chapter 2
937 Words
“You’re not a man.” Blake wanted to groan.
That had to be the stupidest thing he’d ever said to a woman in his life.Ms. Elliot however, was nonplused.
“Never have been.” She offered him a
smile and exposed perfect teeth as she removed her hand from his. He missed it
instantly.
“I was expecting a man.”
“I get that a lot. Most of the time it works to my advantage.” She indicates the chair across from her. “Would you like to sit so we can get started?”
He hesitated, not sure if he should continue this “interview” or insist on the
woman’s gender to change. He didn’t consider himself sexist, but musing over
the woman who was taking her seat and crossing her slacks-covered legs drew
his attention away from his goal, and placed it squarely on her. Sam Elliot could
be the poster child for contradiction and Blake hadn’t learned anything about the
woman… yet.
Ten minutes was what he would give her to prove she could meet his needs.
If she didn’t, he’d move on and explore other options.
Blake unbuttoned the top button on his suit jacket before taking his place at
the table. “Is Sam short for Samantha?”
“Yes.” Samantha didn’t meet his eyes as she removed a stack of papers from
a small case she’d placed against the side of her chair. The brief smile she’d
given him was gone and replaced with a thin line between her lips that didn’t
reveal her thoughts.
“Do you use Sam to fool your clients?”
Her hand stalled as she pushed the stack of papers in his direction. “Would
you have come if you knew I was a woman?”
Probably not.
Without voicing his words, Samantha tilted her head to the side and
continued. “You make my case, Mr. Harrison. Let me see if I’m reading your
intentions. In your mind, you’ve set a time limit for me to prove myself. What
was it… twenty minutes?”
“Ten,” he blurted out, not meaning to. What was it about this woman with
the bedroom voice that stole his ability to hold his tongue?
She smiled again and his stomach knotted with a shot of unexpected and
unwanted desire.
“Ten minutes,” she repeated. “To outline exactly how I plan on finding you
the perfect wife for your short-term goals. A businessman like yourself expects
quick efficiency and no emotional baggage to complicate matters. Am I right so
far?” She watched him now. Her green eyes never wavering, her freckled nose
pert over pink lips that moved to usher her erotic 900-number toned voice.
“Completely.”“Women are emotional, which is why your assistant looked into my service
to begin with. My guess is, there are many women who would sell their souls to
marry you, Mr. Harrison, but you don’t trust them enough to give them the title.”
Most of the time, it was him outlining his needs. Having the tables reversed
should have left him feeling exposed. Somehow listening to Sam Elliot, who was
definitely not a man, spelling out his dilemma didn’t strip him bare, but rather
blanketed him with comfort. He’d come to the right place to fix his problem.
“How do I know I can trust a woman you come up with?”
“I prescreen every lady in my directory just as thoroughly as I do the men.
Background checks, financial obligations, family skeletons hiding in their
closets, personal habits.”
“You sound like a private investigator.”
“Not hardly. But I can understand why you’d think that. Matching people is
what I do.”
Blake sat back and crossed his hands over his chest. He liked her, he decided,
mentally adding another ten minutes to his predetermined time.
“Shall we continue?”
He reached for his coffee and nodded.
Sam grasped onto a pen and twisted the papers she’d pushed in front of him
her way. “I have a few questions for you before I allow this to move forward.”
Blake’s brow rose with her words. Interesting. “How long do I have to prove
myself to you, Ms. Elliot?”
She glanced up through long lashes. “Five minutes.”
He sat forward, thoroughly intrigued with what she was going to determine
about him in that amount of time.
“Have you ever been arrested?”
His record was clear, but that wasn’t the question.
He knew if he lied to Sam, she’d pack up her things and walk out the door. “I
was seventeen and the kid I punched was hitting on my sister. The record was
buried.” As all records of kids from his station in life were.
“Have you ever hit a woman?”
His jaw tightened. “Never.”
“Ever wanted to?” She watched him now, eyes sharp.
“No.” Violence didn’t play into his personality.
“I need the name of your closest friend.”
“Carter Billings.”
She scribbled the name down.
“Worst enemy?”
He didn’t see that question coming. “I’m not sure how to answer that.”
- Writer
