The Art of Stealing Kisses (Stealing Hearts Book 2) (15 page)

He
only grinned, and sauntered closer. “As a matter of fact, I
have extremely robust…self-esteem. Show you mine if you’ll
show me yours?”

“The
hell kind of pick-up line is that?” I said, flummoxed by both
his nonchalant demeanor and the sweet scent of masculinity radiating
off his delicious body.
Stop
it Ally
, I
mentally scolded myself.
You’re
indignant. Be indignant!

“I’ve
got all kinds,” he promised. “Want something more
traditional? I’ll
give it a go: let me buy you a drink?”

I
gestured at the drinks already in front of me.

“I
think I’m
covered,” I said wryly.

“Then
do you mind if I buy myself one and drink it here with you?” he
asked.

I
considered. I was doing research here. Important research. Research
that could change the very trajectory of my career and make all those
dreams come true. I didn’t
need any distractions.

On
the other hand, those shoulders. And those lips, mm-hmm. And truth be
told, for all my defensive posturing, there wasn’t
a damn thing about him that didn’t
scream ‘charming’
and
‘good company’
and,
most importantly, ‘eye candy.’

My
old science teacher did always say that it was important to have a
research partner.

“Well,
it certainly would improve the view,” I said, relieved to have
finally given myself permission to cozy up to this intriguing
stranger.

He
grinned wider then, sliding into the booth opposite me, our legs
bumping together slightly. Butterflies danced in my stomach. Damn,
what was this, sixty seconds and I already had it this bad? Guys this
hot should come with a warning label. Not that I’d
stop to read it.

Hottie
McHotterson—also,
damn, how had I not asked his name yet, was I really that far gone
into the Lust Canyon?—flagged down the waitress, and ordered a
Knox whiskey.

I
made a face.

“Not
a fan?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Of
the whiskey? Sure,” I said. “It tastes great and gets
the job done.”

“What
is it, then?” he asked. He seemed genuinely curious, and that
made me open up. “What’s
missing?”

“Well,
it’s
just—”
I gestured at the label. “Look at this packaging. Just the name
stamped on there in an old-timey font, and the same barrel logo
they’ve
been using since B.F. Skinner first strolled up to an ad agency with
some rats in a box and a lot of fancy promises. It does nothing to
catch the eye.”

“The
label?” He raised an eyebrow. “That’s
it?”

“That’s
hardly it!” I shot back. “Their whole branding approach
is the same, stuck in the past! Print ads whose copy never changes,
radio jingles with slang from the second World War, TV spots with the
same Bob Hope lookalike every year—it
doesn’t
matter how good it tastes, it
looks
old-fashioned. Like something my grandpa would drink.”

My
mysterious visitor’s
drink arrived, and he quirked a brow in amusement and raised his
glass in a salute. “To your grandfather—a man of
excellent taste.”

I
snorted, but raised my own glass to match his. As they clinked
together, his fingers brushed against mine, and I felt a spark leap
where our skin met. He must have felt it too—he started,
looking up at me, and our eyes locked. His eyes were so deep,
golden-brown like molasses swirled in honey, and they warmed me up
inside with a heat like the sun, spreading out from my heart down to
my toes, and up to my head until I was dizzy, my heart pounding. I
wanted nothing more than to sink into those eyes. I wanted nothing
more than to keep touching his fingers.

I
wanted nothing more than to invite him up to my room, then and there.

Focus,
Ally! You have a presentation tomorrow! No rando is worth throwing
away your entire career for a roll in the hay.

Maybe
the whiskey was just getting to me.

I
pulled away hastily and downed my drink, all of it this time. This
sample had more of a honey flavor, less of a bite. If I were writing
copy I’d
call it ‘soothing, charming, a genteel liquor.’
Since I
wasn’t,
though, I didn’t
pull any punches. “The truth is, though, my grandfather and his
friends aren’t
the customers of the future. You see this same trend in advertising
for comic books—the company panders to its original base—not
even all of the original base but a small, vocal fraction of it—and
alienates all of its potential new customers in the process.”

“Tell
me more about what you think,” he said intently.

