The Pleasure Contract Caitlin Crews (book club books TXT) 📖

if maybe he’d seen something in the video that wasn’t there. Would he even recognize the one woman who’d ever walked out of his interview process?

But the moment she stepped inside, he knew it. He felt it, as if she’d brought the slap of winter with her when he knew full well it was a lovely spring evening outside.

And he watched as she took in the long walk ahead of her, a look on her face that told him she was equal parts dubious and curious.

He realized that he really hadn’t been sure she would show, and that almost made him laugh all over again.

Because Lachlan couldn’t remember the last time a woman hadn’t been a sure thing.

It was a sheer accident that he’d even seen her video, much less as quickly as he had. He probably wouldn’t have seen it all—because there was no way his assistants would have sent it up the food chain—but he’d happened to text his assistant about a different matter and had casually asked how the selection process was going.

Well, boss, Ryan had replied in his usual cheeky manner, the first one laughed and walked out, so take that as you wish.

That wasn’t the way the selection normally went. Usually the panel had to herd the candidates out because they went on for too long. Lachlan, stuck in a car between two tedious meetings, had asked to see the woman who had broken the mold. Ryan had sent over the short video, Lachlan had laughed, and here he was.

In the video, Bristol had been dressed in an unremarkable short-sleeved, knee-length dress that he suspected was billed as the sort of thing a woman could dress up or down according to her preference. She had done neither. She’d worn no jewelry, save the utilitarian watch strapped to one wrist. She had long, dark hair, glossy and straight, that fell to the middle of her back. Her eyes were big and clever, and her face. It was clever, mercurial. She’d actually frowned and, more, looked as if she did so often—no regular Botox appointments to keep her muscles still and smooth.

It was her face that had captivated him, switching from something like bewildered to straight-up entertained in a heartbeat. Her laugh had been wicked.

And she’d turned and strode off without so much as a hitch in her step or a backward glance. Lachlan had been certain she would forget he existed the moment she stepped out into the street, and he’d found he...couldn’t have that.

He’d expected to regret that choice.

But he didn’t.

Because tonight she marched toward him wearing yet another unremarkable dress. This one was not in the sensible navy shade from before, but was a richer, darker black. And somehow he knew that both the dress and the pair of serviceable heels she wore were the one version of each she had in her closet.

He doubted very much that she had raced out to shop for this outfit. He would have sworn that if asked, practical Bristol March with her PhD in social policy had weighed the options and decided to make do with what she had.

Lachlan didn’t know how he knew that. He just did.

Maybe it was that every other woman who had ever gone through his selection process had come to dinner like a trap ready to be sprung. They’d presented themselves like a living, breathing PowerPoint demonstration. Breasts out for inspection or coyly hidden, usually with an open back instead. Stunning stiletto heels, formfitting gowns, and the kind of effortless, laid-back charm that could only be achieved after a full day in the salon and a trip through the city’s couture ateliers.

But not Bristol March, PhD.

Lachlan couldn’t seem to keep himself from wondering where else she would present herself like this—no frills, no games, just her.

His cock was on board. Enthusiastically.

He saw the very moment she recognized that it was him, standing there waiting for her way down at the other end of the long hallway. She slowed, but only for a moment. Then she simply soldiered on.

She did not smile. She did not turn sultry. There wasn’t so much as the faintest hint of slinking.

She marched up to him and Lachlan noticed that the only nod she’d given to adornment was a set of shiny studs in her ears that he doubted were real diamonds. That same watch that was clearly to tell time, possibly in several time zones, and not a piece of jewelry. No manicure and only a bit of lip gloss.

He couldn’t tell, yet, if she was deliberately dressing down to appear as if she didn’t care about this, or him, as some had tried—though with significantly more quiet touches of cosmetics and couture, like the one woman who had feigned surprise that she’d actually turned up with her dress on inside out. It was possible Bristol was playing that game.

It was also possible she was that rare unicorn. A woman out on a date with him who really, truly wasn’t trying to impress him.

It was amazing, he thought as she stopped before him, how desperately he wanted it to be the latter.

And how much his cock didn’t care either way.

“Mr. Drummond,” Bristol said and thrust out her hand, as if this was a business meeting. One where she was in charge.

Then again, given his selection process, he supposed it was a business meeting. Though he’d never thought of it that way when his actual business meetings were far drier and never the least bit sexual. More to the point, the women who usually held these meetings with him acted as if they didn’t think of it that way either. Because most women, in his experience, actually wanted to date him. Or have dinner with him. Or simply...be in his presence.

Bristol March, PhD, was clearly withholding her judgment on that.

Lachlan took her hand in his and smiled as that electricity he felt when he’d seen her video kicked through him again. Hotter and longer this time.

He estimated she