A Moment of Bliss (8 page)

“I think it's a brilliant plan. Why don't we arrange a time to talk next week to see if there's anything else I can do?” She stepped closer to him with a smile so sweet it'd cause cavities.

Roark blinked to keep his eyes from popping out.

“Yes. I'll have my people call you.”

“And I will walk you out.” She stood right at Troutman's side and cut her eyes at Roark as they turned to go.

He watched them go, shooting daggers at the Trout the entire time. Who did that jackass think he was? The Trout was definitely fish-man's new name.

“Asshole,” he muttered. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that dinnertime hunger wasn't helping his sour mood. He tromped toward the restaurant but paused at the bar near the entry. “Y'know what?” he said to no one.

“What's that, sir?” The bartender, Steve, stood up from where he'd been bent behind the bar.

“Jesus. Don't do that.” Roark leaned on one of the chairs before slipping his jacket off and hanging it over the back.

“Sorry, sir.”

“You've got to stop calling me sir. Roark is fine.”

“Okay. Sorry, Roark. What can I get you?”

“Something to cure confusion and an asshole headache?” He rubbed at his eyes.

“What's that, sir?”

“Nothing. What've you got that you can make fast and it'll kick in even faster?”

“I'm trying out a new pomegranate drink. Have the fresh mix ready to go. Could I interest you in a taste test?”

“Tell you what, you pour me some of that pub mix with the sesame sticks and peanuts, and I'll test a double of whatever.”

Steve hurried about, serving up a snack bowl and rattling a shaker of whatever the hell Roark had ordered.

Madison would find him as soon as the Trout was gone. He'd done a good job of not jerking Trout up by the ears, but she'd still looked miffed on her way to the door. What was that about?

Either way, surely she'd find Roark in the bar. Then he'd find out what the hell just happened. The need to see her alone gnawed at him worse than Beau with a chew toy. But only so they could discuss the afternoon's events, talk about tomorrow, talk business, and gripe about Trout being a jerk.

That's what he told himself, anyway.

M
adison found Roark in the restaurant's small bar. Even from the side, with his shoulders hunched in exhaustion, the man struck a figure that halted her steps. She kept going though, because she needed a drink and they needed to talk.

“Vodka martini, up with a twist,” she told Steve, sliding into the seat next to Roark's.

“That bad?” He turned to look at her, his tie loosened, hair ruffled as though he'd scrubbed his hands through it a few dozen times. His gorgeous, crinkly-eyed grin made her consider ordering a double.

“You've met him now. You tell me.”

“The guy's an asshole.”

“I know.”

Roark sipped on a dark pink concoction served up in a martini glass. She did a double take but was too tired to say anything. They sat in the empty restaurant as the bartender shook her drink in a martini shaker and Madison tried to soak up the calm.

She eased back in her chair and closed her eyes.

Troutman was exhausting. Dealing with him and finally resorting to playing the harmless female was grating. All of that smiling at stuff that wasn't funny had worn her nerves to a frayed edge. But sitting in a cozy bar, the lights dimmed, Roark quietly drinking his mysterious pink drink . . . this was nice.

She rolled her head to the side, keeping her eyes mostly closed so she could peek at him between her lashes.

He sat leaning forward with his elbows on the bar. His posture made his dress shirt pull tight across his broad back, his loosened collar and tie revealing the tan skin of his neck against his dark hair. He kept his hair cut notably shorter in the back. She bet it'd feel great to rub against the grain. Soft but a little bristly.

Madison rolled her eyes. It'd been too long since she'd been with someone if she was ogling the back of a man's head. Thank goodness he couldn't see her, because she was undeniably mid-ogle.

“What is that thing you're drinking?” she asked, needing something to say.

“I have no idea. Steve, what's this thing I'm drinking?”

“Pomegranate martini.”

“Pomegranate martini.” Roark turned in his chair, holding up his pink drink.

“It takes a real man to be comfortable drinking a froufrou cocktail.”

He laughed, his shoulders relaxing. “It only looks froufrou, doesn't taste it. It's good. Try it.”

“No, thank you.”

“C'mon. Try it.” Roark set the pink drink in front of her and waved her forward.

“I don't want—”

He silenced her with a scowl. “You're going to sit there, give me crap about my drink, and then refuse to even taste it?”

After that whole dog and pony show, a little mercy was probably warranted. “. . . No?”

“Then get up here.” He waved her forward, the damn eye crinkles on full blast.

“Is this your usual?” She sat up and raised his cocktail glass.