Which
would have been catnip for me even if I hadn’t
been storing up a host of criticisms that went unheard at work, and
even if he hadn’t
been so damned hot. I didn’t
need telling twice.

“This
is your typical Knox buyer.” I launched into an imitation of my
grandfather. “‘I
jus’ don’
know
how much longer they can be ‘spectin’
this
centralized government t’
last.
Times wuz much simpler when a man jus’
brewed
his own whiskey and shot at the revenooers.’”

The
man laughed, and waved a hand in acknowledgment of my point before
raising a challenging eyebrow. “So what would you do if you had
control of the rebrand? Throw in some hashtags and make a Facebook
page? Get a celebrity endorsement?”

“As
if,” I snorted. “Millennials might be self-absorbed, but
we can still see through pandering just fine, thanks.”

“Oh?”
His thumb brushing over my knuckles was an invitation, and a
challenge, and both made my breath catch in my throat. “A pink
label, then?”

I
watched his eyes dip to the side and a lazy grin spread across his
face, and I knew that he had spotted the pink strap of my bra peeking
out from the side of my short-sleeved button-up shirt.

“Strange
as it might seem, the color pink doesn’t
brainwash women into buying things,” I replied, trying not to
let on how breathless he had made me. Trying not to imagine his hands
instead of his eyes on that pink bra strap, easing it slowly from my
shoulder as he kissed my neck.

I
raised the stakes, slipping my foot out of my shoe to stroke his
ankle, and then moved it slightly higher. This was really out of
character for me, but something about our conversation, the flush of
whiskey in my cheeks, the way he was looking at me…I felt
emboldened in a way I never did at work or even when I was out with
my friends.

I
was rewarded with a flush of heat in his gaze, his pupils dilating as
his grip tightened slightly on mine. He leaned forward, close enough
that I could have kissed him without rising from the seat. His lips
were so full, they looked so soft—

He
was so close I could feel the heat of his breath as he murmured his
next words: “So, tell me, what
would
you do?” He picked up his glass and drank, the muscles in his
throat working as he swallowed it down. I didn’t
look away. It was safe to assume my panties were on fire, and there
was only one way to put that fire out.

And
you know what? I decided I’d
been overthinking things at work. Either I had confidence in myself
or I didn’t,
and doing some last-minute drinking wasn’t
going to change a damn thing about my presentation tomorrow.

But
some really good sex just might give me an edge.

I
lifted my own glass and downed the remaining Knox. My decision was
made.

It
was go time.

I
leaned towards him until our lips were barely a millimeter apart. “Do
you really want to know what I’d
do with this brand?” I whispered. Before he could answer, I
brushed my lips against the corner of his mouth. He tasted like smoke
and cinnamon and danger, and I liked it. “Or would you rather
know what I’d
do with you?”

His
eyes gleamed, and I knew his answer even before he spoke.

***

What happens next? Ally and Hunter’s
story continues in
BILLIONAIRE WITH A TWIST
–
Available now
!

Take a trip to Pelican Key Cove for the wedding of the year!
BEACH WEDDING
by Bella Cruise is
available now!

I love weddings.

I love everything about them: the flowers, the dress, the music. But
most of all, I love the kiss. Somehow, it’s love brought to
life in a single, perfect moment, when all the crazy chaos and
pageantry melts away, and all that’s left are two people ready
to share the rest of their lives together.

That’s not to say it always runs smoothly. Believe me, I’ve
seen my share of hiccups. There was the groom who wanted a hole cut
in the altar platform, so his six-foot bride wouldn’t look
taller than him in the photos. There’s the bride who had to
have emergency root canal six hours before the wedding and mumbled
her way through ‘I do’. Then there’s my favorite:
the couple who were literally struck with lightning. Look it up on
YouTube if you don’t believe me; halfway through their charming
vineyard wedding, the skies opened with a massive thunderstorm. They
struggled on through the downpour, only to be struck by a bolt from
the blue during their big kiss. (In case you’re worried, they
turned out just fine – and the national news coverage paid for
their whole honeymoon in Mexico!)

Yes, when it comes to that one perfect moment, I’ve seen them
all. I’ve planned them all too – because, after all,
that’s my job: Ginny Austen, Wedding Planner extraordinaire.
It’s my duty to make sure my clients get the day of their
dreams, despite high heels, Vicodin doses, and an appearance from El
Nino.

