At the sound of his voice, her cheeks stained a pretty shade of pink. She sent him a confused smile. He smiled back. Couldn't help it. The look on her face was that of a woman who liked him. And he liked that. A lot more than he should.
"Tell me what you've been up to since you were sixteen years old." He leaned back on the sofa, content to let her talk while he watched her unabashedly.
Contrarily, she couldn't keep her eyes in one place. They jerked from the bookshelves behind his head to the window, to the glass in her hand. "Um. Wow. That's a lot of years to summarize." A breathy laugh escaped her lips. "I um, graduated high school." She tapped the bottom of her glass with her fingernails. "I did not go straight to college, but by the time I did, I moved so I could attend the Fashion Institute in New York."
He lifted his brows. She'd lived in New York.
She nodded. "Impressive, right?"
"Very." How unusual that she'd have an interest in a field so similar to Lissa's. He wondered if they'd ever crossed paths. "So you wanted to be a big, famous designer with your own runway shows?"
She chewed the corner of her lip. "I did … until I worked for Karl Kingsley."
Lissa had done a show with Kingsley a few years back. She'd told him the nickname the models had for him. He wondered if that had been a universal moniker. "The Royal Shithead?" he asked.
Kimber laughed, a brief look of surprise crossing her face. Like she hadn't expected him to be crass. He liked that he'd surprised her. He liked her, period.
"That's him. Anyway, I got fired. From an unpaid internship. I was standing too close to a model who was spouting off at him and he fired her from the show, and me, and a seamstress who happened to be in the line of fire as well." She swirled her finger around the edge of her glass, the motion oddly erotic. "After that, I had … problems attaining another internship in New York. I spoke with the seamstress, who was my friend, and she'd had the same issues. We thought Kingsley had blacklisted us somehow. He has a lot of pull in the industry."
As most old guys who became relics did. Her story reminded him of the job he'd taken straight out of college. Brett Carmichael. The guy acted as if he'd owned the moon rather than RedAd, and when Landon had left to strike out on his own, Brett had attempted to smear Landon's reputation with his customers. Thankfully, he'd failed. Landon knew because many of those customers had come to him, leaving Brett's antiquated design where it belonged. In the past.
"I moved to Chicago with my friend Gloria," she continued. "Evan's agent"-she glanced at him to make sure he knew her by name. He nodded. "And then I worked in department stores on Michigan Avenue until about a year ago when I opened Hobo Chic."
"A vintage clothing store. Angel mentioned it."
"Did she also mention I made the tragic error of partnering with my ex-boyfriend to buy it?" She blinked, almost as if she was stunned that the words had come out of her mouth.
He was getting the idea she didn't do much planning … for anything. The words she spoke, her actions. He probably had that attribute to thank for her being here.
She waved a hand through the air, the subject along with it. "Anyway. Water. Bridge. What about you? What did you do after college?"
He pressed his lips together. He'd desperately tried to reconnect with Rachel the moment he'd set foot back on campus. She'd gone to live with her aunt in Texas. She'd never contacted him again. Ever. After they'd dated for a year and a half and made a baby she'd aborted.
"That's a long and boring story," he lied. Forcing a smile onto his face was like nailing Jell-O to a tree, but he managed. "I take it you're not a scotch drinker." He pointed to the glass and she stilled her circling finger.
"What gave me away?" She tilted the glass to examine it again. "What do I do? Swirl it, smell it?"
"Drink it." Lifting his glass, he demonstrated by pulling in a mouthful of the amber liquid. He swallowed, savoring the burn in his throat. Finally, he was starting to relax. He could feel himself sink into a slight buzz, in part thanks to his skipping dinner. He enjoyed the sensation of his shoulders dropping from beneath his ears for the first time in eleven hours.
She was studying her glass with apprehension. "Why does mine have ice and yours doesn't?"
"Smell yours," he said.
She sniffed. Shrugged. "Okay."