“No, smart aleck. I'm trying this because Steve is testing it out. Isn't that right, Steve?”

“Yes, sir. Roark is my guinea pig.” Steve served up her vodka martini.

She took a sip of the pink drink and handed it back to Roark. “There, I tried it. Happy now?”

“Ecstatic.”

Madison sipped her drink and hummed, letting her lids flutter closed. “Now
this
is a drink.” She opened her eyes to find Roark staring at her. “What?”

“Nothing.” He turned and sat forward again.

“Not nothing. Clearly something. You want to try my drink?”

He huffed with a laugh. “Uh, no. That's not it.”

“Sure it's not.” She put her drink down next to his hand. “Go ahead. You can try it.”

“No, thanks.”

“Hey. I tried yours. Fair is fair.”

He slanted a look at her, scooped up her martini and took a sip. Both of his eyebrows shot up. “'S good. Strong, but good.”

Madison took her drink back, allowing a triumphant grin. “This from the man with the hooch in his office? You'll have to try one of these next. Isn't that right, Steve?”

Steve looked back and forth between the two of them. “Yes, ma'am.”

“It might be a good thing we don't have to drive anywhere after two of these. Isn't that right, Steve?” Roark leaned on the bar again.

“Yes, sir.” Steve grinned at both of them. “I put in an order for the hot wings you like, in case you two are peckish.”

Roark grinned over at her, a hint of color in his cheeks, his martini clearly already taking effect. “I know I'm peckish. How about you?”

Madison hid her smile in a sip of martini. “Peckish sounds about right.” Among other things.

Hot wings did sound pretty perfect right now. Messy and mannerless, and strong enough to get the taste of obnoxious sweetness from sucking up to Troutman out of her mouth.

Speaking of...

“I'm sorry you had to deal with Troutman in full nightmare-mode,” she told Roark.

“It's not for you to apologize for him.”

“No, but he's certainly not going to do it.”

“I bet he's never apologized for anything.”

She nodded and took another sip. “Hell no, I know he hasn't. But he
is
the type to take credit for everything. To hear him tell it,
he
is Red Left Hand. Forget that Jack writes seventy-five percent of the songs or that Whitney writes the other twenty-five and
sings them
. No. Phil Troutman is the real star.” Madison huffed and sipped until the hot wings arrived.

Steve set the plates down. “I did the large order in case—”

She'd already grabbed one and had it in her mouth.

She and Roark didn't say another word as they ate. The wings were spicy enough that she finished her drink to keep her mouth from catching fire. Steve delivered two more ice-cold martinis as they ate, and Madison was on her fifth wing before either of them made a sound beyond eating.

Roark's bark of laughter made her jump at first. Then, the settling sound of it relaxed her a little more.

“So . . .” He grabbed another cloth napkin to wipe his mouth and fingers. “I forgot to tell you, I decided Troutman's new name is Trout. Or rather
the Trout
. Because that guy looks like a fish.”

Madison set her drink down so she wouldn't spill it as well as choke on it. She coughed and leaned against Roark's arm. “Oh my god, he does! I knew he reminded me of something, but I couldn't think what. He's got a fish face.”

They laughed loud enough that poor Steve shook his head and walked to the other end of the bar.

“There are a few other names I'd like to call him too,” she added.

“Like jerk? Asshole? We said that already.”

“No no.” She wiped her hands clean. “He's more than that. What's worse than being an asshole?”

Roark made a show of thinking. “
Is
there something worse? Horse's ass? I got nothing.”

She grabbed his arm, giggling so hard she couldn't answer.

Roark was chuckling too, but studied her with a look that was way too serious.

She was rather enjoying the silly name-calling and the buzz she was sporting. Warmth spread through her limbs, a welcome change from the tension and the tight way she'd held herself all day.

“What?” She stared back at him.

“I . . . Okay, part of me knows I shouldn't call you out, but I've got just enough of a buzz to do it anyway.”

She sat up a little straighter, noting the deepening color in Roark's cheeks and realizing these drinks were even stronger than she thought.

“What was up with your stellar sucking-up to the Trout? I didn't know you had it in you. You were never that nice to me. And all that stuff about wedding dresses and saving magazines and . . . just,
what
?”

“I was too, nice to you.” She pointed a finger at him.

“Yeah, but it took a whole lot of me being charming first.”

“Oh, you were being charming?”

“Damn straight, I was.”

