Blind Date

“Thank you.” I flash him a smile that’s more confident than I feel and pull my camera from my bag. Carter sweeps past me, his long stride having him through the door in seconds.

Only now, with him gone, do I feel like I can breathe properly. Only now can my heart slow and my hands stop trembling.

I focus on the space around me. You can tell it hasn’t been painted for a couple years, never mind fully refitted. Not that you can tell—hell, I definitely didn’t notice on Saturday because I didn’t give a crap—but still… bringing this up to the quality of the bar area will be a bit of a job.

Still, I’m up to this.

I walk around the restaurant and snap pictures of everything. Although the blueprints will show me where everything is, having the pictures means I’ll be able to draw in the majority of the tables where they sit currently.

Ugh, why are they all square or rectangular?

Note to self: make circular tables a necessity.

No reason other than the fact that I like them. And isn’t it so nice to be able to see everyone you’re having di

When I’m done with the pictures, I spin find Carter flicking through the portfolio. He’s lost his jacket, and the sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up to just above his elbows, highlighting his toned biceps perfectly. “See anything you like?”

His gaze finds mine, then slowly, oh so slowly, he peruses my body once more, only speaking when our eyes meet again. “Plenty.”

“Ooookay,” I breathe. “I’m going through to the bar to take photos for style references.” I walk away just as quickly as I turned, noticing the coffee on the table at the last moment.

Ah, damn it. Oh well. I’ll just stop in Starbucks.

The bar area is dimly lit from the small windows above the booths and from the main door, so I reach for the light switch and flip it. The area fills with light, and for the first time, it hits me just how big this space is… And how very different it looks in the daytime compared to the evening.

The curtains to the booths are open and secured at the sides, and each booth could easily sit six to eight people. The seats are wider than I’d expected. I guess they look bigger than they feel, even when you’re lying on your back with room to spare.

Unlike the bar, the circular tables in the center of each look like they’re made of wood. Solid black wood with a shiny lacquered surface on top, but still wood.

I guess you don’t want people smashing tables if they get vigorous.

I swallow and snap a few pictures. The bar in the restaurant is easily redesigned to match this, but probably not black. Charcoal, maybe, to soften. Black, white, and gray. I run my finger along the edge of the bar, careful not to leave any fingerprints on the perfectly polished surface. I can see Carter’s from where he touched it earlier.

Really, this bar is amazing. Small and intimate, yet he’s right. Anyone could, in theory, walk past and know exactly what you’re doing in one of them.

And it is. A thrill. To know that.

My clit aches at the memory, a dull sensation that comes to life when I reach the booth we were in. Every booth is identical, not a single thing differing them, but I know this was it, because it’s furthest away from the restaurant.

My eyes flutter shut, and I steel myself as I hear the door go. I glance to the side, and shiny black shoes move across the floor, attached to legs with perfectly pressed black pants covering them. I’m not a fool. I know it’s Carter.

“Is there anything in particular you’d like brought through?” I ask, my voice cracking halfway through.

“The design concept,” he answers, still walking toward me. “The general style, color scheme, the ambiance. I’ve noted the work you’ve done previously and pulled the things I like. I doubt it’ll be too hard for you to come up with an impressive design.”

“How long do I have?” My tongue darts across my lips.

“Three days.”

“Three days?” I spin to face him. “Are you serious? I have to find and source all of the things I need then put them together in a comprehensive design in three days?”

His green eyes seem brighter as they dart to the booth then back to me. My skin tingles at his silent i

“Then don’t.” I step back, but he only mirrors my action, coming toward me once more.

Carter closes his fingertips around my upper arm, holding me in place gently. “I will not hire someone because of a personal history, but I also refuse to not hire someone. If your design is best, I’ll hire Do

“If you don’t want me here, I’d rather you not hire me. Full stop.” I tug my arm away from him.

In one sleek, expert move, Carter Hughes pins me against his bar. He wrenches my camera from my grasp and sets it on the glass surface behind me, then grabs the edge of the bar, trapping me. His hard body is hot, and his pelvis is pi

It’s not all that’s pi

“I don’t want you here because I don’t like you,” he whispers, his hot breath fa

Oh Jesus. This escalated quickly. Real fucking quickly.

I can’t breathe. At all. I’m on fire everywhere—from my lungs burning as they fight for oxygen, from the red-hot desire my heart is pounding through my body with my blood, and from the ridiculous heat trickling its way over my skin until it collects and centers in my clit.

“I don’t want you here because I’m certain that if you are, I’ll fulfill every single one of those desires, and quickly,” he murmurs, his mouth now barely a breath away from mine. “And that would not be good for anyone, would it?”

I lean back as far as I can and let out a shuddery breath. “If you hire me, I’ll be here to work, not play. So trust me when I say it will remain entirely profess—”

“Like right now?” he asks, a knowing smile playing with his lips. “Like how professional this is, with you pi

An indignant streak shoots down my spine, and I straighten. Yes, my mouth is right by his. Yes, our breath is mingling. I’m afraid that if I lick my lips, I’ll accidentally lick his. My breasts are heaving and brushing against his chest, my white blouse a perfect match to his shirt.

Carter reaches up and twines a fistful of my hair around his fingers. The action only brings us even closer together. “Don’t pretend you won’t give in.” His lips brush mine with every word, but the touch is the furthest thing from a kiss. “You’re falling apart right now and I’ve barely touched you.”

I wish he didn’t have to be right.

“This is highly inappropriate,” I whisper, resisting the urge to grab his shirt and wrap my legs around him and climb him like a tree.

“Yet you haven’t pushed me away.”

“Yeah, well, you’re stronger than me,” I say lamely.