Hard to Handle

The brunette flicked a look from her friend to Shane. The moment he locked on to her bright blue eyes, his heart galloped to life, picking up speed as if running for an invisible finish line. Her eyes left his as she addressed her friend. “Fine.”

It wasn’t the most wholehearted endorsement, but at least she’d agreed to stay.

Aiden and the blonde made their way to the dance floor, and Shane gave his collar a sharp tug and straightened his suit jacket before turning toward the brunette. She examined him, almost warily, her lids heavy over earnest blue eyes. He’d seen that kind of soul-rendering sadness before, a long time ago. Staring back at him from his bathroom mirror.

“That was my cousin, Aiden.” He bumbled to fill the dead air between them. “He wanted to meet your friend.”

“Figures,” the brunette said, barely audible over the music.

He ignored the whistling sound of their conversation plummeting to its imminent death. “She seems nice. Aiden can be kind of an ass around nice girls,” he added, leaning in so she could hear him.

She rewarded him with a tentative upward curve of her lips, the top capping a plumper bottom lip that looked good enough to eat. He offered a small smile of his own, perplexed by the direction of his thoughts. When was the last time he’d been thrown this off-kilter by a woman? Let alone one he’d just met? She shifted in her seat to face him, and a warm scent lifted off her skin—vanilla and nutmeg, if he wasn’t mistaken. He gripped the back of the chair in front of him and swallowed instinctively. Damn. She smelled good enough to eat.

She dipped her head, fiddled with the strap of her handbag, and Shane realized he was staring.

“Shane,” he said, offering his hand.

She looked at it a beat before taking it. “Crickitt.”

“Like the bug?” He flinched. Smooth.

“Thanks for that.” She offered a mordant smile.

Evidently he was rustier at this than he’d thought. “Sorry.” Best get to the point. “Is there something you need? Something I can get you?”

Her eyes went to the full drink in front of her. “I’ve had plenty, but thanks. Anyway, I’m about to leave.”

“I’m on my way out. Can I drop you somewhere?”

She eyed him cautiously.

Okay. Perhaps offering her a ride was a bit forward and, from her perspective, dangerous.

“No, thank you,” she said, turning her body away from his as she reached for her drink.

Great. He was creepy club guy.

He leaned on the bar between the blonde’s abandoned chair and Crickitt. Lowering his voice, he said, “I think I’m doing this all wrong. To tell the truth, I saw you crying and I wondered if I could do anything to help. I’d…like to help. If you’ll let me.”

She turned to him, her eyes softening into what might have been gratitude, before a harder glint returned. Tossing her head, she met his eye. “Help? Sure. Know anyone who’d like to hire a previously self-employed person for a position for which she has little to no experience?”

He had to smile at her pluck…and his good fortune. Crickitt’s problem may be one he could help with after all. “Depends,” he answered, watching her eyebrows give the slightest lift. He leaned an elbow on the bar. “In what salary range?”

*  *  *

Crickitt scanned the well-dressed man in front of her. He wore a streamlined charcoal suit and crisp, white dress shirt. No tie, but she’d bet one had been looped around his neck earlier. She allowed her gaze to trickle to his open collar, lingering over the column of his tanned neck before averting her eyes. What would he say if she blurted out the figure dancing around her head?

Two-hundred fifty thousand a year? Oh, sure, I know lots of people who pay out six figures for a new hire.

Well, he asked.

“Six figures,” she said.

He laughed.

That’s what she thought. If this Shane guy were in a position to offer that kind of income, would he really be in a club named Lace and hitting on a girl like her? Why hadn’t he hit on someone else? Someone without a runny nose and red-rimmed eyes. Someone like Sadie. But he’d rerouted his friend to talk to Sadie. Why had he done that? She smoothed her hair, considering.

Maybe you’re an easy target.

He saw her crying and wanted to help? It wasn’t the worst pickup line in the world, but it was close.

Crickitt instinctively slid her pinky against her ring finger to straighten her wedding band but only felt the rub of skin on skin. For nine years it had sat at home on her left hand. She used to think of it as a comforting weight, but since Ronald had left, it’d become a reminder of the now-obvious warning signs she’d overlooked. The way he’d pulled away from her both physically and emotionally. The humiliation of scurrying after him, attempting to win his affections even after it was too late. She lifted her shoulders under her ears, wishing she could hide from the recurring memory, the embarrassment. Fresh tears burned the backs of her eyes before she remembered she had a captive audience. She squeezed her eyes closed, willing the helter-skelter emotions to go away.

When she opened them, she saw Shane had backed away some, either to give the semblance of privacy or because he feared she would burst into tears and blow her nose on his expensive jacket. She could choke Sadie for bringing her out tonight.

Come to the club, Sadie had said. It’ll get your mind off of things, she’d insisted. But it hadn’t. Even when faced with a very good-looking, potentially helpful man, she was wallowing in self-doubt and recrimination. She could’ve done that at home.

“What experience do you have, Crickitt?” Shane asked, interrupting her thoughts.

She tipped her chin up at him. Was he serious? His half smile was either sarcastic or genuinely curious. Hard to tell. The temptation was there to dismiss him as just another jerk in a club, but she couldn’t. There was an undeniable warmth in his dark eyes, a certain kindness in the way he leaned toward her when he talked, like he didn’t want to intimidate her.

Maybe that’s why she told him the truth.

“I’m great with people,” she answered.

“And scheduling?”

She considered telling him about the twenty in-home shows she’d held each and every month for the last seven years, but wasn’t sure he wouldn’t get the wrong idea about exactly what kind of in-home shows she’d be referring to. “Absolutely.”

“Prioritizing?”

Crickitt almost laughed. Prioritizing was a necessity in her business. She’d been responsible for mentoring and training others, as well as maintaining her personal sales and team. It’d taken her a while to master the art of putting her personal business first, but she’d done it. If she focused too much on others, her numbers soon started circling the drain, and that wasn’t good for any of them.

“Definitely,” she answered, pausing to consider the fire burning in her belly. How long had it been since she’d talked about her career with confidence? Too long, she realized. By now, her ex-husband would have cut her off midsentence to change the subject.

But Shane’s posture was open, receptive, and he faced her, his eyebrows raised as if anticipating what she might say next. So she continued. “I, um, I was responsible for a team of twenty-five salespeople while overseeing ten managers with teams of their own,” she finished.

She almost cringed at the calloused description. Those teams and managers were more like family than coworkers. They’d slap her silly if they ever heard her referring to them with corporate lingo. But if she had to guess, Shane was a corporate man and Crickitt doubted he’d know the first thing about direct sales.

“You sound overqualified,” he said.

“That’s what I…wait, did you just say overqualified?” Crickitt stammered. She blinked up at him, shocked. She’d fully expected him to tell her to peddle her questionable work background