Hot Under Pressure. Kathleen O'Reilly
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shallow. She liked him. He made her comfortable with herself. With everything, really.
That was the pull of one David McLean. He wasn’t exotic, or vain, or some slutty billionaire.
He was, quite simply, the man she wanted.
Ashley stared at the card, recalling how his voice whispered against her ear, and she knew. That was it. Decision made. She’d set up an appointment in New York. Then she would call him, and if things were meant to proceed, he’d be ready, willing and available.
A long-distance affair.
Decadent.
Her mouth curved up at the corner, and all that night she dreamed of David.
THE LAKEVIEW STORE was a wreck. Her manager had quit, one salesgirl was late and the strapless smocked sundresses were priced twenty percent lower than what she paid for them. It was enough to make a weaker woman cry. But not Ashley, not this time. She was still flying high on the aftershocks of great sex.
For the next week, Ashley worked eighteen-hour days to get the store back in order. Her first instinct was to promote the lead sales associate to manager, but honestly, that wasn’t smart and she knew it, so she caved and put a Help Wanted sign in the window. Forty-eight hours later, she’d hired a new manager, a gum-popping twentysomething named Sophie, who didn’t meet her eyes all the time, but her resumé was good, and she wore a great vintage Halston to the interview. That alone was enough to get her the job.
By the middle of the week, the Lakeview store was in better shape, and the Naperville, State Street and Wicker Park stores were holding their own. She was ready to make the call. It was late on a Wednesday that she decided to do it because she worried about whether he’d be alone on a Friday, or whether a Monday morning call seemed too needy. And what if he slept in late on Sundays?
Thankfully, he picked up on the first ring.
“Hello.”
“David? It’s Ashley,” she told him, praying that he wouldn’t ask, “Ashley-who?”
“Hi,” he said, completely the perfect response.
“I’m going to be in New York.”
“When?”
“Two weeks. If you’re not busy…”
Don’t be busy. If you’re busy, I’m never going to call a man again in my life. Ever.
Don’t be dramatic, Ash.
Shut up, Val.
“Not busy. We’ll get dinner. Or a show. Or does that sound too normal? We don’t have to do normal. You can stay here if you want. I’ve got space.”
“No. I’m booking a room,” she answered firmly, not the frugal answer, which was part of her problem, but hotels were dim, mysterious, sinful. Apartments were warm, homey and mundane. And if she found herself settling into his warm, homey and mundane, what would happen to all that smoking-hot passion? Would it disappear, as if it had never existed?
Not going to happen. She liked this smoking-hot passion. She was going to keep it.
“Is your hotel near the airport?”
Ashley tried not to laugh, but failed. “No.”
“Good. How’s work?”
“Not so good. But I’m optimistic.”
“Much better than defeatist.”
“Probably.”
She thought about all the other things she could say, but they sounded neither exciting, nor affairish, so she elected to hold her tongue. “I should go now,” she told him.
“Call me when you get in. Have a good flight, don’t forget to pack your bunny slippers, and Ashley—”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for calling.”
“Anytime,” she answered, before quickly hanging up.
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