The Do It List (The Do It List #1) (22 page)

 
“They’re setting up the kiddie table for us.”

“The restaurant screwed up the reservation. We’ll be seated soon.” Bradley moved in beside me.
 

 
His bruises had faded some and the crescent-shaped cut over his eyebrow only added to his machismo. I wondered if it would leave a sexy white Jason Momoa scar, a permanent symbol of his alpha maleness.

 
“We’ll join you as soon as I swill down one of these.” I lifted my Cosmopolitan.

He frowned. “Gracie, what’s—?” Clearly, he not did not want a prickly spat in front of coworkers.

 
Audrey’s remark earlier, had put me in a defiant, petulant, uncooperative mood, and I wanted some distance from him. “I believe Audrey would be happy to rest her ankle in your lap.”

He moved whisper close. “Pushing me away?” When I didn’t respond, he gave me a hip bump.

“FYI—” Derek addressed Bradley. “Keep an eye on the grown-ups, particularly Jordan.” Derek nodded toward the table. “He’s hot for Gracie. If Jordan asks, Axel will pimp her out.”

I pictured my life for the next two hours. Me, sitting beside Jordan while Audrey gives Bradley a massage with her injured foot under the table.
 

 
Mark’s barstool teetered at a precarious angle, and I held onto the back of his chair. “In case you flip over.”
 

He grinned. “Use Bradley for the cock block. Axel’s had a few and there’s mega-sized business at stake.” He shrugged. “Things could get weird.”

”Why are the children parenting the adults?” I shook my head. “I’m sick of it.”

Bradley cast a glance over at Jordan. “I’ll keep an eye out.” He loosened his tie. “The four of you were brilliant today. Everything I’d hoped for. Both teams made it fun for the participants, and you got unfiltered responses. I read some fresh insights and incredibly personal interviews.”

“Attention deficit disorder.” Mark lifted his glass. “Comes from being a die-hard gamer.” He laid back a shot of tequila. “Gotta make it interactive.”

I breathed a sigh of relief when we were seated together. “All right then, let’s hear your funniest interview story.“ I challenged the table.

Several shots into a tequila bottle, Mark and Derek recounted a hilarious highlight from their day. One of their survey respondents had run home, showered with one of the samples and returned to offer his services.

 
“Come on over, ladies,” Mark bellowed, “take a whiff of this man on the street.”

They described the volunteer as, short, balding and a little paunchy. And the best part of the story? Women lined up for the sniff test.
 

“Invites interesting new research possibilities.” Bradley mused aloud. “In two days time, intercept teams are conducting the same survey in five major cities. I wish I could bottle up the four of you—send you off around the country.”
 

Axel might have been right about Bradley. With his progressive take on research and Barking Mad’s creative, we just might be positioning ourselves for a whole new kind of success.

DWD was an agency in touch with the consumer on a street level—literally. And we were accessible, with a sense of humor. A huge plus in our favor for the Super Bowl spots. Both the client and consultant seemed genuinely impressed, and I had ever seen Axel happier.

After dinner, several of us freshened up in the ladies’ room. Madison Miller, Assistant Marketing Director, asked where I bought my outfit. I pointed to Sarah, my stylist. I also invited her to go sale shopping with us—and shock—she accepted.

“Did I hear the words sale shopping?”

 
We all turned as Audrey hobbled into the restroom. With the client standing right there, I had no choice but to invite her.

“We rendezvous at oh eight hundred.” Deadly serious about sale shopping, Sarah didn’t mess around. “Doors open at eight-thirty sharp. Have you ever been to a Barneys Warehouse sale?”

Audrey nodded. “Madhouse.”

Sarah’s eyes flashed with excitement. “This is going to be crazy fun. Wear clothes that are easy to take on and off. I’m going to throw stuff at you—so be prepared—you could be trying things on in the aisles.”

Audrey lurched to one side and nearly fell into me. I caught her arm and held on.

 
“Are you okay?”

