After-Hours Negotiation: Can't Get Enough / An Offer She Can't Refuse. Sarah Mayberry
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A short, hot fling, an absolute meeting of minds—two people who enjoyed each other, looking for nothing more than a bit of companionship and human comfort. No strings, no hassles.
He frowned as he remembered that she’d been the one to drift away, the one to call a halt before the usual awkward time when the relationship should move into the next stage but was never going to, thanks to his own fierce commitment to being uncommitted.
He tried to shake off the strange feeling of oppression that settled over him as he considered that Katherine’s assessment was right.
Immediately he thought of Robbie, and he hardened himself. So, maybe they were right, maybe he didn’t have anything to offer on that level. That was simply the way it was. He’d given it all to Robbie, and he didn’t have anything left to share.
His thoughts snapped back to the woman sitting opposite. He now knew why she judged him the way she did. A spark of anger sprang to life inside him. She had judged him, big-time. She’d listened to office gossip and rumor, and she’d formed her own opinions of him, and decided he was lacking. Hence all that talk about him being the action-man about the office. Hence her thinly veiled contempt for him.
Vaguely, he was aware of how quickly his temper had gone from zero to one hundred.
“And let me tell you, that air-conditioning story is bull. Judy never told me she got heat rash. I said I didn’t like the air-conditioning, sure, but she never said she’d get a rash if it wasn’t on.”
He felt small and stupid as soon as he’d said it. What was he defending himself to Claire for, anyway?
“I told you, I didn’t believe it at the time.”
Now she was being understanding. She even looked like she was regretting what she’d said to him. He didn’t like it that she suddenly seemed to have the upper hand. He was much more comfortable with their normal status quo, where he disdained her repression and she expressed her contempt for his freewheeling attitude.
“I’m surprised you haven’t got better things to do than sit around gossiping about me all day. Workload must be a bit lighter than I remember it down in Homes,” he snipped.
She rolled her eyes at him. “Spare me. You think I want to stand around and talk about the office stud all day? It’s impossible not to pick this stuff up. It’s like osmosis.”
He sat up straight, bristling.
“I’d prefer it if you didn’t call me that, thank you,” he found himself saying stiffly.
Can you hear yourself? Now who’s uptight?
“I beg your pardon?”
Her incredulity was clear. But he’d drawn a line in the sand, and he had to stand by it.
“Office stud. I find it offensive. How would you like it if I called you the town bike?”
She surprised him by laughing out loud. “Go ahead, see if I object.”
For a moment he stared at her, taking in the transformation in her face when she laughed. She looked…nice. Approachable. Attractive.
All just a sugarcoating for her inner shrew, he reminded himself. Don’t forget that. Never forget that.
* * *
CLAIRE PLUCKED AT the neck of her heavy silk shirt, trying to get some air between it and her hot skin. Why hadn’t she picked a cotton shirt this morning? She pictured the litter of clothes all over her bedroom and declined to comment on the grounds that she already knew why: she was a pig, and she needed to do the laundry.
She spared a glance for the office stud opposite. Now that she knew he hated being called that she’d make sure to slip it into as many conversations as possible. See how he liked being pigeonholed.
His face was closed, quiet, but she could feel his vulnerability. She’d shocked him with her revelations about what his exes and flings thought of him, there was no question. She felt a vague guilt at having spilled so many beans on him. For the first time, she questioned some of the stories she’d heard about him, and some of her value judgments. So, he dated a lot. Was that so bad? And then she remembered twenty-three-year-old Fiona from Legal, her heart-shaped face blotched with tears as she explained how Jack had made an excuse for not staying the night in her bed after they’d done it. He’d ended their short romance the next day at lunchtime.
He didn’t deserve sympathy. Fiona deserved sympathy—as well as a good kick in the wazoo for letting herself be suckered in by Mr. Silvertongue.
Claire was considering trying to take a nap when movement caught her eye and she looked up to see Jack shrugging out of his shirt.
“What?” he asked defensively. “You want me to ask permission or something?”
What a jerk.
“You can take it all off for all I care,” she told him stiffly.
He raised an eyebrow, obviously doubting her. “Feel free to take off whatever you want, too,” he said idly, the glint of his eyes giving away the fact that he was mocking her.
She could feel her lips disappearing again and she forced them to behave before he noticed. He was sooooo annoying. She’d truly never met anyone else who could get her so riled so quickly.
What was it about him that got up her nose so much? She studied him through her eyelashes, trying to work it out, and found her gaze drawn to the broad expanse of hairy chest he’d just exposed. All that huntin’-shootin’-fishin’ obviously agreed with him because he was in pretty good shape, his pecs nicely defined, his stomach flat, the hint of strong abdominal muscles showing as he breathed. She knew from experience how tough it was to get lean enough to see those ab muscles, and she reassessed her notion of his sybaritic lifestyle. Okay, maybe he wasn’t out wining and dining every night. Every second night, probably. He’d need to, just to fit in all his office romances.
It was nice to see a bit of hair on a chest, she decided idly, feeling drowsy in the stuffy atmosphere. Most male triathletes made a habit of waxing their chests to gain a little less drag in the water, and it had been a while since she’d seen a nicely haired male chest. He had a good tan, too, and the hairs looked healthy and dark and springy against his brown skin. Her eyes followed the trail of hair as it narrowed over those taut abs of his until it was just a promise as it disappeared altogether beneath the waistband of his pants. She found herself staring at a point just below his waistband, wondering again about exactly how gifted Jack was supposed to be….
“Can I help you with anything?”
She started out of her daze, suddenly realizing she was staring unashamedly at his crotch. Flaming embarrassment swept up her body in a burning wave, and she was powerless to do anything about it.
She was a good blusher, she’d learned to her detriment over the years. Even her ears glowed when she was totally humiliated. Like now. She felt almost incandescent with heat and she resolutely kept her gaze away from his as she fought to control her own body.
But the more she thought about it, the more she seemed to sizzle and glow, and she tried not to think about how guilty and pathetic she must seem to him.
At last the flush seemed to dissipate, but it left her feeling unbearably hot. Her blouse felt sticky, confining and oppressive. Briefly, she flicked an envious gaze across at Jack’s bare chest, only to be caught in the knowing beam of his blue eyes.
A small residual flood of color washed her cheeks as she tore her gaze from him. He was laughing at her! Why, oh, why had she stared at him like that? Was she so hard up that the first bit of decent male action to come her way sent her into zombie-drool mode? Even if that male action was attached to the world’s most annoying personality?
She flapped her blouse ineffectually, succeeding only in moving around more hot air.
“Take it off.”
It