The Client Read online Jessica Gadziala (Professionals #8)

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Angst, Biker, Contemporary, MC, Romance Tags Authors: Series: Professionals Series by Jessica Gadziala
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Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 76207 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
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Besides, it was all about the give and take with this sort of job. You had to let them think they had you every now and again.

"What kind of cheese?"

"Well, let's see," he said, reaching in to pull out hunks of cheeses on actual porcelain plates.

"Did you... did you steal the place settings from your hotel?"

"I was in a rush."

"They didn't chase you down about it?"

"They will charge my room."

"Oh, right. They are likely used to your antics by now."

"How do you know I have had any antics?"

"Because you are stalking me and trying to schmooze me with stolen food. And you're acting like none of this is a big deal."

"Oh, Wasp, darling, that is where you are wrong. I am taking schmoozing you very seriously. Reblochon?" he asked, holding a wedge of cheese up to my lips.

I hated being fed like I was a child. It disgusted me. Yet... my lips parted, allowing him to press the small wedge within.

"Yeah, that might be more of an acquired taste," he agreed when my lips twisted. "Come on, have some champagne like a real French woman."

Choking down the cheese, I scraped my tongue against the roof of my mouth. "I'm pretty sure the French don't drink champagne in the morning, Mr. Arlington."

"No?" he asked, turning to a man walking down near his side.

"My good sir," he called, getting the middle-aged man's attention. "Would you care for a glass of champagne?" he asked, waving the bottle at the stranger who let out a rapid string of French. I made exactly no words out save for American.

Unfazed, Fenway slipped into flawless French right back.

"Voir cette belle femme?" he asked, making the man stop, turn, and look over at me before giving Fenway a nod. "J'essaie de l'impressionner. Aidez-moi ici."

To that, the man's lips quirked up, and he gave Fenway a nod.

"Oh my God, how do you have champagne flutes in there? Are those real glass?" I asked when he reached into the basket again, producing three flutes.

"They attach to the lid," he told me, shrugging, as if this was something everyone knew about picnic baskets. Hell, I actually picnicked more often than I ate inside my skoolie, and I didn't even own a picnic basket. "See? he asked when he popped the champagne, gave it to the man, and he gulped it down before handing back the flute, giving Fenway a knowing look, then heading on his way.

"What did you say to him?" I demanded, small-eyeing him as he poured me a glass, making my mouth water.

See, what Fenway didn't know—couldn't possibly know—was that I was a sucker for champagne. I could drink down a glass of wine if need be, but I would always prefer something with bubbles if I could have it. I also typically liked it pink like that old movie I saw as a kid that I thought was so classy and cool. You know, the one with the socialite in training and the playboy who met on the boat and went to Italy together? Such a classic.

"I was honest," he told me, holding out the flute. "I told him that I was trying to impress a beautiful woman, and asked for his help doing so. What?" he asked when I felt my lip curl. "What could I have possibly said?" he asked, shaking his head as I moved to stand, grabbing my coffee cup, turning to walk away.

I had been falling for it.

For just a moment there.

That charm he kept mentioning.

He had it. In spades. And it was convincing.

Convincing enough to start to fool an actual, real-life conwoman.

Then he had to go and ruin it.

Of course, I was happy for it to be ruined. It wasn't like I was enjoying it. This was a job, after all.

But I was annoyed at myself for getting a little wrapped up in the moment. In the scene.

Of course he was just like all the rest.

They all were the same.

Different faces, different names, same toxic personality traits, same disappointing infatuation with superficial things.

New, sparkly, and symmetrical.

That was what guys like Fenway—and I was becoming increasingly convinced, all guys—were after.

I trudged back to the hotel, annoyed at myself for getting worked up. This was the same old, same old. There was nothing new or unexpected to get frustrated over. It was certainly nothing to screw up a job over.

Then again, no one said it was screwed up. The plan was always to leave abruptly, always leave them wanting more, always needing to continue the chase. It was no fun for them once they caught you.

So maybe this outburst worked in my favor.

I would just start again later. Get dressed up nicely. Make a show of doing some window shopping, getting seen in case he was in the area. Then making my way to the destination, something I hoped Fenway hadn't experienced yet.


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