Thoroughly Innocent Intent

4. Samantha

Samantha

I pull the worn leather binder from my desk drawer and frown at the paper inside, no closer to finding the answers on it today than I was yesterday, or the day before, or even the weeks or months before that. In fact, I’ve been staring at this list of ideas for so long I can’t actually recall when I started it, which is even more terrifying when you consider that I’m the one people go to for advice about this sort of thing.

My phone vibrates, giving me a much-needed excuse to procrastinate further. I glance at the display and smile.

“Hi,” I say to my best friend. My only friend, really, Delaney.

I have a number of quirks that limit my social life, a result of my unconventional childhood, and as a result I’m more of a wallflower than the life of the party. But I might not even be that if Delaney hadn’t ended up as my college roommate. Fortunately, she’s both bubbly and patient, a good combination for making an introvert feel more at ease.

“Ohmigosh, I just finished the most boring deposition and I still have hours to go before I’m done. I’m seriously regretting my chosen field right now. Tell me you still love yours. I need to know that at least someone is happy with their choice.” Delaney’s working hard to make partner, but the build-up to that takes a toll.

“Still love it, I just wish I was as good at figuring out my purpose as I am finding one for others.”

“I still don’t understand why you need your own. You’ve only started, like, a dozen charities already.”

Over the years, I’ve helped people address everything from cancer and heart disease to s*x trafficking to preservation of national parks and open spaces. I’ve come across virtually every cause there is, but ask me which is nearest and dearest to my heart and I don’t have an answer.

My parents did. They saw the appetite for excess here in the states and wanted to shield me from that while giving to others who had less, which is how we ended up leaving Denver for Africa when I was seven. We hopped from village to village to help with disaster relief, freshwater management, and sustainable agriculture, so I learned early on how to give back. I’m proud to say I still do, although not through a charity of my own.

“I feel like a bit of a fraud considering none of the initiatives I’ve built are mine.” I repeat the argument she’s heard a million times before. “I mean, wouldn’t having one give me more credibility?”

“Your track record is your credibility. And who’s to say you can’t make one of the organizations you already started your pet project? Just pick your favorite.” I feel her shrugging through the phone. If only it were that simple.

“That’s like asking a mother to pick which of her children she loves most. There is no answer.”

Delaney snorts. “You done for the day, or do you have more meetings?”

I close the binder and put it back in my desk drawer before reaching for the file on my next appointment. Colt Trudeau, football player. The name isn’t familiar, but then again it wouldn’t be since I don’t follow the game. I know that makes me possibly the only person in Denver who isn’t obsessed with the team, but football didn’t exist where I grew up in Africa, well American football anyway, so I never developed an affinity for it. I’ve worked with one or two players who have tried to get me interested, but it seems overly complicated, and it takes so long to play a single game, I just can’t get into it.

“Some football player. I’ve never heard of him.”

“You’ve never heard of any of them. I still can’t believe you’ve met several and never been tempted to get to know any of them better.”

I shudder.

Growing up around people who didn’t have the luxury of a gym to work out in means I never really saw large, beefy men until I got to the states, and frankly, I find them unattractive. They’re so imposing. And gruff. Not that they don’t have big hearts, the few I worked with fully committed themselves to the organizations they support, but all that testosterone is sort of off-putting for a girl who never encountered it until she was in her twenties.

“Not my type.” I flip through the file on Colt, trying to get a sense of who he is.

“Sexy as sin and rich to boot? That’s everyone’s type.”

“Not mine."

It’s not that I’m opposed to those traits, I just don’t require them. Sexy as sin is intimidating as hell, and I have enough trouble with conversation. And as for money, well, I made do with so little growing up, and aside from fashion, which Delaney introduced me to, and which goes a long way toward boosting my professional image, I don’t indulge in much. Well, fashion and food. The food here is divine.

“Still on for dinner?” She changes the subject. We have a standing bi-monthly dinner date, which sadly represents the whole of my social life.

“Still on, but I better get ready for this next meeting.” It says here he's been in the league close to fourteen years. Fair to say he’s probably got some money to dedicate to a good cause. But there’s nothing here to indicate what that cause might be. Or why he wants to put his name behind it.

“Okay, see you tonight.” Delaney signs off.

"Bye." I disconnect as I focus on Colt's charitable history. He's volunteered yearly with Make-A-Wish, fairly standard for football players because the league has an arrangement with the charity, and it looks like he gives money to a cancer research foundation every January. The one formed by the quarterback on his team, according to the file. There are other donations linked to things his teammates are involved in, so he’s clearly generous with his money, but he doesn’t seem to be involved beyond writing a check.

