Maisey Yates - Breaking All Her Rules

She bristled, looking over at him again. “Aren’t you supposed to be naked in Times Square.”

“I’m not that kind of cowboy.”

“Which kind are you?”

“The real kind.”

“Oh. Well. Please don’t tell me you have cows in the trunk.”

“Nope.”

“Great. Well.” She looked back down at her phone, her pulse doing a strange, fluttery thing at the base of her throat.

“My name is Zack,” he said. “Zack Camden. Are introductions not the thing in the big city?”

She rolled her eyes and put her hands flat on the seat, her phone still under her palm. “Grace Song.”

He stuck his hand out and she shifted, releasing her hold on the phone and moving to shake his hand. His fingers were rough, his skin hot. She felt a zip of lightning shoot through her, zipping straight to her stomach, making her feel all tight and weird.

Then he pulled away and she wondered, for one, heart-stopping moment, if he’d felt it, too. Then he reached into his pocket and took out his phone. Black, and unadorned, like hers. But hers wasn’t caseless by choice. His screen was probably getting all scratched up in his pocket. That...denim and his muscles. It was probably being crushed in there. Poor shiny iDevice.

“Sorry,” he said. “Normally I’d consider this rude but it’s work-related so...”

“What did you think my phone usage was—unicorn-related?” she asked, curling her lip.

“Funny,” he said, hitting the accept button. “Yep. Uh-huh. Landed about an hour ago. Going to the hotel. Nope. Nope. Not going. Nope. Hotel. ’Bye.” He hung up, then set the phone on the seat between them.

“Business, huh?”

“Yep.”

“What sort of business?” she asked, completely unsure as to why she was bothering to play his little let’s-be-friends game.

“The business kind,” he said. “The kind you don’t wanna do, but have to because...business.”

She blinked. “I don’t understand not wanting to do business.”

He looked her over, his dark gaze assessing. “I bet you don’t.”

“What does that mean?”

“You look like a business type.”

She smoothed her plum pencil skirt and charcoal-grey jacket. She did not look businessy. She looked classy, feminine and well put-together. Though, she’d basically just confessed to being a workaholic, so maybe she should cut him some slack. Or not.

“And what does a business type look like?” she asked, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. He looked her over again and his gaze lingered, very obviously, on said breasts.

“It’s not a look so much. You seem kinda stiff. Although, also you just admitted you were a business type.”

“Fair enough.”

“What sort of business do you do?” he asked.

“I’m a financial advisor.” She wished she could take it back as soon as she’d said it. Because he hadn’t told her, so why was she telling him? Because deep down, she really was trained with manners, good graces and all kinds of things that didn’t exactly scream “ice-cold business bitch.” She was working on that. Mainly because if something about her demeanor screamed that a little louder she might not be fending off clients at lunch meetings.

The jerk.

“Very interesting. So you help people manage money?”

“People. Gigantic corporations. It’s not like I’m helping random citizens balance their checkbooks.” Oh, there was ice-cold bitch! Something about Zack the Cowboy seemed to bring it out. Along with an unhealthy bit of churning in her stomach.

“So if someone had investments, et cetera.”

“Got investments?” she asked.

“Maybe.”

“You don’t seem like the type.”

“No,” he said, leaning in slightly, whiskey-colored eyes clashing with hers, making it hard for her to breathe, “I’m the type who would have cows in the trunk of a cab in the middle of Manhattan.”

“You have to admit,” she said, her throat tightening, making it impossible for her to speak, “you’re a little out of place.”

“I feel perfectly comfortable. You’re the one who seems uncomfortable with me. What does that mean, do you think?” he asked, the side of his mouth quirking upward into one extremely cocky smile.

“I don’t know. I suppose the fox is never uncomfortable in the henhouse?”

His grin broadened. “Are you saying I’m a...predator? Among chickens?”

“Just trying a little animal analogy for your benefit, pardner. We’re New Yorkers, even if we are chickens, you come into our henhouse and we’ll mess you up.”

He laughed and she felt an answering smile tugging at her lips. “See? Isn’t this more fun than work email?”

Yes. Dammit.

“I live for work emails.”

“Well, I can’t compete with that.”

Dear Lord, was he flirting with her? She didn’t have a lot of experience with non-sketchy flirting. Most of it came in the form of overbearing, threatening comments that had a greasy film coating the words. It always made her feel violent. Of course, her response was typically just to sit there with her hands tightly folded.

This was different. She wanted to respond to this, rather than punch him in the face. Which was stupid. They were just sharing a cab to her office. And after that she wouldn’t ever see him again. Much less make good on any of the flirting.

Which was just as well, because hadn’t she just been celebrating her freedom from male tyranny in her personal life?

Yes...yes, she had.

Though, a little male tyranny in bed might be nice....

No. No, no, no. Maybe other women did that sort of thing, but she did not. She wasn’t a one-night-stand girl. She wasn’t a sex-for-the-sake-of-sex sort of girl.

She didn’t have time for that kind of stuff, plus, the idea of kissing a stranger, much less getting naked with him, was just a big fat no-go for her. That was for other types of people. Frivolous, irresponsible people. Like her sister, for example, who had left morals, common sense, clothing and all else by the wayside. And Grace had seen where that led.

There would be none of that.

She looked back at Zack and a sizzle of electricity skipped over her skin, making her feel tingly. And...it was a lot like her skin crawling. Just with heat instead of disgust.

Was she really, honestly thinking about sex in connection with a stranger in a cab? There was something wrong with her. Long work hours and a lack of sleep, or something.

It had been six months since Mark moved out, and she honestly hadn’t missed him—or his body—much. The split had been as gentle and amicable as the entirety of the relationship.

They’d sort of drifted into a relationship, then back out. And the best thing about drifting out of the relationship was that she hadn’t felt obligated to help him move out. Unlike when she’d been trying to impress him.

Lifting giant boxes with her spindly T. rex arms was pretty low on her list of things to do.

As was sex with a stranger. Lower. Lower than box-lifting. Which was low.

“No, nor should you expect to,” she said. “We’ve only just met, while I’ve had a deep, involved relationship with my work inbox since 2005.”

“That’s longer than a lot of things.”

“Longer than most marriages.”

“Hell yeah. Less painful, too.”

“Well, that all depends.”

“On?” he asked.

“On which client I’m dealing with. And who one is married to.”

“Fair point. How close are we to your office?”

“Five minutes,” she said.

“Give me some financial advice.”

She arched a brow. “For free?”

“We’ll trade. I’ll give you a quick taste of my services, too.”

“Oh...please tell me you aren’t really a stripper going to a theme party.”