“Are you going to sit down or stare at me all night?” Grace asked. “Because staring is rude. Unless you’re going to do something about it.”

His stomach tightened at the sexual innuendo. Sweat slid down his spine. Forcing his feet forward, Brian sat on the couch next to her, but not too close, and took a large sip of his water. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Yes.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight.”

He turned to look at her. She wasn’t wearing much makeup besides a little eyeliner and mascara, and her hair was a wild tangle of dark curls around her face rather than sleek and sophisticated, like most barhopping chicks he encountered. Her face was also way too smooth, her complexion flawless.

“You don’t look twenty-eight.”

“How old do I look?”

His gut tightened. “Twenty-two, tops.”

Her smile grew bright, showcasing that sweet little dent in her cheek, and her dark eyes sparkled. “Thank you. That just made my night.”

Not his. It kinda ruined things for him. Which was probably a good thing. He took another sip of water.

“I wish I could take credit for it,” she said, “but I can’t. Good genes. My mom’s almost fifty, and she barely looks thirty.”

For some reason, that loosened the knot in his stomach.

“How old are you?” she asked. When he glanced her way again, she grinned. “Fair question. You started this.”

“Thirty-two.”

“Hm. Thirty-two.” She set her glass on the coffee table in front of her and leaned forward, all confidence and seduction, contrasting again with her youthful face and quirky movements. That fresh, alluring scent of hers drifted over him once more, bringing awareness to the forefront of his mind and his blood back to pounding. “And a professional athlete hanging out at a trendy ski resort. So tell me, Brian, why did you come up here with me instead of going with that voluptuous blonde at the bar who was hitting on you before we started talking?”

Her eyes were like warm pools of dark chocolate, and when she leaned forward like that, her arms pressed her breasts together, forcing them outward, drawing his attention straight to her cleavage, advertising the fact she was anything but a young girl.

“Because I know women like her. They’re fake and immature. I’m not interested in that.”

“What are you interested in?”

You. Though I shouldn’t be. “I don’t know. Something different, I guess.”

Her top teeth sank into her bottom lip, and his gaze followed, his mouth remembering just how she’d tasted, his body vibrating with the memory of how she’d felt pressed up against him. And damn, but he wanted to experience that again. Right now.

“Different is good,” she whispered. “I’m definitely different.”

Get up. Leave. Go now before you fuck up your career.

She scooted closer, and her bent knee brushed his thigh, sending tingles all through his lower body as if he’d been shocked by a live wire. “The question is… What are you going to do about it?”

Something he shouldn’t. Something that was going to screw things with his boss for good. “I’m…bad news.”

“Maybe.” Her gaze locked on his mouth, and slowly she ran her tongue over her bottom lip like she couldn’t wait to take her own sinful taste again. “But I doubt it.”

Blood rushed south, making him hard, making him ache, making him lose what was left of his common sense. He couldn’t stop himself from leaning toward her. “You’re gonna regret this tomorrow.”

She stretched forward, slid her arms around his shoulders, and sifted her fingers into his hair. Heat erupted everywhere she touched. A heat he couldn’t hold back anymore. “I doubt that too,” she whispered, just before his mouth met hers.