Working It (15 page)

I recognized one of the photographers from an earlier shoot and Madeline. I said hello, but she didn’t seem to recognize me even though I’d just met her a few days before. The few others were new faces.

Approaching the bar, I ordered a beer. You could take the girl out of the country but you’d never take the country out of the girl. The bartender filled a pint glass with amber-colored goodness and slid it toward me. Grabbing it with shaky hands, I took a long, icy sip.

When I rejoined the group, Fiona slyly smiled at me. “You know how many calories are in that, dear?”

Soft laughter erupted nervously across the group. They could sense the catfight brewing. Stupid industry people sipping their stupid skinny cocktails.

Ben stood across from me looking troubled. I didn’t like being responsible for that look. I didn’t want to be a source of tension between him and the head of the agency—our boss. I didn’t think she’d do anything foolish, like stop booking him for jobs—he was too valuable for that. But she could fire me. And something told me if I got too close to Ben, that’s exactly what she might do. I could handle her snarky comments about my clothing and calorie consumption. I didn’t want to blow this out of proportion, so I merely smiled and nodded and took another sip of my carbohydrates-rich drink.

“Fiona, can I have a word?” Ben asked.

“Of course, love.”

Fiona followed him around the corner and out of sight.

I knew I shouldn’t, but I slipped away from the group and trailed after them. In what universe was this okay? I must have been dropped as a baby. But if this was about me, I needed to know.

They stood at the far end of the hall in an alcove near the restrooms. I remained just out of sight, hidden around the corner, but near enough that I could hear their low, murmured conversation.

“We’re not curing cancer, Fiona; stop being so serious,” Ben said.

“I’m always serious where you’re concerned,” Fiona returned, her voice tense.

“Why don’t you tell me what this is really about?”

Fiona let out a heavy sigh. “I think you know.” She hesitated a moment, silence falling over them as my pulse thrummed in my ears. “You haven’t come by to see me lately. . . . Is this about her?” Her voice took on a whiny plea.

“I told you that was done. That has nothing to do with Emmy.”

Holy shit.
What did this conversation have to do with me? And why was my spine tingling like there was something big I was missing here?

“Just be civil,” Ben added.

“Then don’t shag my assistant,” Fiona hissed.

“Calm down, pussy cat,” Ben chuckled. “It is my birthday, after all.”

“Love, if you want birthday sex, all you have to do is ask,” Fiona’s sultry, accented voice whispered.

“Fiona . . .” Ben warned, letting the rest of the statement hang in the air.

All the oxygen was sucked from my lungs. Had they slept together? I didn’t doubt that Fiona would be interested, but would Ben do that? Damn, this situation was far more complicated that I’d imagined.

“Do you have plans for a girl later?” Fiona asked.

“No girls, Fiona, I told you. You can relax.”

My legs felt shaky, but I pushed them into action, disappearing back down the hall before I was discovered. Rejoining the group, I stood on trembling legs, sucking down mouthfuls of the icy-cold drink until my temples throbbed. Ben and Fiona rounded the corner and he crossed the room to stand next to me, letting his hand rest at the small of my lower back. The contact made me jump and I sloshed a bit of the beer from the rim of my glass.

“You okay?” Ben murmured beside me.

“I’m fine.”

He took a deep breath and reached for my hand. “Our table’s ready. Come on.”

Ben sat between me and Fiona, which was good because I wasn’t above flicking a booger in her food, given the chance. Lord knows she’d deserve it. She leaned over him, reading the menu and pointing out things he would like, which annoyed me to no end. He ordered the salade Niçoise. I wondered if he ever got to actually eat what he liked. It seemed like a birthday was the one day you should be entitled to do so. I sure as heck wouldn’t order a salad on my birthday.

I switched to sparkling water toward the end of dinner. I wanted to be clearheaded for later. I didn’t know if I’d get any alone time with Ben. But if I did, I wanted to be thinking clearly. I needed to know what was happening between us. Clouding my head with alcohol probably wouldn’t help any. And I didn’t want to see Fiona have a coronary at the table if I ordered another beer.