Luckily, today the weather is on my side. It’s a gorgeous
summer’s day in New York City, with the kind of blue skies and
puffy cotton candy clouds that every bride – and wedding
planner – pray for. “Are we ready?” I ask, checking
my watch. Any minute now, the guests will start to arrive.

“Ready.” My assistant, Theo, pulls out his notepad,
checking it over from behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “Everything
is set to go. Right down to the poodle ring bearer – and,
yes, the groomer is on hand, too. What, are you expecting poor Fifi
to get her hair mussed up?” he teases with a grin.

“Do you remember what happened last time we had dogs running
around?” I remind him. When it comes to a couple’s
wedding day, I believe everything should be perfect. Not a hair out
of place – not even on a dog.

Theo’s grin slips. “The schanuzers.”

“That’s right. Five minutes before the ceremony started,
they were chasing a stray dove through a field. They left muddy paw
prints all the way up the aisle. I’m not making the same
mistake again.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Theo checks it off the list. “Canine
stylists present and accounted for.”

He looks amused, but he’s only been working for me six months
now. “Trust me,” I smile. “When you’ve been
working this gig a little longer, you’ll get used to the
crazy.”

Dogs don’t even come close to the strangest thing people want
included in their special day – and it’s my job to make
sure they get their heart’s desire. No dream too big, no detail
too small. I can organize a hundred doves fluttering up in the air
right as the newly-minted mister and missus exit the chapel doors. I
can have fireworks spell out their initials in the night sky. I can
make sure that hydroponically-grown orchids match the bride’s
eyes. I do whatever it takes to make it perfect, and today, it is.
The Central Park Boathouse looks like something out of a fairy tale.
Pink rose and yellow hydrangea garlands hang from the dock, a rose
petal strewn walkway leads up the aisle, and Liszt’s romantic
Liebesträume,
played by four members of the New York City Philharmonic, greets
guests as they arrive.

“It looks like a million bucks,” I overhear a guest say.

“It should be, with the way his year is going, the lucky
devil!” quips her date, in a suit that costs more than my rent.
“Let’s just hope that today’s loss on the field
won’t hurt the honeymoon!” I watch as the couple oohhhs
and aahhhs at the canopy made from ivy and lace. I smile and glance
at my watch for the thousandth time in the last hour. Precision is
the name of this game.

Today’s clients are James, a successful sports manager, and
Sarah, a sports therapist. A match made on the side lines – and
these two are as specific as they are sporty. The bride wouldn't
budge on the scented candles (maybe she’s been traumatized by
locker room funk), and the groom insisted that seventy-percent of the
hors d’oeuvres
be bacon-wrapped. Both of them agreed,
however, that their rescue dog, Bartholomew, a fourteen-year-old toy
poodle, would be charged with leading them down the aisle. I actually
love incorporating pets in weddings, but from what I’ve heard
of Bartholomew, he has the potential to be the biggest diva at the
event. I made precautions and assigned my second assistant to be in
charge of him all day, so I shouldn’t be surprised when I get a
MAYDAY text from Jody: “
Doggone
!”

Theo looks over my shoulder. “Seems like the pooch has flown
the coop.”

Jody appears – a look of stark horror on her face. “Talk
to me, Jody,” I beg.

“I went to get Bartholomew’s raw vegan lunch from the
kitchen. When I came back, he was nowhere to be found,” she
says, tearful. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” I try not to panic. “Get
everyone you can spare, and find him. He’s old. He can’t
be far.” I turn to Theo. “You go run interference with
the bride. If she asks, precious Barty is off getting a special
wedding pamper, OK?”

“No worries, Ginny. I’ve got this,” Theo says, and
for once, I can relax. He’s my magic weapon, the ultimate
bride-whisperer. I found him on a job last year, working for a
photographer, right out of college. Somehow, around him, everything
seemed to run smoother: the warring mother-in-laws were charmed by
such a polite young man, the drunken uncles were steered safely away
from the bridesmaids, and even the bride managed to calm down with a
reassuring smile. I hired him away that same day, and he’s been
my right-hand man ever since.