“So we’re good?” Sophie asked tentatively.

“We’re…okay. Just no more thigh-high boots, no more rambling stories about your childhood, and no more climbing up ladders.”

“I make no promises,” she said cheekily, before wiggling her fingers at him and heading toward the door. “Now if there’s nothing else, I’ll go find someone a bit more…suitable to pull down Davie, eh?”

“Fine,” he mumbled. “Oh, and I did have one question.”

She turned and waited.

“The coffee you brought me this morning. There was cream in there.”

Sophie rolled her eyes. “Yes. There was.”

“You’ve always brought me my coffee black before.”

“Mm-hmm.” She studied her chipped fingernails. “And you really thought I wouldn’t notice that you dumped in two creamers as soon as I turned my back?”

She could have sworn she saw him blush. It was…cute? No, that wasn’t quite right. But it was something.

“I think it’s sweet that you didn’t want to hurt Beth’s feelings,” she teased. “She informed me with great pride that she’d guessed that you like your coffee black.”

“I think we’re done here,” he said, a distinct red creeping over his cheeks. “And don’t tell Ms. Jennings about the cream-in-the-coffee thing.”

Sophie raised an eyebrow. “Okay?”

He shrugged awkwardly and didn’t meet her eyes. “There’s really nothing to be accomplished by telling her that I don’t like it black.”

She cocked her head. “But you don’t it like black.”

“Just don’t mention it, okay?” he snapped. “Honestly, is occasionally keeping your mouth shut that difficult?”

“Fine. Can I go?”

“Please do. And Sophie,” he said, stopping her for the third time.

She sighed and spun around. “Yeessssss?”

“That, um…moment by the ladder?”

“Yeah?” Her voice had gone unintentionally husky.

“It meant nothing. It never happened. Got it? You and I…We’re not…I’d never be—”

She felt the hot rush of humiliated anger. She might no longer be an actual prostitute, but apparently she was still a worthless tramp.

“I get it,” she spat out. “You’d never be interested in someone like me. Loud and clear.”

“Good, then,” he said with a nod. “We’re agreed, then—it was all a big mis—”

Sophie let the door slam before he could finish the sentence.

CHAPTER SIX

Gray mentally added yet another item to his list of Rules to Live By:

Never agree to another man’s business meetings.

Martin Brayburn hadn’t asked Gray for much upon his departure. The older man had bowed out graciously, leaving Gray to run the company as he saw fit.

Except for one solitary request: a meeting with Peter Blackwell and his son.

It should have been harmless. It could have even been lucrative. The Blackwells owned a chain of small boutique hotels on Maui. Nothing fancy, but the real estate was prime. And even better, they were looking to sell.

But that wasn’t why Martin had requested Gray take the meeting. Peter Blackwell was Martin Brayburn’s oldest friend, and his son, Alistair, was Martin’s godson.

Martin’s request had been personal, and Gray had agreed without a second thought. Something he was now regretting.

The meeting was a complete nightmare, starting with its participants. The younger man across the desk was probably close to Gray’s own age of midthirties, but the bloated frat-boy appearance and ill-fitting navy suit made him look like a pimpled intern.

Gray was willing to bet that Alistair Blackwell had no business experience beyond a childhood lemonade stand.

His father, Peter Blackwell, was at least respectable on paper, but instead of being the expected polished businessman ready to talk numbers, Peter had turned out to be an aging, sentimental entrepreneur with an elevated estimate of his company’s worth. Gray was dismayed to hear a constant chorus of loyalty, family, and nostalgia, and not one solid reference to profit.

If the Blackwells thought Gray was going to buy their outdated line of Maui resorts based on some touchy-feely bullshit, they clearly hadn’t done their homework. Maybe Martin Brayburn would have fostered such crap out of sentimentality, but Gray had no tolerance for it.

“…as I’m sure big Pops here will tell you,” Alistair was saying in a faintly out-of-breath voice, “you can’t be expecting us to roll over and play dead like a couple of happy pups, you know? Just because we’re from the islands doesn’t mean we don’t know a thing or two about big business!”

