She smiled sweetly. “But you’re such a natural!”
So she was enjoying this.
“I feel like a model in a bad TV ad,” he muttered.
“Actually, I’m helping to organize a fashion show to raise money for the Boston Operatic League. We’re still short on male volunteers to model the designer clothes that have been donated.”
“Forget it.”
“Consider it,” she cajoled. “It would be a wonderful way to meet people. You’d be in the perfect environment to find some sweet-tempered woman who thinks supporting the arts is important, while promoting yourself in the best light possible by helping out.”
“Nice try, but no dice.” In fact, if either of his brothers ever got wind of the fact he’d paraded up and down some runway in front of dozens of judgmental women, they’d dissolve into paroxysms of laughter. Not to mention that his reputation as a tough corporate adversary would take a hit.
He needed to slam on the brakes before Lauren transformed him into some smoking-jacket-wearing, charity-auction-volunteering, in-touch-with-his-feelings dream man.
He had his limits.
And those limits apparently included Levi’s, which is what he came away with, along with assorted other purchases.
As the salesclerk wrapped up the purchases, Matt admitted to himself that Lauren knew her stuff. If the matchmaking gig didn’t work out for her, she had a future as a personal shopper.
He’d let her take control today, more than he’d ever let anyone else do it when it came to his life. Or, rather, she’d alternately cajoled, coaxed and teased her way into getting what she wanted—at least some of the time.
The fact she was so small, and he loomed over her, just added to the irony of it all.
Thinking of how he outsized her, his body tightened, and he had to remind himself again that petite women weren’t his usual style. Especially one particular bossy petite woman who acted as if she was unsure whether she liked him. A petite woman whose primary interest in him appeared to be to further her business.
If it were otherwise, he’d have to start asking himself sticky questions about his past motives, and he didn’t want to go there.
So naturally, the first words out of his mouth were, “When are you open for dinner so I can brush up on my conversation skills?”
Three
It was just business and dinner. At least that’s what Lauren told herself. In fact, however, this practice dinner was unlike any other she’d been on.
Back at her initial meeting with Matt in her office, she’d mentioned she sometimes helped her clients with their conversation skills. She’d almost forgotten the fact…until Matt had decided to sign himself up.
Given how she’d barely survived their shopping outing last weekend, she’d approached tonight with not a little trepidation.
She’d been unable to stop thinking about Matt and how he’d looked on Saturday. The way he’d filled a pair of Levi’s…the way his lean muscles had appeared under a smooth T-shirt…the way her pulse had raced in response.
Getting dressed for dinner had been its own special torture. She’d waffled over what to wear.
She had a set repertoire for business meals—clothes that were chic but not too sexy. But hours ago, she’d decided nothing in her closet conveyed the right tone.
She’d finally settled on a wrap dress in a midnight color with three-quarter-length sleeves. She’d kept her hair loose and put on a pair of chandelier earrings. She’d finished off with black pumps.
Sure, it wasn’t her usual attire. It was more elegant cocktail party than expensive dinner. Still, her clothes were her armor, and she had to come equipped to handle the client she was seeing—in this case, two-hundred-plus pounds of high- powered male testosterone.
Now they sat facing each other, like two opponents in the centuries-old battle of the sexes, their weapons cutlery, wine goblets and as much repartee as she could stomach over an elegant dinner of lobster panzerotti.
They made small talk about their families, and they’d just started a conversation about the local theater scene when, with an apologetic look, Matt reached into his pocket. “I’m getting a call.”
He flipped open the phone. “Hello.”
Matt’s eyes stayed on hers while he listened.
Despite knowing his mind was elsewhere, Lauren felt tingling awareness dance along her nerve endings, just as it had done throughout dinner. Still, somewhat surprisingly, she’d found herself enjoying their conversation.
She watched as Matt said, “Right, okay.”
He flipped the phone closed and placed his table napkin to the side of his plate, his mouth set in a firm line. “I’ve got to take this.”
He got up, and she was distracted from replying by the waiter’s arrival to refill their wineglasses.
Ten minutes later, he was back.
As he sat down, she said, “Definitely a no-no.”
“Don’t tell me,” he said with mock warning.
“No cell phone calls. It gives the impression—”
“I know. It gives the impression I work for my money.”
“No, that you’re a workaholic.”
He looked exasperated. “It’s a Tuesday night.”
“Turn off the phone,” she said firmly. “Particularly on the first date.”
“This isn’t a real date.”
His response stung, even though he’d spoken the truth, and she worried again about her difficulty in keeping a professional distance.
Steering the conversation to safer waters, she said, “Why don’t you tell me a little bit about your job?”
He raised a brow. “I thought I was supposed to be downplaying the fact that work is my mistress?”
“This isn’t a real date, remember?” she echoed, determined this time to remember the fact herself. “Besides, you need to practice how to leverage your job for maximum appeal on your real dates.”
“Leverage my job for maximum appeal? Is that matchmaker talk?”
“No, that’s what I call the Fletcher Method speaking.”
“How about letting my sizable cash flow speak for itself?” he quipped.
“Is that how an accountant talks dirty?” she parried.
He chuckled. “All right, I’ll play nice.”
Done with his food, he sat back and toyed with the stem of his wineglass.
She tore her mind away from thoughts of his firm, squareish, capable-looking hands.
“You’re the Chief Financial Officer of Whittaker Enterprises,” she began.