shoulder.
“Hello, there,” the head said.
“Oh,” Cleo said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.” She did her best to smile.
The woman came around to stand beside Julian, and he casually slipped an arm across her slim shoulders. She was vaguely familiar—tiny, like a delicate pixie, and drop-dead gorgeous. She was older than she looked, though. The neck and eyes did not match the perky boobs. She’d had some star-quality work done, for sure.
“Cleo, this is Sylvie Sandstone,” Julian said.
No freaking way. What the heck was a legendary country music star doing in Julian’s kitchen? While wearing something black and lacy?
The country crooner smiled graciously. “Nice to meet you,” she said.
“Holy cow,” Cleo gasped. “Nice to meet you, too. I’m Cleo. I manage the studio. And I live here. Well, not here, as in this very spot. I live there.” She pointed to the open door next to the refrigerator, which looked seriously inadequate as a boundary. “We just work together.”
She heard herself talking, but she didn’t know how to apply the emergency brake. “We have a professional relationship and nothing more.”
She slapped her hand over her mouth. Why had she said that? Julian choked on his coffee, dribbling it onto his bare chest. And she did not want to lick it off. Much.
“Yes, she’s right,” Julian said. “It’s strictly professional around here, as you can probably tell from the way she flounces about in a ratty bathrobe and anteater slippers.”
“I don’t flounce.” She glanced down at her bathrobe. Dust bunnies clung to its hem, but it wasn’t ratty. “And these are armadillos,” she said, sticking a foot out. “If you were a real Texan and not some Stevie Ray wannabe with a weird accent, you’d know that.”
Sylvie gave a yelp of approval and offered up a fist bump. “I like this girl,” she said. And even though Cleo was seething with something that could not possibly be jealousy, she liked Sylvie right back. They bumped fists hard enough to slosh tea out of Sylvie’s cup.
“Oh, sorry,” Cleo said.
“She’s too enthusiastic for her own good,” Julian said, grabbing a dish towel. “About everything.”
Sylvie laughed, and Julian gently dabbed the cloth at her substantial bosom. Good grief. Cleo had unintentionally set that up for him. Why couldn’t the tea have spilled on her instead of Sylvie?
With the excessive dabbing finally concluded, Sylvie headed for the stairs. “I need to get dressed and head on out. Gotta be in Dallas tonight.”
Cleo and Julian stood silently as Sylvie sashayed off, her lacy black robe barely covering her ass. As soon as she was out of earshot, Cleo turned to Julian. “Oh my God. You’re a boy toy.”
He looked aghast. “I’m quite certain she loves me for my mind, Big Red.”
Cleo rolled her eyes and headed for the coffeepot. “Right.”
“And I’m hardly a boy.”
“To her you are. I mean, how old is she?”
“A gentleman never asks a woman her age. Of course, I’m no gentleman, and I happen to know she’s fifty-two.”
Cleo’s mouth dropped. She doubted she’d attract any toys at fifty-two that wouldn’t require batteries. “She’s twenty years older than you.”
“Stop exaggerating, it’s only nineteen. And she has an awesome body, which she knows how to use.” He raised an eyebrow and lowered his voice. “Sometimes, when she’s done with me, I get a cookie.”
Cleo took a sip of coffee. “How do you know her?”
“There’s cream in the fridge, if you want some.”
Cleo gasped. “You bought her cream ?”
Julian had the good grace to lower his eyes, properly chagrined.
“You must have really needed to get laid,” Cleo said, opening the refrigerator.
There it was. Holy namaste , the boy had bought 100 percent organic, full-fat, anti-antibiotic, cruelty free, pasture-grazed cream! She yanked the carton out like a crack addict. The seal was unbroken—the bitch hadn’t even used it. Cleo
“Hello, there,” the head said.
“Oh,” Cleo said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.” She did her best to smile.
The woman came around to stand beside Julian, and he casually slipped an arm across her slim shoulders. She was vaguely familiar—tiny, like a delicate pixie, and drop-dead gorgeous. She was older than she looked, though. The neck and eyes did not match the perky boobs. She’d had some star-quality work done, for sure.
“Cleo, this is Sylvie Sandstone,” Julian said.
No freaking way. What the heck was a legendary country music star doing in Julian’s kitchen? While wearing something black and lacy?
The country crooner smiled graciously. “Nice to meet you,” she said.
“Holy cow,” Cleo gasped. “Nice to meet you, too. I’m Cleo. I manage the studio. And I live here. Well, not here, as in this very spot. I live there.” She pointed to the open door next to the refrigerator, which looked seriously inadequate as a boundary. “We just work together.”
She heard herself talking, but she didn’t know how to apply the emergency brake. “We have a professional relationship and nothing more.”
She slapped her hand over her mouth. Why had she said that? Julian choked on his coffee, dribbling it onto his bare chest. And she did not want to lick it off. Much.
“Yes, she’s right,” Julian said. “It’s strictly professional around here, as you can probably tell from the way she flounces about in a ratty bathrobe and anteater slippers.”
“I don’t flounce.” She glanced down at her bathrobe. Dust bunnies clung to its hem, but it wasn’t ratty. “And these are armadillos,” she said, sticking a foot out. “If you were a real Texan and not some Stevie Ray wannabe with a weird accent, you’d know that.”
Sylvie gave a yelp of approval and offered up a fist bump. “I like this girl,” she said. And even though Cleo was seething with something that could not possibly be jealousy, she liked Sylvie right back. They bumped fists hard enough to slosh tea out of Sylvie’s cup.
“Oh, sorry,” Cleo said.
“She’s too enthusiastic for her own good,” Julian said, grabbing a dish towel. “About everything.”
Sylvie laughed, and Julian gently dabbed the cloth at her substantial bosom. Good grief. Cleo had unintentionally set that up for him. Why couldn’t the tea have spilled on her instead of Sylvie?
With the excessive dabbing finally concluded, Sylvie headed for the stairs. “I need to get dressed and head on out. Gotta be in Dallas tonight.”
Cleo and Julian stood silently as Sylvie sashayed off, her lacy black robe barely covering her ass. As soon as she was out of earshot, Cleo turned to Julian. “Oh my God. You’re a boy toy.”
He looked aghast. “I’m quite certain she loves me for my mind, Big Red.”
Cleo rolled her eyes and headed for the coffeepot. “Right.”
“And I’m hardly a boy.”
“To her you are. I mean, how old is she?”
“A gentleman never asks a woman her age. Of course, I’m no gentleman, and I happen to know she’s fifty-two.”
Cleo’s mouth dropped. She doubted she’d attract any toys at fifty-two that wouldn’t require batteries. “She’s twenty years older than you.”
“Stop exaggerating, it’s only nineteen. And she has an awesome body, which she knows how to use.” He raised an eyebrow and lowered his voice. “Sometimes, when she’s done with me, I get a cookie.”
Cleo took a sip of coffee. “How do you know her?”
“There’s cream in the fridge, if you want some.”
Cleo gasped. “You bought her cream ?”
Julian had the good grace to lower his eyes, properly chagrined.
“You must have really needed to get laid,” Cleo said, opening the refrigerator.
There it was. Holy namaste , the boy had bought 100 percent organic, full-fat, anti-antibiotic, cruelty free, pasture-grazed cream! She yanked the carton out like a crack addict. The seal was unbroken—the bitch hadn’t even used it. Cleo
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