Jessica entered his question, another contestant’s answer popped onto the screen, and Cutter leaned forward to read it. “Calamity Jane says spark is defined by sexual attraction.”
That was a no-brainer. He looked down at Jessica again, her sweetly spiced scent tantalizing him while her smoky eyes eroded his need for distance. Not only was she beautiful, she was feisty without getting too defensive. Sensual, and confident in her sexuality without being desperate.
Used to be, getting in the zone could only be achieved by high speeds. That feeling of intense focus, a heightened awareness and being both mentally and physically in tune with his body. Now, one look from the beautiful Jessica Wilson and he was in the zone.
And how could he be so attracted to an optimistic, self-styled guru on relationships?
Because he was definitely in tune with his body. Maybe too in tune.
Blood pumped through his veins, disturbing in its intensity. “I’d say Calamity is on to something,” he murmured. “No discussion necessary. I’ll just agree with her.”
Her eyelids flared in panic. “You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“First of all, if you agree then there’s no give and take. No debate is boring. Second of all, spark isn’t defined simply by sexual attraction. The physical is just a small part. Chemistry is a connection based on shared interests.”
Amused, Cutter hiked a brow. “Unless we’re talking about a shared interest in each other’s bodies, that’s not what Calamity Jane said.”
The pink mouth went flat. “Calamity is wrong.”
As Cutter looked down at her, the urge to smile was now almost overwhelming. “Now who’s being negative?” From this angle, he noticed her blouse gapped at the neckline, and the curves of her breasts were cupped in a lacy bra.
He was right, except it was light purple, not pink. Lavender and lace.
Ms. Sunshine was wearing a cliché.
Delight spread through him. He’d changed his mind. Suffering the disruption of his day, enduring the bloodsucking journalist’s chase, both were worth her company.
“Back to Calamity,” Jessica said. “Why don’t we start with this for a response—Sexual attraction is important.” She looked up at him. “What should we add?” Her beautiful gaze looked thoughtful.
A pair of eyes that could make a guy willingly trade his man cave for an evening in a mauve-colored, foo-foo office peddling romance online.
He sent her a faint grin. “How about … I also like a woman who challenges me.”
Her smile was like healing salve on a burn. “That’s better.”
Yes … it was. Cutter’s grin grew more defined. “Oh, and tell her I also have a thing for lavender-and-lace underwear.”
CHAPTER THREE
Disaster.
The fundraiser for the Brice Foundation was going to be a monstrous disaster, and it was all her fault.
Stopping for a red light, Jessica glanced at her watch. She only had ten minutes to get to her dinner date. The past hour had been long, frustrating and infinitely illuminating, and she was amazed she hadn’t pulled out every hair on her head.
And, as if Cutter’s attitude alone wasn’t enough, he’d looked down her shirt. Like an impulsive twelve-year-old riding a testosterone high he couldn’t control. Granted, from his angle on her desk it would have been hard to prevent. But still, mentioning what he saw was less than gallant.
The word gallant had no business existing in the same universe as Cutter Thompson.
In the beginning, she’d been less than thrilled to continue her involvement with Cutter during his Battle of the Sexes participation. Now it seemed it was a blessing in disguise.
Because Cutter Thompson in a stock car was sure to get a woman’s heart racing.
Cutter Thompson in a TV interview was truly electric.
But Cutter Thompson flirting online was a catastrophe.
Every time a contestant responded, his automatic response would have alienated half the participants and a good portion of Miami as well. He didn’t appreciate that a cocky response—where the words weren’t tempered with a handsome face, green eyes that sparkled with humor and a teasing tone—could have disastrous effects.
In retrospect, maybe she should have realized the pitfalls of asking ASCAR’s former number-one driver to participate. When she’d offered to do this stunt for Steve it was to help make it a success, not steep it in shame. And Steve had been right. She should have gone for the local cello player who had won the North American Academy of Musicians’ competition last year. So he’d been a little soft and a bit too sweet. No one would have noticed online.
Now she was stuck with the Wildcard, Master of the Cutting Comment.
And how many years had he been honing that ability to whip out a blithe insult with stunning clarity, just skirting the edges of amusing charm?
Jessica turned her car into a parking space at the restaurant, cut off the engine, and sat, tapping her fingernails on the steering wheel. The Battle of the Sexes was a month long, and she didn’t want to hover over the man and deflect his every inappropriate remark for the entire competition. Which meant Mr. Cutter Thompson needed a lesson or two in how to behave online. He was way beyond help in his personal, face-to-face interactions, but if she could just get him through the publicity stunt, the rest didn’t matter. After she was done with him, he could insult the Pope if he wanted.
Tomorrow when they met for round two, she was going to review online etiquette and the rules of acceptable behavior. Surely the man was trainable.
If he wasn’t, she’d have to spend the next month glued to his side, fending off furtive peeks at her underwear. And the thought of that was far from appealing.
“Nice job, Jess,” Steve said, his voice muffled. One hand on the steering wheel, Jessica adjusted the earpiece of her cell phone, and Steve’s words were clearer when he went on. “Last night’s Cutter Thompson debut was pure gold. Is he a prima donna to work with?”
Prima donna? Her fingers clenched the wheel. More like a cross between a prima donna and a raging hormonal teen. And he wielded a masculinity that would make him millions if it were bottled and sold. Actually, it had—Jessica had enjoyed the perverse pleasure of eating her breakfast this morning while staring at Cutter in his racing uniform, arms crossed, his trademark suggestion of a grin plastered on her cereal box. And for the love of God, why couldn’t he just smile? It was as if he knew his hint at a grin was more powerful than the beaming smile of a Hollywood leading man.
“He was a little difficult. But I was ready for him,” she said, feeling guilty for lying. How could anyone ever be ready for the likes of Cutter?
“No one is ever more prepared than you,” Steve said. “And speaking of,
