Saving the CEO (49th Floor #1)(3)
“You keep this in stock for me?”
“Well, you can’t drink 1955 Glenfarclas with tap water.” She shuddered—the impulse was real, but she exaggerated the effect. “Toronto water is terrible. It comes from the lake, for heaven’s sake.”
He nodded, still no discernable expression on his face.
She hesitated. “Do you want it in the pitcher?”
“That’s not necessary. You can just pour it for me.”
Great. Now she’d set herself up to pour the perfect amount of water from a gallon jug directly into a glass of scotch that cost as much as one of her textbooks—all under his signature brand of unsettling and intense scrutiny. Probably all the other staff members were watching, too. Her hands shook just thinking about it. Once more, with feeling. Fake it till you make it, girl.
“There you go.” She poured—pretty well, if she did say so herself—and without making eye contact with him, recapped the bottle and pivoted away. “Your dinner is coming right up.”
…
Well, hot damn. A person went to the same restaurant three nights a week for two years, and a person thought he knew everything there was to know about that restaurant. Jack knew all the Camilles and Kellies and Kristins, even if he couldn’t tell them apart, with their blond ponytails, their thin, glossy lips, and their studied casualness. Knew the cocktail list by heart. Could even guess at the specials—the chef liked to do poultry on Wednesdays and some kind of affected house-cured bullshit on Fridays that was never as good as it promised.
But then one day a person would do something so radical as come in on a Tuesday—what the hell else was a person supposed to do when one’s usual Tuesday night dinner companion was royally f*cking one over?—and suddenly here was something new.
Yes, if a person wasn’t careful, before he knew it, a brunette with killer curves would be practically writhing on a stool in front of a person, reaching for a bottle of scotch that she would then proceed to mix with water from a plastic bottle from Target—and it would make complete sense for her to do so.
And if a person wasn’t careful, the same scorching brunette would plunk a plate in front of a person and lift her chin just slightly before announcing, “Pork loin with cranberries, goat cheese, and fresh dill. I took the liberty of having the preserved lemon served on the side.”
No “I’m sorry, sir, I misspoke—we would never serve pork with lemons at a fine establishment such as this. I must have betrayed my working class ignorance there for a moment.” No, she just brought it on the side. Fuck. Had to admire the balls of a girl like that.
Well, metaphorical balls. Because this one, she was all girl.
Too bad, because if Carl really was screwing him the way Jack suspected, losing himself in a little female company tonight might be just what the doctor ordered.
But he had rules. And Jack hadn’t gotten as far as he had without following his self-imposed rules. The relevant one here was that he was never the pursuer. Well, at least not until a woman got him into her bed. Then all bets were off. But, in general, he thought it fairer to let women come to him, given that he was never going to see any of them more than once. Pursuing a specific woman risked raising her expectations.
As he ate his pork loin—preserved lemon on the side—he gave up on the rows and rows of numbers, which were forever eluding him anyway, and contemplated the hot bartender. Why had he never noticed her before? The world was always throwing women at him—hence no need to be the pursuer. Daughters of vendors—Jesus, wives of vendors. Flight attendants. Women hitting on him in bars. At Edward’s, and at most downtown Toronto high-end spots, they were almost all of a type, looking like they were on hiatus from the National Ballet to do their MBAs. They were all slippery shiny surface, nothing a man could hold on to, figuratively, or…well, this bartender, damn. He could just imagine pinning down those gorgeous full hips and—
“Will there be anything else tonight, sir?”
“Pardon me?” The object of his absurd little fantasy stepped into his line of vision, which put his eyeballs right in line with the second button of her white shirt—it had looked like it was about to pop off all evening.
“I’m cashing out—got to be up early tomorrow. So if you need anything else, more preserved lemon, maybe,”—one corner of her plump pink mouth turned up—“Edward will help you, okay?” She gestured to the older man at the other corner of the bar, whom he knew to be the owner.
He was not the pursuer. And, God, a bartender? Not exactly his type. “Thank you,” he said flatly, keeping his face neutral.
With a dip of her head, she disappeared into the kitchen. A few minutes later the door swung back open, and she stepped through transformed. A pink pea coat had been thrown over her shirt and her hair had come down. Freed from its prim bun, it fell well past her shoulders. When it was up, he’d thought of it as merely dark brown. But he saw now that it was a shiny mahogany subtly streaked with auburn and copper.
And she’d lost the tie. He shifted in his seat. The top two buttons of her shirt were undone; that heroic button had been taken off active duty, no longer straining to cover her up. He could see just the barest bit of cleavage, a mere hint of what he suspected lay beneath.
He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining the rest.
Well, if f*cking Carl was going to take down Winter Enterprises, at least Miss Lemon on the Side had given him something else to think about tonight.