Book 1 - Page 28 (1/2)

For the rest of the ride, I slide my tongue back and forth between my teeth to keep from grinding them together.

When we reach the location for the shoot—a historic diner in the heart of downtown Nashville that’s been rented out for the entire day—Lucas stops me before I open my door. “Look, I don’t . . . do very well with this kind of thing with other people around.”

Shyness is not something I expect from Lucas, and I’m taken aback. “Meaning you want me to stay outside,” I say.

“Don’t sound so dejected. You’ve got the business credit card Kylie left, right?”

“Yes,” I say.

“There’s seven more days after this. You have a tendency to dress like a first grade teacher and since you’re a direct reflection of me—well, do something about it.”

“I’m a wardrobe girl.”

“Who dresses like a 23 year old teacher.”

“I am 23.”

“And you’re my a.s.sistant who’s agreed to do as I say. Right now I’m telling you to buy clothes that fit the role. Don’t tell me you can’t because I know you’re f**king incredible at what you do,” he says. Then, lifting his eyebrows suggestively, he leans forward and places his elbows on his knees. “Because as it stands, the only thing I want to do when I look at you is take a ruler, bend you across a desk and—”

“I’ll do it!” I cry out, squeezing my eyes shut to flush out the imagery that’s just thrust itself into my brain. Every time I think I’m making a little progress of not thinking about s.e.x and Lucas, he stomps all over it.

If he notices that I’ve not referred to him as Mr. Wolfe or Sir once during this exchange, he doesn’t say anything. He sits in the same position, staring at me expectantly until I realize at last that he’s waiting for me to let him out.

Seven days.

He winks at me as he steps out of the Cadillac. As he slides past me, his body brushes mine. It’s just the tiniest of touches, the back of his wrist against my belly b.u.t.ton, his shoulder skimming the top of my head so that strands of my red hair cling to his V-neck tee, but it’s enough to make us both pause.

Tentatively, I s.h.i.+ft forward. The muscles jump under his cheeks, and he reaches up, past me, to close the car door. He keeps his eyes off of my face as he says, “When you’re shopping . . . remember you’re dressing a rocker’s personal a.s.sistant, remember we’ve got a semi-formal birthday party to go to while in Atlanta. And if I so much as see one lame a.s.s cardigan, I swear I’ll burn it.”

He stalks past me and into the diner. Instead of following him with my gaze, I close my eyes.

Fantasize about what would’ve happened if our lips had touched.

Feel parts of me that I shut down two years ago wake up once again.

†