"Now mine." He tipped his glass in her direction and she held his wrist to steady the glass. The simple connection had him subconsciously moving his body closer to hers, as if she'd dragged him there by an invisible thread. She inhaled, watching him from under a fan of ginger lashes, her eyes wide and watchful.
"Scotchy," she said.
"The ice tames the scent."
Every part of her, from her pink mouth to her darkening pupils, to the feather-light touch on his arm, said Kiss me. And, God, how he wanted to.
She moved her hand before he could act on the impulse, lifting her glass to the mouth he wanted to capture with his. She mumbled something like "Here goes nothing," her words echoing lightly off the cut crystal, before she took in a mouthful, held it for a second, then swallowed it down, a completely adorable scowl on her face.
She stuck her tongue out. "Really?"
A grin he couldn't contain covered his face. It pulled his cheeks and lifted his glasses. "Scotch is an acquired taste."
She stared into the glass as if it were filled with worms. "How do you acquire a taste for battery acid?"
His smile held. "Man. I was hoping you wouldn't be this predictable."
Her eyebrows tilted, making her look almost hurt. "I'm predictable?"
No. You're adorable.
"You knew I would make a face when I drank it?" Her voice was high and tight.
"I did."
"And you knew I'd need the water to wash the taste from my mouth." She lifted the bottle, uncapped it, and took a swig.
He dipped his chin. "I did."
"And"-she capped the bottle-"you knew I'd ask to taste yours next?"
He-what?
The side of her mouth curved, a feral little lift, and she gestured to his glass. "May I?"
He handed it over. "Sure."
"I want to see what scotch without ice tastes like." She took a drink, turning the glass to sip from the side he sipped from, her lips closing over the rim where his had a moment ago. This time she managed not to wince or frown. She did stick her tongue out, though. To lick a drop of Macallan from her bottom lip before covering it with her top lip and rubbing them together.
He shifted as subtly as he could manage with a two-by-four wedged against his zipper.
"Better." She offered his glass, her eyes turning up to his again.
He told himself to move away, give both of them some space. But he stayed where he was in spite of his mental orders. Her eyes traveled over his body, and the tingle in his balls moved up his spine and down both legs simultaneously. Her next question didn't help hedge his arousal.
"Do you ever take off that tie?" she asked.
He didn't miss the opportunity to flirt with her. "I don't wear it in the shower if that's what you're asking."
Kimber sucked in a deep breath, and he hoped it was because she was imagining him naked. It was only fair since he'd pictured her that way now, too. He was playing with fire, and it was far more fun than he remembered.
He slid a glance down her arms and up again, wanting badly to reach out and touch her. Just a touch.
"You look good in green," he said, sliding his fingers beneath the short sleeve nearest him and running the tip of his index finger along the satin-smooth skin on the inside of her upper arm.
She gasped, barely, but he'd heard it. He met her eyes, saw the flash of interest, the war she was waging with propriety, or maybe she was simply reacting to the familiarity between them. He felt it, too. Felt the charge between the scant inch separating their legs, the electric current streaming through his fingers as he tickled her flesh.
"I'm thirsty."
He yanked his arm away from her at the sound of his nephew's voice. Lyon lingered in the doorway, rubbing his eyes and yawning and looking utterly uninterested that his uncle was hovering over his nanny.
"Hey, buddy." Landon had to clear his throat when the words came out as a croak.
Lyon shuffled over to the couch and climbed up and sat between them. Landon reluctantly made room. "I wanted to say good night but you were asleep," he told his nephew, smoothing his hair against his head.
Lyon yawned again, his eyelids as heavy as sandbags. "I can't sleep."
Sure he can't. He flicked a look over his nephew's head at Kimber, whose lips twitched in amusement.
She leaned down to eye level with Lyon. "How about I get you some water?" She smiled with a purity that squeezed Landon's chest. He loved Lyon like he would his own kid. He should have been here when he said he would. Tomorrow, he vowed. Tomorrow, he'd get home in time to tuck him in. Balancing business and family this week had proven to be a challenge he'd failed. Thank God for Kimber.