Tycoon

Anyway, I wanted this to go well. So I pulled out the minidress Sara calls the “tiny sexual bomb” that I designed myself, and I headed several blocks from our apartment down to Peasant.

My heart does something crazy when my eyes spot Christos at the bar. His head is bent to his phone, and he’s frowning over something he’s reading.

He’s wearing a black shirt and gray slacks, his hair slicked back, and he looks drool-worthy. I lick my lips, and then he tilts his head as if he senses me, and my heart flips a little more.

Please like this little dress, I pray as I draw in a breath and wind toward the bar.

Then I wonder why I want him to like it—if for my business, or for me—and I annoy myself for wondering when the answer isn’t clear.

He’s on his feet, and I can’t say he’s smiling with that full mouth of his, but his eyes are definitely smiling at me.

He smells like cologne and freshly used soap, and warm skin. “This is a House of Sass dress,” I say, in greeting, when I stop so close to him his delicious scent is in every nook and cranny of my lungs.

“I like it,” he says, his voice sort of moving the hair on the top of my head as he looks down at me, and because my legs don’t feel too steady, I take one of the bar stools.

Christos takes his stool, and when a glass of wine appears within my view, I take a long gulp.

“It’s not water, bit,” I hear Christos rasp amusedly in my ear as he reaches out, taking the glass from me. “You’re better off letting it breathe.” He twirls it, slow and easy, letting it breathe, and I’m the one who can’t breathe when my eyes meet his.

He’s really close. Much closer than I ever get him in his office.

It’s nerve-wracking.

Familiar but new.

Exciting.

I can see flecks inside his eyes, the lightness of the tips of his lashes, and the laugh lines drawn around the corners of his eyes.

“I’m thirsty,” I breathe in answer, and he hands it back after looking at my mouth.

Offering him a shy smile, I take another long gulp, the tension between us so palpable it feels as if any word would shatter it like glass.

“Okay, so this is good. I’m getting the money?” I ask him as he only watches me drink from the wine, his eyes holding a mischievous, secret gleam that makes me crave to know what he thinks.

Chuckling softly, he twirls his own glass of wine, and says, “No. We’re just getting started. The vetting process is just getting started.” He leans forward, his gaze probing and inquisitive. “How much time are you going to dedicate to the business? And how much personal money have you invested so far?”

“I’d dedicate as much time to the business as you’d need. I just need six hours of sleep a day, and I’m willing to invest the 3,450 dollars I’ve got saved.”

He nods at that, shifting his legs under the stool to face me more fully. The move bringing his knee up to bump into the side of my thigh.

I swallow back a little gasp of surprise, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “What is your daily schedule like, bit?”

“I, well…”

“Do you sleep?”

“Yes.”

“How many hours?”

“Seven. Eight.”

He says nothing, sipping his drink. His knee still touching the side of my thigh. “Any routines before bed?” he then asks.

“Um…No. I wear socks, but take them off in the middle of the night.” I avoid telling him that I do have a thing for alarm clocks. Ugh.

“Why is that?” he says. Referring to my socks.

“I like my feet cold.”

He chuckles, shaking his head, and my skin pricks pleasurably at the sound of his chuckle and at the barest shift from his knee against my thigh.

I feel vulnerable—telling him how I sleep. I can’t suppress the embarrassment from my voice when I breathe, “Do you vet everyone like this?”

Christos notices I’m flustered, and he calmly explains. “I’m investing in the person, not in the business. The business doesn’t exist, currently.”

“True.”

“I want to know who I’m getting in bed with. So to speak.” He shoots me a wily grin, and that wicked smile of his causes my brain to scatter.

“Well, I won’t tell you a single other thing until you return the favor. Tell me more about you, Aaric,” I say.

He motions the bartender for something, then turns his attention back to me.

“What do you want to know?”

“I don’t know. How long have you been living in Manhattan?”

“About nine years.”

“Why Manhattan?” I frown curiously.

“I followed the money trail.” He winks, then watches as they bring us two glasses of ice water. Christos has already pulled out my updated business plan and is scanning it when they set them before us.

“No ice. She doesn’t like ice. Thanks.” He hands over my glass to the bartender and starts reading my business plan.

I blink.

“How do you remember that?” I’m mind-blown by the fact that he remembers.

He lifts his brows.

“I didn’t like ice in high school; it made my throat hurt,” I admit. “But it’s always a hassle for people to take it back, so I’ve gotten used to it and don’t return my glasses anymore.”

He eyes the bartender and motions at the glass he was setting back. “Take that back and bring the lady one with no ice?”

The bartender scurries away, and I swallow, smiling to myself.

“You always brought tension to the parties,” I tease.