As if she felt eyes on her, the other woman looked up.
“I like your shoes,” Crickitt said.
She smiled. “Thank you.” A moment later, the receptionist called to her and she stood, dropping the magazine onto the table in front of them. “You should check this out,” she told Crickitt. “He’s pretty hot.” Then she sashayed away, leaving Crickitt frowning down at the periodical.
Forbes? What hot guy decorated the interior of Forbes?
Crickitt reached for the periodical, flipping open the cover and thumbing through the pages. Not surprisingly, she found lengthy articles interspersed with photographs of men in suits. Most of them older, with paunchy bellies and little to no hair. Then she came to a two-page spread that put her face-to-face with the man from the club. Shane. Just recalling the way his hand fit against hers had her heart ka-thumping, her palms sweating.
Wow. “Hot” was the perfect description for him.
He stood in the center of a bare room, hands in his pockets, eyes focused off to the side. His thick dark hair was the right length to be professional, but long enough to tickle the collar of his suit. Black and white treated him well, enhancing the crinkles at the corners of his eyes and the shadow marking his angled jaw. His smile was wide and genuine, and she couldn’t help smiling back at the image.
Then she frowned. She remembered he’d been dressed nicely, had been pleasant and friendly. But she didn’t remember him being quite so…hot. Then again, she’d been distracted, which was a nice way to say she was a wreck, but still, how could she have missed this?
Shane hadn’t been a wreck. He was charming, in an odd way. His awkward conversation suggested he didn’t pick up girls in clubs often. She traced the smile lines around his mouth. He certainly didn’t need to.
Splashy bright orange type read: Shane August and Everything After. “Oh, my gosh,” Crickitt breathed, and not because she was impressed by the clever play on one of her favorite album titles.
Shane didn’t just work for August Industries. Shane was August Industries. She really should have shopped at Nordstrom.
“Crickitt, hi,” a deep male voice sounded over her shoulder, and Crickitt nearly leaped out of her poly-cotton-blend shirt. Shane smiled down at her, the same casual hands-in-his-pockets pose as in the article between them. He wore a white shirt and pressed dark suit, paired with a coral-and-cream-striped tie.
She stood, the magazine open in her hands, her face warming as she stared up at the billionaire in front of her.
“The Counting Crows,” he said, gesturing to the article.
She blinked at him. Really, how had she not noticed he was this attractive before? She was divorced, not blind. His eyes, which had looked brown in the muted club lighting, were actually warm amber with flashes of gold. And she found herself wanting to reach up and tousle his head full of thick, dark hair. Unconsciously, she curled her fingers, the magazine crinkling in her grip.
He smiled, parting perfectly contoured lips. “The article?” he said, snapping her out of her trance.
“Right! I know!” she said. “I have that CD.” Caught with the proverbial canary in her mouth, Crickitt closed the magazine and dropped it onto the table. Then leaned down, flipped it over, and patted it for good measure.
“Was my picture that bad?” he asked, quirking his mouth.
“What? No! No, not at all. It’s a great picture. I mean, you look really nice. Very handsome.” She pressed her lips together and willed herself to shut up.
“Well, thank you.” He pursed his lips, and she couldn’t keep from watching them as he spoke. “You’re not just saying that to butter me up before the interview, are you?”
“Hmm-mm,” she answered dreamily, eyes fixed on the sexy indentation of his upper lip. Then his words hit her and she blinked. The interview! Good Lord, she’d nearly forgotten why she was here. Which was to interview for a personal assistant position. For Shane August.
The president of August Industries.
Gulp.
If she was nervous before, it was nothing compared to how she felt now. Like her adrenal glands were doing the cha-cha after a double espresso.
Shane gestured with her résumé to the short glass staircase ahead of them. Slicking her hands down her slacks, Crickitt slung her bag over one shoulder and headed up in front of him.
Here went nothing.
Chapter 4
Pretty.
Wasn’t that how he’d categorized Crickitt when he met her at the club on Saturday? But now that she was standing in front of his office windows, daylight streaming into her curls, he realized “pretty” was a gross understatement.