All the Right Places (RILEY O'BRIEN & CO #1) (2 page)

Amelia’s mouth dropped open. Had Quinn O’Brien just said “nice ass”? Maybe her anxiety about this meeting had affected her auditory nerve, and it had sent the wrong signals to her brain.

As she stood there staring at him, he squeezed her hand. His fingers were warm and slightly callused.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, one side of his mouth lifting in a hint of a smile.

She’d obviously misunderstood the “nice ass” comment. There was no way a guy as hot as Quinn O’Brien would meet her for the first time by telling her she had a nice ass.

She took a deep breath, pulling in a lungful of Quinn’s cologne. Oh, God, he smelled delicious.

Had anything ever smelled so good? Yes, Ava Grace’s red velvet cupcakes smelled that good. And they tasted good, too, with their decadent cream cheese frosting. Ava Grace was always generous with the frosting.

As her mind wandered, she wondered how Quinn would taste. Better than cupcakes, she’d bet.

Teagan cleared her throat, startling Amelia from a fantasy involving Quinn and baked goods. What was she doing? She was blowing the biggest opportunity of her short career!

She shook her head, and that small movement was like a jump-start to her brain. She withdrew her hand from his clasp.

“I’m really excited to work with a company as iconic as Riley O’Brien,” she said, and to her surprise, she actually sounded normal. She had expected to sound like a tween girl at a boy band concert. “I can’t wait to get started.”

“I’ll let you two talk,” Teagan broke in. “Call me when you’re finished.”

She scowled at Quinn before stalking to the elevators. He turned his dark blue eyes back to Amelia, and for just a second she actually forgot where she was and why she was there.

“I wasn’t expecting to meet with you this morning, and unfortunately, I don’t have time to give you a tour,” he said apologetically.

She had been so nervous about meeting Quinn she hadn’t paid any attention to the office. She glanced around, taking in the décor, which was an unexpected mix of rustic and industrial.

Metal sheeting covered the sections of the wall that weren’t glass, and the concrete floors were stained a dark bluish gray. Exposed wood beams stretched overhead, studded with huge metal rivets.

Noticing the direction of her gaze, Quinn said, “The interior designer thought it would be fun to use rivets in the office design. Sort of a way to pay homage to the jean rivets that were patented by Riley O’Brien in the late 1800s.”

“That’s clever. I really like the colors, too,” she added, pointing to the bold pops of orange and dreamy shades of blue and green that teased her visual senses.

The office gave off a trendy, hip vibe—a kind of energy she’d never experienced before. Of course, she spent more of her time in her workshop than in a high-rise office.

The elevator dinged, and a large group of employees streamed out, laughing and chatting. She noticed they all wore Rileys. With their distinctive button flies, seamed pockets, and black pocket tags, the jeans were not only recognizable; they also had a certain element of cool—for guys, at least.

“Everybody’s wearing Rileys,” Amelia noted. “Is it some kind of dress code?”

Quinn grinned. “Let’s just say it’s implied. It’s not like we’d tar and feather someone for wearing something else, but we might get out the whip for wearing another brand of jeans.” He shot her a teasing glance. “I noticed you aren’t wearing Rileys.”

She battled the urge to reach behind her and cover up the pockets of her jeans, which were clearly labeled as non-Rileys. Why, oh why, hadn’t she thought about that earlier?

A quick look at his long legs confirmed he also wore jeans. She couldn’t tell what kind because he’d left his shirt untucked and it covered his rear—more’s the pity—but she had no doubt they were Rileys.

Along with his dark-wash jeans, he wore a black western-style shirt with pearly snaps down the front and on the pocket flaps. Although it wasn’t tight, the shirt highlighted the width of his shoulders and chest along with his well-muscled arms and flat stomach.

She had a momentary fantasy of undoing a couple of those snaps and running her hands across his abdomen and down to the waistband of his jeans. She wondered if his Rileys had a traditional button fly or if he preferred the newer zipper design. She clenched her hands at her sides, worried for a moment her fingers might reach out and grab him.

“My office is this way,” he said, gesturing toward the double doors.