The guests chatted with Ben throughout much of the meal. I quickly learned the others in our party were more executives for luxury brands that Fiona was trying to book. I was so frustrated, I couldn’t even look at her fake smile. Tonight was supposed to be a relaxing, low-key night for him, but of course she had turned it into a job interview. Ben politely fielded all their questions, acting like none of it bothered him, but I could tell it did. I nibbled on my food and stayed quiet for the most part, but Ben glanced my way several times and once squeezed my hand under the table.

The drinks continued flowing after dinner, and Fiona told story after story about Ben, designed to either impress our guests or scare me away. She painted him as quite the playboy, and my dinner churned in my stomach with each new bit of information.

“We were in Singapore, what was it, two years ago, love?”

Ben nodded.

“We were on set for Versace, and he was all sour and mardy.”

Ben grimaced, like he knew the story she was about to tell.

“He hadn’t been sleeping well—jetlag, and all that.”

“Fiona,” he warned, his voice dropping lower.

“Oh, hush; it’s funny, love.” Fiona waved a hand in his direction then turned back to the group. “It was a brilliant set, beautiful clothes, and our gorgeous model here was pissy—in need of a good shag. I knew he needed to take the edge off before we started shooting.” A few of the business executives leaned forward in interest and Madeline’s cheeks grew pink. Ben was growing increasingly agitated. He removed the napkin from his lap and balled it on the table beside his plate.

Fiona continued, “So I found this little assistant in the back, asked if her duties extended to oral, and shoved her at Ben. She took one look at him and nodded, pulling him into an empty broom closet. I don’t know what happened next; all I know is that when he emerged fifteen minutes later, there was a smile on his face.”

The table erupted in soft laughter. A lump lodged in my throat and I had to take a drink of water to get my windpipe working again.

Fiona’s story demonstrated that Ben was in an entirely different category of men. He’d lived and worked all over the world, and apparently got blow jobs from assistants at the drop of a hat. Did he even remember her name? Was that what I was to him? A plaything to take the edge off? That was exactly why I wasn’t cut out for this. Sex meant more to me. There was no way to separate the physical connection from the emotional in my mind. Ellie was right. I never should’ve slept with him. But I also knew if he asked me to bed again, I probably wouldn’t say no. Part of me wished I was stronger; part of me was dreaming up ways to get him alone later.

Fiona carried over a large bag filled with wrapped gifts, taking each one out and placing them in front of Ben.

He smiled and tried to act humbled, opening each one and thanking the giver. An Hermès scarf, Cartier watch, Balenciaga satchel, men’s grooming kit—some luxury brand I didn’t recognize but was surely out of my price range.

I did get him something, or rather made him something. It was in poor taste to show up to a birthday party empty-handed, but there was no way I was going to embarrass myself by whipping out a homemade gift among this extravagance. It would stay tucked in my purse. Thank you very much.

Fiona packed the gifts back in the bag and asked the restaurant if a concierge could have them delivered to the hotel. It was amazing to see she was actually capable of making her own arrangements.

After dinner, coffee was poured but there was no dessert. What was a birthday party without cake? Ben looked bored to tears. I needed to rescue him. I leaned in closer. “No cake on your birthday? That’s practically a crime.”

He shrugged. “I’m not allowed to have cake.”

“Allowed?” I wasn’t gluten free, all organic, diary free, or vegan. I liked food. I often ate too much of it. Sue me. “We need cake.” I pushed my chair back from the table and grabbed my handbag. “Thank you for dinner,” I said to Fiona. Then I grabbed Ben’s hand. “Come on.”

His eyes widened and darted up to mine, and after a second of hesitation he rose to his feet. “Fiona.” He bent to press a kiss to her cheek.

She smiled, fake as all get out. “Off so soon?”

He shrugged. “Yes, if that’s okay with you all.” He directed the question to the table.

Everyone nodded and smiled, no one willing to disagree with him.

Genius.

Fiona couldn’t say anything. Everyone else had already agreed. I could’ve kissed him. But I would save that for later.

Once we were safely outside the restaurant, Ben gripped my hand, lacing his fingers between mine, his mouth twitching in a smile. “Phew. Thank you for rescuing me.”

I beamed up at him, feeling like an utter genius, and squeezed his hand.

We ventured to the bar/restaurant inside the lobby of our hotel, slid into a secluded booth, and ordered two glasses of fizzy champagne.