Gray resisted the urge to stand up and walk out. After all, this was his office and he needed this deal.

“Mr. Blackwell,” Gray said, putting an end to Alistair’s rambling, “I’m sure you can understand the position that Brayburn Luxuries is in. We’re very interested in the location of your properties, but all of our research has shown that the hotels themselves are quaint at best. Your asking price isn’t realistic for a franchise that barely warrants a three-star rating.”

Peter’s mouth tightened into a thin line, and Alistair began another babble session. “Just because our bathrooms aren’t marble, doesn’t mean we’re not located on the best little stretch of Hawaiian paradise—”

Peter held up a wrinkled, tanned hand. “Alistair, I’m sure Mr. Wyatt knows all about the waves and the state of our guest rooms. I think what he’s telling us is that, regardless, Brayburn Luxuries isn’t going to pay us what we want for our property.”

Gray resisted the urge to plow his fingers through his hair. This wasn’t going well. What he’d fully expected to be a slam-dunk negotiation was turning into a bloody war. Peter Blackwell was supposed to be a competent businessman who, after Gray’s logical explanation, would understand that the hotel chain he’d launched decades ago was not worth his asking price.

And Alistair shouldn’t even be here. Gray wished he could hand the younger man a twenty-dollar bill and tell him to go check out the Space Needle while the adults did the thinking. But judging from the way Peter gazed at his son in blind, fatherly affection whenever Alistair spouted his verbal diarrhea, Gray knew he had to tread carefully.

Problem was…he wasn’t entirely sure how to do that.

Gray wasn’t about to pay double the properties’ worth just to appease an older man’s ego. But neither was he willing to give up the deal. He needed a way to read these people quickly and determine their weak point. Trouble was, he didn’t have the faintest clue how.

He tried once again to reach them with logic. “Mr. Blackwell, I’d like to reiterate that Brayburn is, of course, still interested, but we have to be realistic—”

“Who is that?” Alistair interrupted.

Gray stifled his annoyance and followed Alistair’s gaze through the glass wall of his office.

Ah. Sophie.

Leave it to his little pain-in-the-ass assistant to distract his most pivotal, prospective clients at the most inopportune time. Not that she meant to, of course. But then, that seemed to be Sophie’s MO. Making a mess of his life just by breathing.

Alistair was gaping, and even Peter seemed a little dazzled. Gray narrowed his eyes and tried to view Sophie objectively. As if she hadn’t made it her life’s purpose to get under his skin.

He scowled. Her long blonde hair fell in loose waves down her back, reminding him uncomfortably of the sex-kitten look she’d been sporting in Las Vegas. The memory of how her hair had smelled when he’d practically groped her during the ladder debacle made him even more uncomfortable.

He shifted in his seat.

Jesus.

Whether it was in an elevator, or her parents’ bathroom or his own damn office, he couldn’t seem to keep his damn hands off her.

Sophie Dalton is not for you, he reminded himself for the hundredth time.

Sure, she sent him a couple hot gazes and let her voice go all breathy when he got too close. But that’s what women like Sophie did. They teased. They played.

And then they left.

He gritted his teeth and turned his attention to the Blackwells, but they were still captivated by the little blonde in the other room.

“That would be my assistant,” Gray said, in delayed response to Alistair’s question.

Peter reluctantly drew his eyes back to Gray, but Alistair continued to stare at Sophie’s backside, all but salivating. Gray’s annoyance with the man skyrocketed. “I’m assuming we can get back to business, unless there was something you needed, Mr. Blackwell?”

Alistair jumped, and Gray suspected that his father had just delivered a quick kick to his shin.

Gray tried to pick up where they left off. “So, as I was saying, while I can appreciate the value of the land, the value of the resorts themselves is unfortunately not up to Brayburn standards—”

Once again, he’d lost the attention of the two men he was trying so hard to impress.

“Excuse me, Mr. Wyatt?”

Shit. Sophie stood in the doorway and the effect of tumbling golden hair, ocean-blue eyes, and matching little outfit was even more distracting close-up than it had been from through the glass wall.

