows and a pointed roof.
“My mom.” I felt a warm tickle from his breath along my neck.
Taking a few steps back, I clutched my chest. “I didn’t hear you.”
“I didn’t want to be heard.” His gaze seared me, the same one he’d given me at the debate that nearly made me combust.
“O-okay.” I turned away and swallowed, an attempt to get moisture to my suddenly dry throat. I focused back on the picture. “Nice frame.”
“Thanks.”
The room grew quiet again. I wrapped my arms around my middle and continued to stare at his mother, a brunette with striking blue eyes and laugh lines around her mouth. She clutched Chris to her side, her head resting on his shoulder. Chris wore a goofy grin, and surprisingly, he didn’t have a look of disdain like most preteens would have when their moms got too mushy.
“She’s pretty.”
“She was.”
Was. I turned to face him again, at a loss of what to say. Is he still hurting? “I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“Not your fault. It’s been a long time.”
“How long?” I couldn’t help but ask, not at all expecting Chris to share.
“She died soon after that picture was taken. Car accident. We lived in a small town outside of Paris. That day,” he pointed to the picture, “we took a day trip to Paris. Exploration day, she used to say.”
“You’re French.”
“French American.”
“You speak French.”
“Oui, madame.”
And my ovaries exploded. Of course this incredibly sexy, smart, and sometimes sweet man spoke one of the sexiest languages in the world.
“Oh, um, that’s neat.” Neat? No, that was hot. Definitely hot.
I ran my fingers through my curls, an attempt to get a hold of my libido. “I didn’t realize . . . you don’t seem to have an accent.”
“I moved to the States after she died to live with my dad and his family.”
“Really? So you have, like, half brothers and sisters?”
“Yeah, but I don’t consider them half. They’re full and we’re close.” He set down his drink on the coffee table. “Enough about me. Let’s talk about you.”
“M-me?” I huffed and squared my shaking shoulders. Get it together.
I wasn’t some trembling virgin. And although Mr. Sexy decided to turn up the heat, whether consciously or not, I wasn’t playing his game. As a vegetarian, I was on a meat-free diet in both respects.
Keep it professional. “Look, I apologize for my behavior today. I just got so heated and, well, I didn’t think things through. If you want, I can draft up a statement.”
“You will?” He stepped closer, his eyes becoming a deep swirl of blues and browns.
“Yes. Um . . .” His ambrosial, manly cologne twisted my senses and jacked up my heartbeat as if I’d been hit with a dose of adrenaline. “Yes,