and groaned when she saw the silhouette of someone in the back. Then the cab crossed a lane, cutting through traffic like a demolition-derby driver, before stopping at the sidewalk in front of her.
The driver lowered the window on the passenger side. “Where are you going?”
“The Stanton Building.”
He looked over his shoulder at the man in the back. “That’s out of your way.”
“I don’t care.”
The voice from the backseat was deep and masculine, kind of rough. And if Grace was in to that sort of thing she might have been intrigued. But she didn’t have time to be in to that kind of thing. She was in to career advancement.
So exciting.
And getting a cab. She was seriously in to getting a cab even if she had to share it.
She opened the passenger door and got inside, dragging her giant bag with her and closing the door, running her hand over her hair to make sure it was still in place.
“Thank you,” she said, barely looking over at her companion. She leaned forward and started digging through the aforementioned giant bag. Her phone was in the top inner pocket, where she always put it. She hadn’t checked her email for ten minutes and she was feeling a little twitchy.
It felt all weird in her hand. Too hard and square. Plus, it was just plain black. Not at all to her taste. Since her pretty Kate Spade case had bit the dust in a freak trip-and-fling-the-phone-across-the-room incident a couple of days ago, she hadn’t had the time to go and replace it.
She unlocked the phone and punched the email icon, then waited while it connected to the server...and waited...and oh, gosh. Could it be any slower? They were in the middle of Manhattan for heaven’s sake. There should not be a black data hole right now.
“Busy?”
She looked to her left, her eyes landing on a denim-clad thigh was was...well, it was muscley. That much was evident even with the jeans. Then she looked up, and saw his hat. Skipped right over his face and to the white cowboy hat on his head.
And then she looked at his face. Blue eyes, dark brows, a square jaw dusted with some rough-looking stubble. Very interesting lips. Again, if she was in to that sort of thing.
“Yes,” she said, looking back down at her phone.
“I’m sharing a cab with you. You might look at me for more than two seconds.”
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