“Just a little woozy, “ she sighed, in her breathy, Audrey way.

I’d never seen her this disoriented. “Did they give you pain pills?”

“I wasn’t supposed to drink, was I?” Snorting a bad girl giggle, Audrey found her way into a bathroom stall and slammed the door.

 
I checked the look on Sarah’s face. “You stay to make sure she doesn’t fall in—I’ll find a nanny.”

I RAN BOBBI Brown Bare Pink lipstick over my lips and left the ladies’ room with the client. Second “wow” of the night. I’d made a new friend in Madison and even reached out to Audrey. Who exactly was this new, extroverted me?

I found Bradley in the bar.
 

“I know you think I’m a crazy bitch when it comes to Audrey, but I’m worried about her. Pain pills don’t pair so well with melon ball shooters.”

“I got it.” He caught hold of my hand.
 

I slanted a look at him, and he slanted one back. “Axel pulled Audrey duty,” he explained. “She and Jordan are getting a limo ride home.”

The new upstart alpha male in a pack of show-no-mercy ad men, Bradley appeared to have no trouble maneuvering and delegating. In fact, the other males admired him for it.
 

And why, all of sudden was I feeling so charitable towards Audrey? She had certainly never been much of a friend to me. This was most likely a quid-pro-quo fantasy of my own making. Audrey would pretend to be friendly and wait for her opportunity to make a move.
 

My gut did a bit of churning. The whole thing brought to mind Mammy’s spider line in Gone with the Wind.
 

“And you sittin’ there waitin’ for him, just like a spider. He belongs to Miss Melanie.”

“He belongs to Ms. Gracie,” I whispered under my breath.

“Sorry, did you say something?” Bradley leaned close.

“Nothing.” I shook off the Margaret Mitchell metaphor, and my curls bounced around my head.
 

 
He slipped a hand under my jacket, lightly stroking the small of my back. I thought about the erotic pleasure of those hands. The sting of his open palm, and those long, tapered fingers that aroused so effortlessly and explored so fearlessly.
 

This must be some kind of test. A sexy gorgeous man with mad skills in the sack, who was also protective and comforting. I tried not to think about how easily I could fuck this up.

 
I made a silent vow to let him in. He just might be the one, Gracie.

Unexpectedly, he pulled me dangerously close. “Let the office talk.” His breath buffeted softly against my temple.
 

Rarely had I called any man in my life boyfriend, and that was counting grade school. Every year or so a guy would come along who seemed promising. I might even pretend to be serious for awhile. The thing is—I had never surrendered. Not completely.
 

But—and this was a big but—this thing with Bradley showed signs of being real.
 

“I’ll see you and Sarah home if that meets with your approval.”

Nice of him to ask permission. Things had been somewhat testy between us this evening, at least from my end. And he hadn’t pulled away, not an inch. Bradley appeared to be rock-solid-steady, an immovable force.

I sucked in a deep breath and thought about the sex. Mind-blowing and intensely erotic, involving a kind of physical intimacy I had never experienced with any man. A swarm of butterflies swept through my body and I sucked in a breath.
 

And here’s the wicked scary part—I really did want to be emotionally available, even vulnerable for him.

My old therapist would have called this real growth.

Bradley escorted us outside. “Which way?”
 

“One block this way”—Sarah pointed north—“three blocks west.” We strolled down Charles Street, alive with the quiet kind of neighborhood nightlife typical of Manhattan. Bradley and I waited on the corner until Sarah entered her building.
 

“There’s a designer sex shop in SoHo.” He squeezed my hand. “Apparently, they’re the ones to ask about private clubs.”

 
The air had turned frosty cold and I shivered. “Not tonight.”

 
“You haven’t been yourself all day.” He zipped up my jacket. “What can I get you? Chocolate? Box of tissue? Tampons?”

I narrowed my gaze. “Get over yourself, Bradley, I’m not your booty call.”

