One Wicked Lick from the Drummer (The One Book 3)

himself? “I’m going to profile you like a man who is kind-hearted and wants his money to make a difference for others, but not at the expensive of his own desires.”
What is wrong with you? She should’ve said requirements or uses, but no, she had to go with desires.
His brow shot up. “You want to know about my desires.” His voice had dropped down low into a kind of growl before he laughed and that answered the main question; he was just being his playful self. Disappointment was like metal in her mouth.
“Keep this up and I’ll start to think you actually like me, Mena Grady.”
Or not. She wasn’t supposed to be the one confused about what was happening here.
He drummed his fingers on the tabletop and considered her. “I was worried there for a bit. But this is going to work. You and me. You’ll make me think and that’s what I need.”
Like a muse. Oh stars.
“But not like this. In all the steel and glass and fake air. I can’t tell you what makes me happy in here. I have to show you.”
“We don’t really need to do a field trip. We have a questionnaire that will help.” What she needed was to spend the next two hours taking him through the questions and completing the process and then all further interaction could be done on email. Given how he affected her, that was the most sensible course of action.
“You think you can get to know my desires though a questionnaire? Mena, honey,” he spread his arms in a what gives gesture. “I’ve been asked every question under the sun and you have no idea how invasive that can be. You start firing questions at me, I’ve got prepared defensive answers for all of them.”
She gave him a not-buying look and he came back at her with, “You want to try me?”
Galaxies above, she did. “Do you want a family of your own one day?” That would help set his budget requirements.
“I’ve got all the family I need right now. Who knows what’s in the future?”
Hmm, he’d blocked her. “Who are you dating? Is there a wedding in your future?” Oh shit. That wasn’t a question she needed answered for any reason but her own selfish, prurient needs. “Because celebrity weddings can be expensive, so we should plan for that.” Shut up, Philomena Elizabeth Grady. You’re his investment advisor, not his matchmaker.
He studied her for a moment. She tried to school her face, so it didn’t show her panic, but she could feel the heat in her cheeks.
“I’m happily single right now and it’s difficult holding a relationship down when I’m on the road so often. One day, maybe I’ll want to settle down.”
“That doesn’t really answer the question.”
“It keeps the fans happy and it’s not a question that needs answering, unless you really do like me, Mena Grady?”
The act of swallowing was difficult because her heart was in her throat. “I thought I was the one who was supposed to challenge you.”
“I might be a basically nice guy who likes to bang out a song or two, but I’m not a fucking pushover. No questionnaire. Come on, Mena, you want to do your best for me you have to loosen up a little, be flexible.”
She uncrossed her arms. Someone had poked a ruler up her neck it was so stiff. “I can be flexible.” To keep a client happy. To ensure her partnership. If only he knew how flexible her morals were regarding him.
“I promise not to call you honey again, that kinda slipped out, and I didn’t mean to disrespect you,” he said, standing. “Does that thing in the back of your head come out?”
She put her hand to the back of her head. She hadn’t disliked the honey as much as she should have and why was he standing? “Why are you asking?” She was supposed to be running this meeting and it had gotten way off track.
He planted both big talented hands on the table, fingers spread, and leaned towards her. She had to look up at him, her pulse rate going from pop beat to dramatic drum solo when he said, “It’s not going to fit under your helmet.”

SIX
Grip was convinced Mena would call his bluff and insist on her boring old questionnaire. He was also convinced she enjoyed sparring with him in spite of herself.
“I’m not dressed for riding a bike,” she said, chin angled up.
“Pants, sensible shoes,” he replied, looking down on her. “If you’d been wearing a skirt and heels, I wouldn’t have suggested it. Safety first.”
He’d made her blush again, made her breath catch, and that was curious. Up close, he’d noticed her skin was pale, like his gran’s fine bone china cups that looked translucent if you held them up to the light. Her eyes were surprisingly dark, a rich chocolate brown, surrounded by lashes and brows she darkened. She might blush easily, or he was still doing the equivalent of looking down her shirt.
He backed off, taking his hands off the table, putting distance between them. She wanted to know if he was single. Was there a sensible reason for that or was she—what? What could she possibly need to know that for? Women were obvious when they wanted something from him: attention, backstage passes, sex. Or they were like Evie, mates, no lines crossed, no misunderstandings, called you on your shit.
He needed Mena to be like Evie but with money witchery.
He had to quit making her blush and enjoying it.
“We need to bond.” He looked around the room, smaller than the one they’d first met in but still lots of glass and steel and a table sturdy enough to stomp around on, to fold someone over and—never mind. He had to