Chapter 28 – Pleasing the Boss

“Mirabelle?” She sounds surprised. “You know she’s a Pierce. Or was before she got married.”

“And?”

“And Dad and most of our uncles will never do business with anyone related to a Pierce.”

“I’m not Dad, and like you, I don’t give a f**k about the family’s petty rivalries. Call her and let her know I’m coming.”

I can feel her desire to argue in her hesitation. The momentary silence also lets me hear the background more thoroughly. The clinking of dishes and muffled chatter sounds like she’s at a restaurant or luncheon. A luncheon that Hadrian is supposed to be at? A luncheon he seems to think I should be at as well.

Finally, she sighs. “Okay, I’ll call her. When do you want to see her?”

“Now.”

“Now?”

He checks his watch. “In about forty-five minutes, if you want me to be precise. And I’ll need a valet. It’s an emergency.”

I want to shrivel up into the passenger seat, realizing I’m what he’s calling an emergency.

No, I take it back. I don’t want to shrivel. I want to stab him in the th**h. I look damn good in a damn good dress. So I’ve worn it before. It’s not like anyone will know. And what a stupid gender-centric rule anyway. He’s probably worn his outfit plenty of times, and no one has called him an emergency.

“Why? What kind of emergency?”

“I’m bringing someone. She’s not dressed”—he glances at me—“appropriately.”

“You’re bringing someone?” She sounds surprised but elated. I guess this means he doesn’t usually bring a plus-one.

For some reason, that makes my stomach fl*p.

“It’s business,” he says quickly.

“Oh.” Her happiness deflates, which is probably why mine does as well. Some sort of sympathetic reaction. “If it means you will get your ass here so that I don’t have to suffer this occasion alone, then I’ll call her. But you have to try not to be a dick to her. I actually like Mira.”

I peer sideways at him as they talk. It’s the first I’ve truly looked at him since getting into the car. Along with his aviator sunglasses, I now see that although he isn’t wearing a bow tie, he’s in a tux. The satin lapel gives him away. And man, he can wear a tux. Even seated, I can tell that the sleeves of his jacket were made to hug his body.

Lucky jacket.

But that wasn’t why I was noticing his outfit. I was deducing the dress requirement. Wherever we’re going, the event isn’t quite black tie or he’d have a bow tie. Same requirements for the award show, which means my dress shouldn’t be a problem.

Unless, of course, there are a lot of people at this event who saw me wearing this dress less than a month ago. In which case—gender-centric rules being what they are—I need to change.

I refuse to feel guilty about it. Based on his sister’s comment about this happening annually, he should have had plenty of time to give me a heads-up.

It’s almost hard to be mad at him considering how good he looks, but I promise to make a valiant effort.

Except I’m still evaluating the attractiveness of his profile when I realize that the phone call has ended, and Hadrian is looking at me as though he’s asked me a question.

“Sorry. What was that?”

“I said, you can go on with what you were saying.” His tone is short and cl*pped, and I wonder why he’s even bothered to pick up the thread of whatever it was I was saying before he cut me off.

“I forget.” Since he’d obviously rather not talk at all, why should I put any effort into conversation?

Unfortunately, he doesn’t let it drop there. “I believe you were about to give me a piece of your mind.”

Oh, yeah.

Just like that, my irritation sparks anew. “I was allowed to say so little before I was so rudely interrupted, I can’t imagine how you worked even that much out.”

“You called me an assHadrian.” His l*p seems to twitch, trying not to smile, perhaps. “Can’t say I’ve heard that one before.”

“Probably because you don’t let people talk long enough to say what they’re truly feeling. I assure you it’s not because no one’s thought of it before.”

He turns his head to stare at me long enough that I start to get nervous about his driving.

When he finally puts his eyes back on the road, he’s definitely smiling. “I like you, Brystin Shaw. Remind me I said that when you start to get on my nerves.”

I stare wide-eyed at him then shake my head. “What will you remind me of when you start to get on my nerves? Because, spoiler, it’s already happening.”

He laughs, and my p**sy spasms. As though the sound of his laughter is a vibrator p**ssed against my c**t. What the f**k’s with that?

“I suppose I’ll remind you that you wanted what only I can give you. And that what I can give you is worth me being on your nerves.”

For half a second, I forget that he’s talking about my career. That what he means to give me is something much more base and primal in nature.

But then he says, “I think you’ll find the show will be worth it,” and I remember that it’s my gift to him that’s base and primal, and that he’s the one that wants sex from me.

“It’s a transaction.” It’s for myself, but I say it out loud.

“Exactly. A transaction.”

A transaction in which I have offered him various forms of sex. My outfit shouldn’t matter if that’s all today is about. Obviously, it’s about something else. Just when I’m about to ask questions, the car alerts an incoming text from Adly.

Mira’s expecting you.

“Excellent.” Hadrian changes his destination on the GPS to her boutique.

“Where are we going? Our final destination, I mean.”

“An art show.”

“An art show?” That was not what I’d been expecting at all. “Why an art show?”

“Because that’s where I want you to be.” He glances sideways at me. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll get to keep your clothes on. Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

This time when he glances at me, he looks at the dress. “I’m sure you surmised we’re getting you out of that—what was the term we were using? Tempting number. But you’ll have something else to wear instead.”

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