He stared at me with those lusty, sapphire eyes. “You think I want you for your body.”

I raised my chin and arched a brow. How quickly the prickly and cynical side of me sabotaged the new vulnerable, emotionally available Gracie.

He reached out and yanked me against him. “When I woke up Sunday morning and saw your smiling face and these impossible curls…” His fingers pushed gently into my hair. “Yes, I desire your body—beyond belief. But I also care a great deal for the sexy smart Gracie. The one who made me laugh all the way down Greenwich Street tonight.”
 

A broad grin crinkled his eyes. “I even kind of like the crazy bitch who doesn’t trust me.”

I continued to stare at him, not knowing whether to punch his nose or smother him in kisses. He whistled after a yellow cab, which promptly pulled to the curb ahead. What was with this man and taxis? Not that I was complaining. I hoped the ride home would be toasty warm, and not cold and drafty.

We hurried down the sidewalk. “How did you know I’m PMSing?”

He opened the door. “Something hormonal in the air.” He dove in after me and gave the driver cross streets in SoHo.

“Bradley,” I warned.

“Just a little recon tonight. Some information gathering. We’ll scout clubs another time when you’re feeling less churlish.”
 

I frowned. “Who uses words like churlish anymore?”

“Peevish, then?” His eyes glimmered in the dark, and I caught a slight upturn at the ends of his mouth.

I snorted a laugh and he pulled me into his arms. “What do you want, Gracie? Tell me what you really want.”
 

He could melt my heart and defuse my anger like no man I had ever known.

“Kiss the hell out of me, Bradley.”

His sensuous, passionate mouth instantly fired up all my female parts. Zero to one hundred percent aroused in nanoseconds.
 

He broke off the kiss. “And you’re not my booty call.” He slipped his tongue along the sensitive underside of my upper lip—a skillful maneuver that always left me tingling.

“More,” I whispered, biting softly.

He captured my lower lip, pulling sensitive flesh between his teeth and nipping gently. “However, I’d like to think if I woke up at two in the morning with a massive hard-on you’d invite me over.” He slanted his mouth over mine—tender at first then raw and primal as his tongue penetrated deep.
 

 
He yanked the soft curves of my body against hard muscle. “Good God, Gracie, I can’t get enough of you.”
 

His lips brushed over my neck and the delicate bones at the base of my throat. Vaguely, I became aware the taxi had stopped.

The cabbie cleared his throat. “You two oughta…maybe…get a room?”

Bradley straightened slowly. “Pull up farther down the street.” His hooded gaze returned to me. “I’ve wanted to kiss you all day, since the moment I laid eyes on you.”

Named after Rue de Clichy in the red light district of Paris—Clichy was the most exclusive lingerie boutique in SoHo and the kinkiest. The shop’s walls were adorned with gilt-framed eighteenth-century erotic paintings juxtaposed between floor-to-ceiling photographic murals of fabulous models wearing next to nothing.
 

Nestled amongst the delicate lace and silk on display, were the exotic playthings. Perhaps the most exquisite erotic accouterment on the planet. Bradley placed a black lace blindfold over my eyes.

 
“By all means.” He held the mask until we reached the salesgirl, whose nametag read Danielle.

“Good evening.” He set the $350.00 fetish item on the counter. “I understand you make private club recommendations.”

 
The sultry hot sales diva wore her hair straight and bobbed, and her dark liquid eyes thoroughly perused Bradley. She pivoted and took an equally long look at me. “What do you have in mind?”

“A threesome with Sappho.” I could hardly believe I said the words. Something about the elegant sex toys and the abundance of skimpy, delicate underthings urged me on. Plus, I had all that premenstrual excitation going on.

“You two would probably enjoy Bad Kitty or Taste—the members are all young and hot. There is also De-Lovely—professionals, sophisticated, pricey.” She brought out a black leather notebook and flipped through the pages. “And take a look at Lavender.” She handed me the book with a sultry wink. “Gorgeous Sapphos.”