They entered the executive wing, the heavy door banging shut behind them. Her steps slowed as she took in the living history displayed on the walls of the hallway. The lighting cast a glow over the images and glinted off objects in shadow boxes.

The display was breathtaking, and it spurred a pang of wistfulness deep inside her. She wondered what it would be like to have such deep roots, to have a birthright that was beloved throughout history and a name that was recognizable in nearly every household over several generations.

One of the oldest pictures caught her attention, and she leaned closer to get a better view. The shaggy-haired man in the sepia photo towered over the other people in it. He looked as if he could break a grown man in two with his bare hands.

Realizing she no longer followed him, Quinn turned. His eyes lit up when he saw what had captured her attention.

“You’re looking at the original Riley O’Brien, my great-great-grandfather.”

“He’s huge.”

“Yeah, he was a giant,” he agreed, pride tingeing his voice. “Most of our memorabilia was destroyed by the earthquake and fires in 1906, but a pair of his jeans survived. And based on the size of them, we know he was almost seven feet tall and had a fifty-inch waist.”

She was stunned. “Whoa!” she breathed. “You’re so much smaller.”

She squeezed her eyes shut in embarrassment. She’d made it sound as if Quinn were a midget, when he was at least six three. But compared to his mountainous ancestor, he
was
small.

When she opened her eyes, his gaze held a wicked twinkle. “I’ve never had any complaints.” His full lips quirked in amusement. “In fact, I’ve been told I’m bigger than”—he paused before finishing with a roguish grin—“average.”

Amelia could feel her face turn red as she imagined all the places where Quinn might rival his great-great-grandfather. Flustered, she switched her attention to another photo on the wall.

Dated 1953, the black-and-white image showed a tall, dark-haired man with a small boy perched on his shoulders in front of the Golden Gate Bridge. The man had a big smile, and he was missing an arm.

“My grandfather, Patrick, and my father when he was two years old,” Quinn said, his voice rumbling a rich baritone close to her right ear.

While she’d been preoccupied with his measurements, he’d moved behind her, close enough for her to feel his breath on her hair and the heat of his body. A small shiver of awareness chased over her. The back of her nape prickled, her nipples hardened, and her stomach tingled.

“My grandfather was just a few years older than me when this picture was taken,” he continued. “He lost his arm in World War II, but at least he came home. His three brothers died in Europe.”

She tried to concentrate on what he’d said. “Do you remember him?” she asked, shifting her big leather bag to her right shoulder to put some space between them.

“Yes. He and my grandmother both died when I was a teenager,” he answered gruffly, obviously still affected by their deaths.

Since she didn’t want to bring up painful memories for him or delve into her own regret that she had never known her grandparents, she redirected the conversation.

“You could be his twin,” she noted, referring to his grandfather.

She had no doubt Patrick O’Brien in the flesh had been just as gorgeous as his grandson. She heard a huff of laughter from Quinn and turned to him.

He leaned against a nearby doorframe and crossed his arms over his chest. His sleeves were rolled up, showing off ropey forearms dusted with dark hair. A chunky silver watch encircled his left wrist.

“Did I say something funny?”

“Grandpa Patrick was a real ladies’ man before he met my grandma Violet,” he said, his blue eyes glinting in the shadows cast by the hall lights. “Legend has it he was so good-looking, women pretended to faint just to get his attention.”

“That seems a little extreme. Was your grandmother one of those women?”

“No. She said she had other ways of getting his attention.”

She laughed. “I can imagine.”

He smiled slowly. “Since you think I look just like him, are you going to swoon at my feet?”

She knew she was in trouble when she saw that smile. Oh, yes, Quinn O’Brien was well aware of the effect he had on women. It was a wonder he didn’t swagger.

Like his grandfather, he probably attracted women like flies to honey. In fact, she wouldn’t be surprised if scientists eventually discovered men like him had a special strand of DNA that compelled women, regardless of their age, to lose their minds, discard their morals, and drop their panties.

Since she wanted to keep her panties exactly where they were, she moved the conversation back to business. “I don’t
need to pretend to faint. Because we’re working together, I already have your attention.”

