Swing (Landry Family #2)(2)
I search for something with her name on it, a photograph to give me a clue as to who she is and what she does. Nothing. Just construction paper chains hanging off of a fake tree in the corner.
The notepad in her hand hits her desk with a smack. Fighting a smile, she gives me a quick once-over. “Do you need an escort?”
“Thanks, but escorts aren’t my thing,” I grin.
She leans on her desk, her cleavage just peeking out of the top of the fucking dress I want to rip off her body. She’s doing this on purpose, the little minx.
She drags her gaze down my body, letting it linger on my lower half, but returns her baby blues to my eyes, smirking. “So you just prefer to wander around and see what turns . . . up?”
My head angles to the side as I watch her assess my reaction to her innuendo. Before I can respond, the phone on her desks comes to life. She places a hand on the receiver. “I need to get this,” she says. “Three floors.”
“Up,” I wink. “Got it. What’s your name?”
“Danielle Ashley, director of Child Services.”
“I’m Lincoln Landry.”
“I know.”
She seems to think she has an upper hand because she knows who I am. Truth is, she obviously doesn’t really know who she’s up against because I always stay ahead of the count.
“See you later, Dani.” I’m out the door, leaving her standing there with her jaw open.
“It’s Danielle!” she shouts behind me, but I don’t look back.
Danielle
“HELLO?” MY GAZE FALLS ON the spot he just occupied on the other side of my desk.
He’s so tall, so wide, so broad, so . . . big. My cheeks burn, a grin splitting my cheeks as I remember the definite outline of just how big he probably is. If the old wives’ tales are true and penis size and shoe size are related, he must wear at least a thirteen.
“G’day,” Macie responds through the line.
“G’day? Are you Australian now?”
She laughs. “I have a patient that’s Australian. I’m in love with the accent. Will says he’s going to kill me if I don’t bloody stop.”
“I can see why,” I joke. “What’s happening in Boston?”
“On lunch break. Called to see what my best friend is doing.”
Falling into my chair and squeezing my thighs together to try to quell the ache throbbing between my legs, I look once again at the doorway. His cologne, a musky, rich fragrance, still permeates the air. It’s like he’s still taunting me without having to even be here. So unfair.
“Thank God you called,” I mutter. “I’d probably be on my back on my desk right now if you hadn’t.”
“What?”
“I mean, I can’t help it. I’m just a woman. A badass one with the restraint of a saint, if the last ten minutes prove anything, but I was cracking. I’m only human.”
“Slow down there, Saint Danielle. What are you talking about?” she laughs.
“You’ll never guess who was just in my office.”
“Probably not. So tell me.”
“Lincoln Landry.” The line goes quiet. After a few long seconds, I realize she has no idea who I’m talking about. “Star centerfielder for the Tennessee Arrows?” I offer.
“Ohhhh . . .”
“Yeah, ohhhh.”
“Sorry. If it’s not a fighter or a player for Boston, I don’t know them. I’m fairly certain Will would break up with me if he suspected I liked anyone other than his Red Sox.”
“Google Lincoln. It’s worth the possible break up,” I say, fanning my still-red cheeks. “He’s literally the best looking guy I’ve ever seen, Macie.”
“That’s saying a lot coming from you, Miss Hottie Magnet.”
My mind goes through the photo album of men I’ve met or known in my life. It’s a pretty spectacular list, thanks to being the child of Bryan and Tracey Ashley Kipling. Athletes, movie stars, models? I’ve seen them all. And none of them hold a candle to Lincoln Landry in person.
The confidence he carries is such a turn-on. Borderline cocky. Halfway arrogant, yet he pulls it off because he has every right to be those things. He’s delicious. Hot. Talented. Wealthy. From what the media says, he’s also funny and kind and sweet.
Screw him and his perfect resume.
And flawless face.
And delicious body.
And probably game-winning stamina. I’m going to be a mess today just thinking about it.
“Why was he in your office?” Macie asks, right as I was ready to mentally remove his clothes. “Oh my God, Danielle! I just pulled him up. Why can’t I be you? Just for a day?”
“I’m quite happy I’m me today,” I laugh. “He just walked off the elevator on the wrong floor and followed me to my office.”
“Why?”
“Does it matter? Now I’m sitting here with wet panties, his ‘Fuck me’ cologne filling my office, and all sorts of ideas as to what his body looks like under those sweatpants and t-shirt.”
“He wore sweatpants?” she gulps.
“Yup.”
“Shit,” she breathes, a squeak in her voice. “Those are the sexiest things ever. Shouldn’t be, but they are. Don’t even tell me they sat low on his hips.”