The Blackwells were enchanted.

Gray gave in to a sigh. “Yes, Ms. Dalton?”

“I just wanted to see if I could get you gentlemen a coffee-and-pastry tray, sir, if you haven’t already eaten.”

Gray had already had coffee and his usual breakfast of spinach and egg-white omelet at home, but he supposed there was no way he’d regain the men’s attention until they’d had a close-up view. God, he missed his old assistant. Mary had been short, stout, and irritable. Gray wouldn’t have had to deal with her distracting his most important clients.

“Thank you, Ms. Dalton, some coffee would be great.”

“Coming right up. I’m sorry I didn’t offer sooner. I didn’t realize you had a meeting this morning.”

Of course she didn’t. Probably because he intentionally hadn’t put it on the calendar she had access to. He’d hoped to spare the Blackwells the experience of Early Morning Sophie. The woman was pure menace before ten a.m. And after ten, for that matter.

So pretty much she was a nightmare around the clock. Always singing, smiling, dancing.

Yesterday she’d actually tried to sign him up for a book club.

Book club.

Today, however, her special brand of Sophie charm was working in his favor. The Blackwells couldn’t get enough. Hell, neither could he.

Three pairs of male eyes watched as she trotted out of his office to fetch coffee, tight butt practically begging for male attention.

Twenty minutes later, Gray was no closer to making headway on the acquisition on this increasingly unappealing resort chain when Sophie returned with a carefully prepared tray. She must have sensed the importance of the meeting, because the tray looked like it belonged in Versailles, circa 1683.

“I thought I said ‘coffee,’” he muttered. The tray was overflowing with croissants, mini quiches, doughnuts, bagels, and a large pile of fruit.

She balanced the tray on the corner of Gray’s desk and ignored him completely, saving all her smiles for the Blackwells. “How would you like your coffee, gentlemen?” she asked. “Mr. Wyatt here takes his black, but I’ve brought cream and sugar, as well as a variety of flavored sweeteners.”

Sophie shoved a mug in Gray’s direction without looking at him, and he nearly smiled. She’d added cream.

“Just a pinch of sugar and a splash of regular old cream for me, dear,” Peter was saying, suddenly taking on the persona of a kindly grandfather. This gentle old man sounded absolutely nothing like the stubborn hard-ass Gray had been dealing with five minutes prior.

“How do you like your coffee?” Alistair asked Sophie while unsubtly fingering his greasy comb-over.

She likes it with sugar. Lots of it, Gray thought.

“Mr. Blackwell, surely a confident man like you doesn’t need someone like me to determine your coffee preparation.”

Gray thought he heard traces of disdainful sarcasm in Sophie’s tone, but Alistair ate up the compliment. “I’ll try that hazelnut-flavored creamer there; I like things sweet.”

Smiling serenely, Sophie prepared the coffee and handed it over to Alistair, their fingers brushing. Sophie flushed, and Alistair all but licked his lips.

“Sophie, how’s your boyfriend?” Gray snapped abruptly. Cue the awkward moment of silence. A Grayson Wyatt specialty.

What the hell am I doing? Gray thought. He never blurted, he didn’t call his assistants by their first name, and he certainly didn’t ask about their personal lives.

She looked startled, but recovered quickly. “Oh, you mean Will? He’s just a childhood friend who still hangs around. We’re not together.”

He stared hard at her. That was certainly not the impression she’d given him that night at her parents’ house. She’d called Will her date. He should have figured she wouldn’t stick with anyone long term. Will was probably just another of her playthings.

In an effort to break the awkward tension, Sophie glanced at the Blackwells and rolled her eyes. “In case you can’t tell, Mr. Wyatt’s a little overprotective of his employees. It’s one of the reasons we all love working for him so much.”

Gray cleared his throat in warning, but the other men seemed oblivious to her sarcasm.

“I could tell that straightaway about your boss here,” said Peter. “His dedication to his people and his company is one of the main reasons I’m considering Brayburn Luxuries to acquire my company.”