His eyes roamed over her face. “Yes,” he agreed in a low voice, straightening from his slouch against the door and moving closer to her. “You definitely have my attention.”

His reply sounded like both a warning and a promise.

Amelia’s big brown eyes widened. Surrounded by long lashes several shades darker than her hair, they reminded Quinn of dark chocolate. The expensive kind, not the cheap crap.

Glittery gold eye shadow covered her lids, which should have made her look like a stripper or a showgirl. Instead, it just made her skin glow and shimmer.

He couldn’t remember if Teagan’s report had mentioned Amelia’s age, but he figured she was in her mid-twenties. Her face was unlined, and her skin was clear and smooth.

She licked her lips, leaving them shiny and wet. He wanted to put his thumb right in the center of that lush lower lip, opening her mouth just enough for him to lean in and taste her.

Everything about Amelia, from her cinnamon-colored hair and dark-chocolate eyes to her brown-sugar freckles and creamy skin, made him think of dessert. And he wanted to take a big bite.

As he and Amelia had made the trip to his office, he had been preoccupied with the way her jeans shaped her ass, which had made the fit of his own pants a bit tight behind his button fly. He’d had no idea he had checked out Amelia
Winger while he’d been on the escalator, and he wanted another look at that shapely behind.

Truthfully, he wanted to do more than look. He’d like to pull her into his body, wrap his hands around those plump curves, and give them a hard squeeze.

His mouth had clearly been on the same wavelength when Teagan introduced him to Amelia, and it had malfunctioned. It was the first time he’d ever greeted a woman by telling her she had a nice ass. He could only pray it also was the last time.

Teagan would have plenty to say about his blunder when she got him alone. He winced at the thought. Even though she was three years younger, her rebukes always left him feeling like a preschooler relegated to time-out. The thought of Teagan’s displeasure was enough to remind him that Amelia was here to do a job, not serve as his dessert.

He turned and strode to his office. Pushing open the door with the heel of his hand, he waited for Amelia to step inside before closing it behind him.

“I just realized I haven’t offered you a drink. Would you like a cup of coffee before we get started?” he asked.

“No thanks, I don’t drink coffee.”

“No coffee in the morning?” He shuddered at the thought of that kind of deprivation. “How can you function?”

“I drink juice.”

“Juice,” he repeated incredulously.

She laughed. “Yes. Juice. About a year ago, I read an article about juicing and its health benefits, and now I’m addicted. I splurged on an outrageously expensive juicer, and I drink my own concoctions every morning, or at least I do when I’m at home.”

He imagined drinking liquefied spinach, and his stomach lurched.
Yuck
.

But maybe juice was responsible for her shiny hair and gorgeous skin. If so, he wholeheartedly supported her addiction.

“So what’s your favorite?” he asked, trying to make some small talk so she’d feel comfortable and relaxed. He wanted them to have a productive discussion about what he expected from her.

“Definitely my tropical fruit juice, which has mango, pineapple, kiwi, and a splash of coconut water.”

“That sounds good, but not nearly as good as a mug of dark roast,” he said before inviting her to take a seat.

She moved forward, her gaze slowly roaming his office. Her mouth curved when she saw the sofa against the far wall. It never failed to catch the attention of whoever visited his office.

Upholstered with hundreds of Rileys jean pockets, the sofa was a piece of art and history rolled into one oversized piece of furniture. Adorned with large, puffy pillows, it was a patchwork of different shades of denim, from powder blue to deep indigo. He loved that sofa like a mother loved her firstborn child.

“How do you like my sofa?”

“It’s definitely unusual.”

“You know how jeans feel once you’ve broken them in and the denim is all soft and worn? My sofa feels exactly like that.”

She looked longingly at the sofa. He could tell she wanted to see if he told the truth.

“Go ahead, try it,” he urged.

Amelia walked over to the sofa, but instead of sitting, she ran her nails along the fabric before smoothing it with a caress. The action made him think about her fingers on his skin, and he swiped a hand across his damp forehead.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this kind of overwhelming attraction, and he was slightly resentful she’d managed to distract him so completely and with no effort. He was acting like a horny teenager instead of an adult male who received more than his fair share of female attention.

