“That’s not it.”
“Cut the bullshit.” She leans in and narrows her eyes at me. “My accident wasn’t your fault, J. I don’t know how many times I have to say it before you’ll believe it.”
“If we hadn’t fought—”
“I’m going to beat you up. Hard.”
“Yeah, I’d like to see you try with your one leg.” I smirk, but my chest hurts at the words. “I don’t know what I would ever do without you, C.”
“Then do me a favor and go apply for this job. I want to watch you sing again. I miss it. And the one song the other night wasn’t enough. I know it wasn’t.”
“I’ll bring my guitar over tonight.”
She smirks and shakes her head. “Just go apply. They might not hire you. Maybe you suck now.”
I smirk. “Baby, I’ve never sucked at music.”
“So prove it.”
“God, you’re a pain in my ass.”
She laughs. “I know. I have to go to the doctor now.” She scrunches up her nose and sighs. “I swear, all of Portland has seen my hoo-haw.”
“Your what?” I ask, raising a brow. “Are you eight?”
She throws an orange wedge at me. “This whole pregnancy thing needs to resolve itself. Lying with your feet in stirrups is not sexy or fun.”
“Do you find out today if it worked?” Christina and her husband, Kevin, have been trying to get pregnant for three years. They want this more than anything in the world, and it’s just another thing that the accident has robbed her of.
Another thing that I’ve robbed her of.
“Yes,” she says with a smile. “So cross your fingers.”
“And my toes.”
“CAN I HELP you?” A young woman greets me as I enter Seduction, nestled in the heart of the Pearl District, one of the trendiest areas of Portland. From the outside, it looks like an old warehouse.
On the inside, it’s pure sex. But not the kind of seedy sex that you’ll find in any of the many sex or strip clubs in the city. This is classy sex.
“I’d like to speak with your manager, please.”
“That’s Addison,” she replies with a bright smile. “I believe she’s in the bar.” She points to the back of the house. I nod and walk through a sea of black tables with wide-backed, plush gray chairs and teal blue table linens. Along the back wall are inviting booths, giving a feel of privacy with pretty gray curtains hanging at the side of each booth.
The room is arranged to face a small stage that currently sits empty. It’s only lunchtime, so instead of live music, Adele is crooning through the speakers about chasing pavements. I hum along with the song as I enter the bar area, similar in color scheme but a bit more edgy.
A wall of wine barrels rises behind the bar, with bottles of wine lying inside. There must be a thousand bottles on that wall. Under the countertop is the largest wine fridge I’ve ever seen, also packed full of bottles.
So they do wine well.
“You need more for lunch than a glass of wine,” a woman announces. She has deep red, almost burgundy, hair, wide blue eyes, and is wearing a pair of jeans that was made for her ass along with a white tank top that shows off some pretty amazing ink. Her face is made up to look like a pinup model, and her red lips tip up in a grin as the blonde with her back to me takes a sip of her glass of wine.
“Wine comes from grapes, which is fruit. I’m having a fruit salad for lunch,” she says and sips her glass. “God, this is good.”
“Of course it is,” Red says with a smirk, then sees me leaning against the archway leading into the bar. “Can we help you?”
“I’m looking for the manager. I was told I’d find her in here.”
“And you have,” Blondie says and turns on her bar stool to look at me.
And suddenly the air is stolen from my lungs. This is the woman I saw the other night at the club. The one I couldn’t take my eyes off of. The one that made the rest of the room fade away.
The only word I have for her is bombshell, and I’ve never used that word in my life.
She slides off her seat, perfectly at home in her mile-high black heels, and strides quickly and confidently over to me. She’s in a high-waisted, black pencil skirt with a white button-down tucked into it. Her sleeves are rolled, the top few buttons unfastened on her shirt, giving me a glimpse at the most impressive cleavage I’ve ever seen.
Her blond hair is piled high on her head, in lazy curls. Her makeup is simple and flawless.
And she’s wearing black-rimmed glasses.
Fuck me.
I swallow hard and hold my hand out to shake hers, but she comes to an abrupt halt about two feet too far to take it.
“You’re—”
“Jake Keller,” I interrupt and close the gap to shake her hand. Hers is warm and slender, but her grip is firm. Her eyes narrow.
“Jake Knox,” she corrects me. “My friends all had your posters on their walls.”
“You didn’t?” I ask with a cocky smirk, already enjoying her.
“No, I wasn’t particularly smitten with you.” She pulls her glasses off her nose, much to my disappointment, and tucks them on top of her head in her hair.
God, I’m such a sucker for a beautiful woman in glasses.
“Shame,” I reply and continue to smile at her.
“How can I help you?”
“I’m here about the job.”
She frowns. “You want to be a busboy? Are times really that bad, Mr. Knox?”