His agent did say Colt was so engrossed in his career that he hadn’t devoted much time to anything else, but that could be another way of saying he was too busy having fun to be bothered by anything else. You never know with athletes. Some of them are very active in charitable initiatives, others simply give their money so they feel better about spending it on frivolous things.

I’m tempted to assume Colt is the latter, but if he’s really looking to make a change, that would suggest he wants to do more than simply write a check. Assuming otherwise would be completely unprofessional, and one thing I never am is unprofessional, because I don’t want to jeopardize my career before it fully takes off.

It’s hard enough for a woman to get respect in the business world, add my unusual upbringing and the bar rises even higher, despite the Master’s degree in my name. I’m making good headway, but I’m not where I want to be, yet. I don’t need to make things more difficult by making assumptions about my clients before I meet them.

I tuck the file away and reach for my notepad, setting it on my desk with a fresh pen so I don’t have to rifle through the drawer for it later. A quick glance at the clock tells me I have just a few minutes until he arrives, so I grab my suit jacket to cover the camisole that leaves my shoulders bare, picking at a scrap of lint that’s stuck to the sleeve.

A sharp knock distracts me from my grooming. He’s punctual, always a good sign. With a final glance around me to make sure nothing is out of place, I make my way to the door.

Pasting a slight smile on my face, more polite than friendly to maintain a professional air, I open it and attempt to welcome my newest client. But the greeting gets stuck in my throat as he comes into focus.

Tall, broad shouldered, Colt is definitely imposing, not in a beefy, hulking way, although he’s by no means small. But it’s not his size that stands out. Perfectly disheveled blonde hair, full lips framed by an angular jaw, impossibly blue eyes that are locked intently on mine. I’ve never seen such a striking combination of features on one person, and it’s so mesmerizing I can’t look away.

I can feel that I’m staring. My inability to move or speak is becoming awkward, but my limbs are heavy, and my mouth is dry. What is happening? Am I dehydrated? Maybe I ate something bad? No, I had water with my lunch, and since dinner didn’t make me sick last night, I doubt the remains of it would make me queasy today. Whatever this is, it has nothing to do with my diet.

Does that mean…no. That can’t be right. It doesn’t make any sense. He can’t be doing this to me. No one has ever done this to me.

He has a beautiful face, and while that quality in a man has made me tongue-tied before, it’s never robbed me of the ability to move. Yet, looking at the man before me, all that registers is how exquisitely his features fit together. Almost like he was sculpted instead of born.

As I fight to regain my composure, Colt’s eyes drop to my mouth, my chest, my legs, and come back to rest on my face. It’s more observant than lewd, curious even, but it sets my core on fire all the same. I catch the faint scent of crisp mountain air as his chest rises and falls heavily, and I feel the blood rush to my cheeks as moisture pools between my thighs. Oh God, can he sense that? This is so unprofessional. What do I do now?

I’m still struggling with how to proceed when he suddenly moves.

“Colt.” He extends his hand, his eyes never leaving mine.

I need to look away and break this stare, to regain some semblance of control. But I can’t even blink, let alone avert my eyes.

I’m mortified by that lack of control, but having my body tingle and ache at the same time…I’ve never felt that. I thought stories about that were exaggerated. But what I’m feeling is definitely real, and definitely terrifying.

My eyes drift to his extended hand. I cling to the doorknob to keep myself steady. “Sam…Samantha,” I stutter.

“Which is it, Sam or Samantha?” He grins, hand still extended. s**t, I didn’t even realize I said Sam, and the last thing I need is for a client to feel overly familiar with me, especially this one, who makes my body feel things it has no business feeling in the office.

“Samantha.” I wave him in with my right hand, too afraid of my own body to let myself touch him.

He frowns slightly as he realizes I’m not going to accept his hand, but he obeys my gesture and steps into the room to take a seat in one of the chairs in front of my desk. With his eyes off me, I shut the door and take a shaky breath as I make my way back to my chair. I sink into it as gracefully as possible, given that my knees feel like they can’t fully support my weight. The desk offers separation, thank goodness, but it doesn’t obstruct his gaze, which is focused intently on me. That’s so foreign I have absolutely no idea what to do, so, I do nothing.

I’m not sure how long I sit motionless before he speaks. “So, Samantha.” He grins, “Do we talk at this meeting, or can you make a recommendation just by looking at me?”

My heart flutters at the husky, suggestive way my name rolls off his tongue. I reach for my pen, buying time to search for the words I’ve never had trouble reciting before.