He’d been propositioned by women twenty years his senior, cornered by aggressive co-eds, and used by hard-as-nails businesswomen. He knew when a woman wanted him, and Amelia hadn’t given off any “do me” vibes.

“I bet you’ve spent a lot of afternoons on this sofa,” she teased.

Did she think he was a lazy bum? Well, she was right, at least about the time he spent on the sofa. He worked hard, but he also stretched out on it every time he needed to work through a problem, personal or business.

“It comes in handy.”

She gave the sofa a final stroke before taking a seat in one of the distressed leather chairs facing his desk. She leaned over to put her bag on the floor, the movement straining the buttons on her aqua-colored shirt.

He fervently wished at least one would give up the fight so he could get a peek at what was under her shirt. Did she prefer the sensuality of lace or the sportiness of cotton?

When he realized what he was doing—staring at Amelia’s chest and daydreaming about her bra—he gave himself a mental kick in the ass. What the hell was wrong with him? Hundreds of women had sat in his office for business meetings, and he hadn’t imagined any of them topless. He shouldn’t be thinking about Amelia that way, either.

He dragged his eyes back to her face just as she sat up and crossed her legs. It was then he noticed her cowboy boots, which were so spectacular he momentarily forgot all about her breasts and what might or might not cover them. They were made of pale blond leather, a creamy color like freshly churned butter, and featured a pointy tip and a three-inch heel embellished with studs.

Elaborate stitching in contrasting dark-chocolate thread covered the vamp and toe area. The expertise of the craftsmanship was obvious, as was the quality of the materials.

“Did you design those?” he asked, pointing to her boots.

“Yes, I did, along with the belt I’m wearing and my bag,” she answered with no small amount of pride. “I wore them today because I thought it would be a good idea to show you the goods, so to speak.”

Quinn had an obscene thought that involved her showing him
her
goods, but pressed his lips together to make sure none of his stray musings escaped him like they had earlier this morning. He rose, rounding the desk to stand in front of her.

“Do you mind if I take a closer look?” he asked, kneeling at her feet to get a better view of the boots.

When he put a hand near her ankle to push up the leg of her pants, she jerked. “I’ll just take them off.”

“Let me help,” he offered, and she reluctantly placed her foot in his hands.

After a couple of tugs, the boot came loose, uncovering
her pink camouflage-print sock. He leaned back on his heels to study her boot more closely but was distracted when she stood.

Her new position put his face almost nose-deep in her cleavage, and when she realized it, she stumbled backward, barely saving herself from a fall by grabbing the back of the chair. Before he could say anything, her hands went to her waist, and she began to unbuckle her belt.

What the hell is she doing?

Just like that, all his efforts to keep his thoughts firmly in PG territory drained away in a wave of lust so powerful he had trouble catching his breath.

•   •   •

Amelia was more flustered than she’d ever been in her life. She could only think of one other occasion when she’d been so rattled, and that was the night Ava Grace had sung her heart out to win the
American Star
title.

She was off balance because she wore only one boot, and her fingers felt numb, which was not only alarming but inconvenient, too. She needed to take off her belt so Quinn could study it without getting any closer. He had already been too close. Her body flushed when she thought about the graceless move that had forced her girls into his face.

He still knelt on the concrete floor, and the office was so silent she could hear his breathing. His chest moved in a deep, fast rhythm.

She leaned against the chair. After a moment, her fingers worked again, and she resumed unbuckling her belt.

“So what do you think?” she asked, referring to the boot he still held in his hands.

Her voice sounded just like Marilyn Monroe’s when she’d sung “Happy Birthday” to JFK, and she cringed in embarrassment. When he didn’t reply, she glanced up from her belt.

His head was bowed, his knuckles white where they clenched her boot. Finally, he responded.

“I think you should stop fiddling with your belt,” he said roughly.

