“It’s definitely something to think about. Gotta graduate first, though.” She yawned.
That was his cue. “I should go.” Please let this not be awkward. It always was, but maybe Cassie would be different this way, too.
She sat up straighter. “Right.” He’d gotten dressed earlier to go downstairs to meet the pizza guy, and now she was pulling a T-shirt out of a small dresser.
“Don’t get dressed on my account.”
“It’s okay, I uh…”
Usually this was the part where he made his speech about not doing relationships. He might be a coldhearted ass, but he prided himself on not being the kind of coldhearted ass who promised to call women and then didn’t. He preferred a clean break. But she’d heard a couple of variations on that speech already, so he’d forgo it.
“I usually sleep in a T-shirt anyway,” she finished, pulling on a faded Toronto Maple Leafs shirt about four sizes too big for her—the sartorial opposite of the red dress. But with her hair all tussled and her mouth, red and swollen from their encounter, decorated with a little dab of whipped cream, the effect was the same. Damn, he had to get out of here or he would never leave.
“So, back to work tomorrow?” he asked, pulling on his coat. “Two o’clock again?”
“Sure.” She followed him to the door.
He picked up her dress, which had been left in a heap on the floor. “Don’t wear this.”
“Got it.”
He couldn’t help it. He reached out a finger and snagged the rogue whipped cream blob from the corner of her mouth. Then he held the finger out, tip poking her lips gently, seeking entry. She opened and her lips formed into an O as she sucked the cream off his finger.
He turned to go, dick rock hard.
So much for a clean break.
Chapter Eight
When Cassie took the elevators up to the forty-ninth floor of the Lakefront Centre the next day, she was wearing jeans and a sweater. She’d gotten the message last night. No red dress. No more mind-shattering sex. Still, both jeans and sweater were tight—she was human, after all. She wanted him to want her, even if his stupid rules prevented him from doing anything about it. Normally she would have worn a tank top under the black sweater—the V-neck showed more cleavage than she was usually comfortable with. But, heck, today she was going to rock it.
He was standing in the lobby when she arrived, talking to another man. They both looked up as she approached. The sweater must have been working because the other man, who looked like a photographic negative of Jack, all dark and brooding where Jack was fair, raised his eyebrows and rounded his lips as if he were about to whistle, though no sound came out.
“Cassie.” Jack was at her side in an instant, hand on her lower back again, just like yesterday.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” said the dark haired man.
Jack glared at the man. “No.”
He stuck his hand out anyway. “I’m Dax Harris, CEO of Cherry Beach Software Solutions.” He nodded toward the bank of elevators. “We’re on the other side of this floor.”
Cassie wanted to laugh. Apparently the building was full of hot CEO dudes. Was it, like, a requirement for tenancy?
“Dax was just going,” said Jack, actually taking her hand and physically pulling her away from Dax.
Was he jealous?
Oh, but she wanted him to be. As immature as it was, and even knowing there was most likely going to be nothing more between them, she savored the idea that Jack was unsettled by another man’s interest in her.
Performing a parody of a bow, Dax shot her a smile. “If you ever find yourself in need of any software solutions, you know where to find me.”
“Time to get to work,” Jack said, shooting a final glare at Dax before ushering her back to his office.
By the time they arrived, he’d dropped her hand and his face looked completely unruffled. Okay, maybe she’d imagined that whole jealousy thing. Maybe he just didn’t like that Dax guy.
This time the coffee table in the sitting area was laden with a small feast. Sandwiches, assorted salads, brownies, cookies, spritzers, and bottles of juice. “Wow,” she said.
“Didn’t want you to go hungry this time,” he said mildly, firing up his computer.
Right. Message received. We’re not going to go back to your place to get it on and eat pizza afterward. Well, who was she to turn her nose up at free fancy sandwiches?
They dove in, to the food and the financials. As before, the afternoon went quickly as Cassie lost herself in the numbers. She was building a picture of Winter Enterprises in her mind, one bit of data at a time.
“I think I’m getting it,” she declared, looking up to note that darkness had fallen. “It’s late?”