Working Out West - Lila Rose Page 0,2

boy, he had a thick accent. A Russian accent that shot a tingle to my balls.

That wasn’t good.

It wasn’t good at all.

The guard didn’t say anything back to whatever Mr. Hail said. Instead, he turned and jolted slightly when he saw I was behind him. He nodded at me and stepped back into the elevator, pressing the button to close the doors.

I’d turned to watch the guard and realized it would have been better to keep an eye on Mr. Hail. If I had, I wouldn’t have been shitting bricks to have to face him. However, I couldn’t stay looking at the doors forever. It started to get to the point of awkwardness.

Sucking in a breath, I slowly moved back to where Mr. Hail still stood. His arms were crossed over his broad chest now. A chest that was covered in something I didn’t expect. He wasn’t in a suit. No, he dressed casually in jeans, boots, and a T-shirt with what looked like some band’s logo splashed over the front of it.

I really felt overdressed and uncomfortable.

“You wore suit.” His accent rolled through me and lit up my nerves. I’d always been a sucker for accents.

I swallowed, looked down at myself, nodded before lifting my gaze back up, and up some more, since he was taller, before nodding again. The whole time I gave myself a pep talk: I had to harden myself against his voice. “Yes,” I said softly.

He grunted. “Come,” he ordered before spinning around and stalking off.

He scared me, aroused me, and intrigued me—all within a matter of moments since I’d seen him.

I took a step his way and then back again.

Shit, shit, shit.

I wanted to run, but I couldn’t. Clenching my fists at my sides, I walked around the corner, which opened into a large, pristine living room. Only, Mr. Hail wasn’t there. Thankfully, I heard clattering coming over from the left side of the room where another doorway stood. I made my way over with my stomach threatening to throw up the minimal food it had in there.

The doorway was a hallway. I started down it until I found another opening, which led me into a chef’s dream kitchen. Mr. Hail was at a counter, placing plates down.

“Dinner,” he clipped. His accent sent a shiver down my spine.

He wanted me to eat dinner with him? Did he realize how late it was?

Stepping in, I walked over and stopped on the other side of the counter. I wiped my sweaty hands on my pants before holding on to the edge of the counter. “Um, do you need help with anything?”

His gaze rose slowly and locked on to mine. I gulped as he studied me. Hoo-boy, the room seemed to heat even more, and all on its own, because he certainly hadn’t moved to turn up the thermostat.

“Yes? No?” Crap, did he understand what I was saying? He spoke a few words in English, but maybe he preferred Russian? Had Saint or one of the other bosses messed up and sent the wrong person for Mr. Hail? “Sorry, I don’t know Russian. You probably prefer to speak that, and I’m unable to, but I promise I can try to understand if you still want to have dinner with me. I’m good at charades. We could act out what we want to say if you can’t understand me.”

Charades? Seriously, why did I fucking say that? I could have nut-punched myself.

He turned to the stove. “Russian is my first language, but I understand English.”

A blush hit my cheeks. Now I felt like a complete moron.

“Right, of course. Sorry for thinking otherwise.” I stared down at the counter and ran my fingers over the cool marble. “So,” I drew out. “Did you want a hand with something? I’m not a good cook, but I can cut, boil, bake treats, and plate up like a pro.” I blanched. My eyes widened, and I looked up to see him watching me. “Not a pro as in prostitute, but a professional. I meant professional.”

His stern gaze softened for a second, not even that, maybe a fraction of a second before he said, “Go. Sit.” He nodded behind me, and I looked over my shoulder to find a table, which was already set.

“Right.” I nodded. God, he probably wanted to eat already so he could get me out of there. I was an idiot to think I could act cool and aloof with clients when deep down, I was still a bumbling idiot.