When the server came back, I ordered the biggest slice of chocolate cake they had.

“Really?” Ben grinned at me. “Sure you can handle all that, sweetheart?”

I nodded enthusiastically. “Bring it on.”

When the server delivered the cake, it was with a little Parisian smirk. It was towering off the plate.

“I didn’t expect it to be so large,” I commented.

Ben’s eyebrows raised suggestively. He handed me a spoon. “Ladies first.”

I was about to argue that it was his birthday and he should do the honors, but his stern expression left no room for discussion. I accepted the proffered spoon and dug into the dense cake. My favorite bite, the little triangle piece right from the tip. Ben’s eyes followed my movements, watching as my mouth closed around the spoon.

“Mmm,” I moaned, dropping my head back. His eyes widened and he visibly swallowed.

Ben dug in, joining me in chocolate bliss. “I haven’t had cake in . . . years.” He took a bite and his eyes slipped closed as he chewed. “Holy shit.”

I laughed. These calories were sooo worth it. So was watching Ben’s expression. He clearly enjoyed himself. Ben leaned back against the booth, crossing his arms and observing me. I took another bite, licking the chocolate frosting from my spoon. As my tongue darted out, his breathing hitched, his chest rising and falling systematically. I liked that I was having an effect on him. Lord knows he affected me. My entire body hummed in arousal when he was near. And forget it when he swept that deep hazel gaze fringed with dark lashes over my curves. I mentally parted my knees, ready and waiting.

“Hope it’s been a good birthday.” I lifted my champagne glass and clinked it against his.

“It is now.”

I smiled at the compliment, glad I’d had the courage to save him. “I got you something, well,
made
you something.”

“You made me something? What is it?”

“It’s nothing big; I just felt dumb giving it to you at the restaurant.”

He leaned back in his seat, studying me. “I like that you waited.” Ben’s gaze followed my movement as I reached into my purse to retrieve the gift.

I handed him a flat package wrapped in brown paper, suddenly feeling like an idiot.
This isn’t sixth grade, Emmy
.

Ben looked down at the gift, his eyes wide and filled with disbelief. “You made this for me?”

I nodded sheepishly.

“I’ve never gotten a homemade gift.” He held it with reverence as if it were something priceless and important, rather than a CD—a playlist I’d burned just for him.

“It’s nothing. Open it.” Homemade gifts and cards were pretty much the norm in my family. Growing up, we didn’t have much extra money and we tended to get creative.

Ben tore away the paper and smiled when he saw the silver disk with my messy writing scrawled in black marker:
Birthday Boy.
I picked out a bunch of sexy jams, songs I was hoping he hadn’t heard before from the eclectic mix of music on my laptop.

“Thank you, this is awesome. The best gift I got all night.” His smile was genuine for the first time tonight, reaching his eyes and crinkling the corners.

My heart pounded in a strange rhythm, knowing he was watching me. These simple acts—the cake, the homemade gift—I don’t know why, but he acted as if these gestures meant more to him than the thousand-dollar dinner and extravagant gifts he had just received.

“You’re welcome,” I murmured. Why my voice had gone all husky and low, I didn’t know.

“Let’s get out of here.” His tone left little room for argument. But wasn’t this what I wanted? I wanted to feel desired and sexy, to lose myself in this man.

The glass of fizzy champagne had gone straight to my head, and I clutched Ben’s arms as we made our way to the elevator. He was unusually quiet and intense, and I wondered what was going on inside his head.

Once inside the elevator, Ben left no doubt where we were headed. He punched the button for his floor then turned to face me, caging me in with his arms against the wall. He dipped his head to inhale the scent of my neck, sending a rush of pleasure tingling down my body.

“Come upstairs with me,” he growled, his warm breath washing over the curve of my jaw. My pulse drummed in my throat where his lips hovered.

I didn’t answer—couldn’t. My body wanted this. My brain wasn’t so sure. Whatever was between him and Fiona was a definite concern. Once he was done with me, it would be like a Taylor Swift song—heartbreak city. No amount of ice cream or vodka would cheer me up. Would I lose my job, too?

Ben pulled back and met my eyes, his fingertips grazing the thinking lines etched into my forehead. “Hey,” his voice went all soft and sweet. “Stop fighting this.”