Saving the CEO(13)

“It’s not Laura. And if she’s out of rehab this soon, it’s because she sprang herself, in which case I’m not talking to her.”

“Maybe rehab has a punch card system going. Like at coffee shops. Each stint gets you a punch, and then when you have a whole row punched you get to go home early. I bet she would want to come to the farm. Isn’t physical labor, like, one of the steps—”

“Gotta go! Call you later!” Cassie threw the phone on her bed and vaulted across the room to the intercom. She did kind of wonder who it was. Danny was the only person who ever came to her place. Maybe someone had sent her an early Christmas present, and it was the FedEx guy. As soon as she had the fleeting, hopeful thought, she quashed it. Hello, was she ten years old? And who would send her a present anyway? She punched the talk button. “Yes?”

“It’s Jack Winter.”

Ack! She wasn’t wearing any pants! Lunging for a pair of jeans, she jammed her legs into them without thinking. She’d grabbed a skinny pair, so all ten wet toes came out the other end looking like she’d sent them to a Jackson Pollack appreciation class. “Awww!”

“Ahh!” There was that unholy buzzer again. “Yes?”

“Can I come up?”

“Oh! Yes, sorry! 5A.” Nice move, Rico Suave. She turned in place, trying to look at her apartment through his eyes. His eyes were probably used to a ginormous penthouse. She, on the other hand, lived in what was basically one room. The landlord had tried to sell it as an “efficiency-plus”—and it was large. Largish. But it was still one big room with an alcove that just fit her double bed, affording the illusion of a separate space for sleeping.

Well, it was what it was. Mr. CEO Dude would just have to deal. At least it was cute. She was rather proud of all the work she’d done to trick it out. If her version of shabby chic was a little heavy on the shabby, well, the lights were dim. She eyed the antique chandelier she’d hung just last week—and they were pretty good-looking lights, too.

By the time he rapped on her door, her vagina was panting. There was no other way to describe it. He was Pavlov; her vagina was the dog. Okay, not the best metaphor maybe, but she hadn’t even laid eyes on him yet and things were…happening.

She swung open the door. He was leaning against the jamb looking down, and he was actually panting. “No elevator?”

She shrugged. “The rent is cheap. The neighborhood is fun.”

He pushed off the doorframe and must have spied her feet before he lifted his eyes because he said, “Nice toes.”

“I wasn’t wearing any pants.”

He lifted an eyebrow.

Yeah, nice job—why didn’t she just say, “Woof, woof?”

“What I mean is, I was painting my toenails, and I wasn’t wearing pants. Then you buzzed. So I had to put pants on, and I ruined my toes.” Woof woof.

A beat of silence, then his voice like scratchy molasses. “Shoot, don’t get dressed on my account.”

Was this a booty call? A booty visit? Because she wasn’t actually sure how she felt about that, Pavlov aside. It was one thing to do some ah, stuff, outside Edward’s. Quite another for him to show up at her home. Yeah, this was not good. She didn’t actually know anything about this guy. “How did you know where I live?”

“I got it out of that hostess at Edward’s.” Before she could protest, he continued. “I’ve come with a proposition. Can I come in?”

“Uh…” What was she supposed to say to that? It was fine in the alley, but I’m not so sure about the comfort of my own bed?

“Not that kind of proposition.”

“Oh.” Was that a ping of disappointment? She moved aside to let him in. Her apartment seemed to have shrunk. He filled it with his imposing golden presence. Stripping off his coat, he sat, long legs and sharp masculine angles incongruent against her turquoise art deco sofa.

“You’re wearing jeans,” she said, demonstrating a talent for stating the obvious as she sat on the armchair perpendicular to the sofa. It was just that he looked so different when he wasn’t wearing one of his bazillionaire suits. The fitted dark jeans and gray Henley, together with the Sorel boots he’d kicked off in her entryway, made him look more like an L.L. Bean model than Canada’s thirty-fifth richest person.

“Yes. Unlike you, I’m very pro-pant.” He shot her a look. “Though I do make exceptions under certain circumstances.”

She popped up. “Do you want a scotch? Scotch would be good, right?” A scotch approximately the size of Lake Ontario, perhaps?