She froze, torn between running and staying exactly where
she was. If the air had been heavy with sexual tension before, it now crackled with it. She had never felt anything like it, and she definitely didn’t want to feel it with this man.

She waited a beat before speaking. “May I have my boot back?”

He relinquished his hold on her footwear, and she moved to the sofa to pull it on. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw him get to his feet and make his way toward the windows.

He stared down at the street below, one hand propped on the window and the other rubbing the back of his neck. “Teagan thinks you’re the right person for this job,” he said without turning.

His voice was hoarse, and he cleared his throat. “I’m inclined to agree with her. I like what I saw here today.” He stopped abruptly, muttering something under his breath. “I like your designs,” he clarified.

He turned from the window, his face blank. “You asked for this meeting. Is there anything in particular you wanted to discuss?”

“Yes. I’m curious how much supervision you plan to give to this project.”

He smiled, a quick quirk of his lips. “Haven’t you heard? I’m a terrible micromanager.”

She tensed, shuddering inwardly at the thought of him hanging over her shoulder, watching her every move. Her dread must have been visible because he chuckled.

“Relax, Amelia. I’m far from a micromanager. I trust people to do their jobs, at least until they give me a reason not to trust them. And you’ve not given me any reason not to trust you.”

“So you aren’t going to provide a lot of supervision. What kind of involvement do you expect to have with the design process?”

“What would you say if I told you I didn’t want to be involved?”

At first, his answer delighted her because it meant he wouldn’t bother her while she worked. But then she was a little disappointed. This was his family business. Where was his sense of responsibility?

“I’d say it’s very unwise to not be involved.”

“Really?” he asked, his dark eyebrows winging up his forehead. “Why would you say that? I’m not the expert in women’s fashion.
You
are.”

“I get the sense the women’s division is suffering from benign neglect.”

“You’re probably right. It has been largely ignored, almost since it was first created. But partnering with you for this line of accessories is the most attention I can give it.”

“Don’t you want the women’s division to be successful?”

He sighed loudly. “If you think about Riley O’Brien & Co. as a big oak tree with deep roots and long, thick branches, the women’s division is nothing but a short, skinny branch.” He grimaced. “It’s rotting, and it might be time to take a chainsaw to it.”

She digested his comments. Now she had a much better understanding of why Teagan had felt compelled to take matters into her own hands, or rather, put matters into Amelia’s hands.

And it also explained why Teagan refused to supervise the project. She believed Quinn’s involvement in the accessories would make him more connected to the women’s division.

Amelia addressed the next item on her mental list. “I estimate the design process will take three to six months because each piece will need to be tweaked and approved,” she said, looking for confirmation because she wasn’t sure how the process worked at Riley O’Brien & Co.

“That’s about right,” he said, leaning against the window. “You’ll also need to work with our purchasing department to make sure each piece is constructed of materials that can be sourced easily and inexpensively. And you’ll need to work with our manufacturing folks to make sure your pieces can be made on our existing equipment.”

Teagan had neglected to share those specific details. Amelia was a little intimidated at how extensively he expected her to be involved in the process once her designs were completed and approved.

“That would mean my involvement would last well beyond six months.”

“Is that a problem?”

Yes, it was a problem, a huge one. If she got this worked up simply by being in the same room with Quinn, she needed to make sure she did most of her design work far away from him. Several states away, preferably.

Rising from the sofa, she returned to the chair she had vacated so abruptly. “I’m not willing to be away from Nashville for that long.”

“Why? Do you have a man who wants you by his side day and night?” he asked, a hint of sarcasm in his deep voice.

She stiffened. This was not the way she wanted the meeting to go. She wanted them to be allies, not enemies, so she did her best to lighten the mood.

“Not just one man. The entire defensive line of the Tennessee Titans is at my beck and call,” she quipped.

When he scowled at her, she held out her hands, palms up. “If you want me to produce samples, I need to have access to my workshop.”

“Believe it or not, we actually have workshops here,” he replied dryly.

Realizing she wasn’t getting anywhere with her argument, she clenched her fists in her lap. “Do you have a problem with me doing the majority of the design work in Nashville?”