She laughed again, her body light and fizzy, as if champagne bubbles filled her blood instead of a little vodka. Madison lifted a shoulder. “Sometimes you have to play into people's expectations to get them to hear you. He had a bunch of preconceived notions about me, women in general, and trying to do serious business with him wasn't working. I have a lot of experience with that. Unfortunately. It was
never
going to work, not with a guy like that.”

“True.”

“The Trout sees this as some frivolous joke. If I have to tell him what he wants to hear, I can turn on the sugary coating. No choice. I couldn't get through to him otherwise.”

Roark was quiet a moment, sipping his drink. “I see what you mean, and I caught on to it pretty quick. I thought you'd panicked there for a bit, but you bounced back.”

Hell. She thought she'd covered that pretty well. “Who panicked? I did not panic.”

“You looked a
little
panicked.”

“I do not panic.”

“If you say so.” He shrugged it off. “Regardless, your strategy worked. The Trout is all into this wedding now.”

“Only because he'll make money off it. That's all he cares about.”

Roark took another sip of his drink. “You actually batted your lashes at him at one point.”

“You didn't like that?” She laughed.

“It was disturbing.”

Madison dipped her chin and raised both eyebrows.

“No, I mean, not . . . You batting your lashes is not disturbing. Directed at him,
that
was disturbing.”

“You're not jealous, are you?”

“No.”

She kept her gaze locked with Roark's as she took another drink.

“Why? . . . Do you want me to be jealous?”

“No.”

Roark sipped his drink, his eyes sparkling.

“I don't know. Maybe?”

He grinned, looking away as he put his glass down. “The way he spoke to you though, mocking your job and basically calling you a ditzy blonde, I wanted to kick his ass through the front door. Have him land headfirst.”

“Yeah, about that.” She set her drink down as well. “You weren't real smooth in hiding your opinions on the matter. That doesn't help us. Dial it back a notch next time.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

She turned in her chair to face him, her knees brushing against his leg. “Look, I appreciate your attempt at sticking up for my honor, or whatever, but I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

“I was trying to have your back.”

“Did you also want to run off the biggest job either of us has ever had?” She understood his intent, but intent didn't matter to guys like Troutman.

Roark clamped his mouth shut, his posture stiff. “No.”

“Then let me deal with a guy like Trout underestimating me and being a jerk. I can handle it.”

With a sigh, he ran a hand over his hair, mussing it up further. She itched to touch the dark strands, smooth them back into place, see if they were as soft as they appeared to be.

“I guess my blowing up at him wouldn't have won him over, but you shouldn't have to put up with shit from guys like the Trout.”

“I have plenty of experience putting up with shit. Trust me.”

He took a swig off his drink and muttered, “That doesn't make me any happier about it.”

He was offended on her behalf, and it was nice. She'd never had someone indignant for her. Roark was righteously angry in such a way that rather than ruffling her feathers, it was . . . endearing. Attractive.

“You did kind of blow up at Trout like an angry bear.” She smiled.

He laughed. “I find it hard to stand there, not saying a damn word, when he's talking about getting through your thick blond head.”

“You curse more when you've got a buzz on.”

“I'm aware.”

“You're less buttoned up. I like it.”

“Thank you. And I didn't mean to come off like a bear. It's not that I don't get why you did the whole over-the-top-sweet act, but it pisses me off that you had to. That's not who you are.”

“Oh, and you know who I am?”

“Hell yeah, I do. You're demanding and driven and you shouldn't have to apologize for that. I like it.”

Madison blinked. No one liked her bossy ways. Her whole life, the fact that she had ideas and did something about them had drawn criticism and side eyes. But Roark didn't see her nature as negative. He got her, he liked it, and more than anything, he treated her with respect.

“Well . . . you're overbearing and kind of a know-it-all, but . . . I don't mind.”

Roark's smile warmed her insides more than any martini ever could. “Thanks. You're also prickly and fine as hell. I mean that with the utmost respect.”

Her pulse jumped at his compliment. His appreciative gaze was one thing. Expressing attraction out loud . . . that was a whole other level.

Screw it. If he was bold enough to go there, so was she. “And you're built like a brick house. Also respectfully.”

Roark slapped the bar, laughing.

“I think we're a bit tipsy.”

“Yeah, we are.” He draped an arm over the back of his chair, facing her. His legs pressed against hers, his mouth close enough she could smell the sweet pomegranate on his breath. His eyes were the sky on a misty day, his jaw slightly darker this late at night, and, again, she wanted to touch. Reach out and run her hand over his jaw, down the strong line of his throat and into his shirt to see if he felt as warm as he looked.