The Art of Stealing Forever (16 page)

Hottie
McHotterson—also,
damn, how had I not asked his name yet, was I really that far gone
into the Lust Canyon?—flagged down the waitress, and ordered a
Knox whiskey.

I
made a face.

“Not
a fan?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Of
the whiskey? Sure,” I said. “It tastes great and gets
the job done.”

“What
is it, then?” he asked. He seemed genuinely curious, and that
made me open up. “What’s
missing?”

“Well,
it’s
just—”
I gestured at the label. “Look at this packaging. Just the name
stamped on there in an old-timey font, and the same barrel logo
they’ve
been using since B.F. Skinner first strolled up to an ad agency with
some rats in a box and a lot of fancy promises. It does nothing to
catch the eye.”

“The
label?” He raised an eyebrow. “That’s
it?”

“That’s
hardly it!” I shot back. “Their whole branding approach
is the same, stuck in the past! Print ads whose copy never changes,
radio jingles with slang from the second World War, TV spots with the
same Bob Hope lookalike every year—it
doesn’t
matter how good it tastes, it
looks
old-fashioned. Like something my grandpa would drink.”

My
mysterious visitor’s
drink arrived, and he quirked a brow in amusement and raised his
glass in a salute. “To your grandfather—a man of
excellent taste.”

I
snorted, but raised my own glass to match his. As they clinked
together, his fingers brushed against mine, and I felt a spark leap
where our skin met. He must have felt it too—he started,
looking up at me, and our eyes locked. His eyes were so deep,
golden-brown like molasses swirled in honey, and they warmed me up
inside with a heat like the sun, spreading out from my heart down to
my toes, and up to my head until I was dizzy, my heart pounding. I
wanted nothing more than to sink into those eyes. I wanted nothing
more than to keep touching his fingers.

I
wanted nothing more than to invite him up to my room, then and there.

Focus,
Ally! You have a presentation tomorrow! No rando is worth throwing
away your entire career for a roll in the hay.

Maybe
the whiskey was just getting to me.

I
pulled away hastily and downed my drink, all of it this time. This
sample had more of a honey flavor, less of a bite. If I were writing
copy I’d
call it ‘soothing, charming, a genteel liquor.’
Since I
wasn’t,
though, I didn’t
pull any punches. “The truth is, though, my grandfather and his
friends aren’t
the customers of the future. You see this same trend in advertising
for comic books—the company panders to its original base—not
even all of the original base but a small, vocal fraction of it—and
alienates all of its potential new customers in the process.”

“Tell
me more about what you think,” he said intently.

Which
would have been catnip for me even if I hadn’t
been storing up a host of criticisms that went unheard at work, and
even if he hadn’t
been so damned hot. I didn’t
need telling twice.

“This
is your typical Knox buyer.” I launched into an imitation of my
grandfather. “‘I
jus’ don’
know
how much longer they can be ‘spectin’
this
centralized government t’
last.
Times wuz much simpler when a man jus’
brewed
his own whiskey and shot at the revenooers.’”

The
man laughed, and waved a hand in acknowledgment of my point before
raising a challenging eyebrow. “So what would you do if you had
control of the rebrand? Throw in some hashtags and make a Facebook
page? Get a celebrity endorsement?”

“As
if,” I snorted. “Millennials might be self-absorbed, but
we can still see through pandering just fine, thanks.”

“Oh?”
His thumb brushing over my knuckles was an invitation, and a
challenge, and both made my breath catch in my throat. “A pink
label, then?”

I
watched his eyes dip to the side and a lazy grin spread across his
face, and I knew that he had spotted the pink strap of my bra peeking
out from the side of my short-sleeved button-up shirt.

“Strange
as it might seem, the color pink doesn’t
brainwash women into buying things,” I replied, trying not to
let on how breathless he had made me. Trying not to imagine his hands
instead of his eyes on that pink bra strap, easing it slowly from my
shoulder as he kissed my neck.

I
raised the stakes, slipping my foot out of my shoe to stroke his
ankle, and then moved it slightly higher. This was really out of
character for me, but something about our conversation, the flush of
whiskey in my cheeks, the way he was looking at me…I felt
emboldened in a way I never did at work or even when I was out with
my friends.

I
was rewarded with a flush of heat in his gaze, his pupils dilating as
his grip tightened slightly on mine. He leaned forward, close enough
that I could have kissed him without rising from the seat. His lips
were so full, they looked so soft—

He
was so close I could feel the heat of his breath as he murmured his
next words: “So, tell me, what
would
you do?” He picked up his glass and drank, the muscles in his
throat working as he swallowed it down. I didn’t
look away. It was safe to assume my panties were on fire, and there
was only one way to put that fire out.

And
you know what? I decided I’d
been overthinking things at work. Either I had confidence in myself
or I didn’t,
and doing some last-minute drinking wasn’t
going to change a damn thing about my presentation tomorrow.

But
some really good sex just might give me an edge.

I
lifted my own glass and downed the remaining Knox. My decision was
made.

It
was go time.

I
leaned towards him until our lips were barely a millimeter apart. “Do
you really want to know what I’d
do with this brand?” I whispered. Before he could answer, I
brushed my lips against the corner of his mouth. He tasted like smoke
and cinnamon and danger, and I liked it. “Or would you rather
know what I’d
do with you?”

His
eyes gleamed, and I knew his answer even before he spoke.

***

What happens next? Ally and Hunter’s
story continues in
BILLIONAIRE WITH A TWIST
–
Available now
!