Insatiable by Lucy Lambert

“Quinn!” He seemed taller than I remembered. And the natural light of day on his face warmed his smile, which appeared genuine enough.
    “Mr. Ward,” I said, trying to ignore the cool rush of excitement in my chest that accompanied my suddenly rapid pulse. Professional!
    “I’m glad things worked out so this could happen,” Vaughn said.
    Worked out? I thought. He didn’t seem to have any clue that because of some whim of his my whole career was on the line. His smile deepened, and my chest fluttered in response.
    Stupid Anne, why did she have to tell me that beautiful person thing? Now that I knew that, I could see it. When Vaughn’s smile wasn’t crooked, both corners of his mouth terminated in the most adorable dimples. His eyes were sharp and clear, and his angular cheeks and chin sported the perfect amount of stubble.
    “C&M is happy to accommodate all your needs,” I replied, trying to pull this back to nothing but a business interaction.
    It helped to think about the trail of broken hearts that littered Ward’s wake. Sure, he might be handsome and rich and all that, but he went through relationships like a smoker goes through a pack of cigarettes, burning people up for whatever temporary fix he needed.
    We both realized at the same moment that we’d spent at least thirty seconds standing on his stoop, looking at each other.
    He scratched at the back of his head and looked up and down the street, which was more brownstones on either side with lots of high-end cars parked along the curb. “Come in. I’ll give you the tour.”
    I stepped inside and my breath caught. It was a beautiful home. Warm wood paneling met a hardwood floor polished to a high, smooth shine. Pieces of modern art accented it all.
    It was a great blend of modern styling cues meeting retro-chic. They could do magazine spreads on this place. My brain was already working on a layout and a few choice phrases.
    “You like it?” Ward said, watching me take in the space.
    And the thing was, it sounded like he really did want my approval. I tried to ignore the flattery of the sentiment, tried reminding myself that we were here because apparently the five-star hotel I’d chosen for him wasn’t up to his expectations.
    “It’s nice. Warm,” I said, “Now...” I started meaning to ask if we could get down to work, but then I caught a whiff of it. The unmistakable smell of fresh espresso. And, before I could stop myself, I continued, “Is that coffee?”
    It had been something of an exhausting day. Mentally and emotionally, at least. My brain craved caffeine.
    “Ah,” Ward said, his eyebrows lifting, “I recognize a fellow addict. Come with me.”
    “Wait, we should...” I started, but Ward wasn’t listening. He started down the hall, and before I could help myself I followed. He just had that sort of aura of easy authority around him that following felt right.
    We ended up in a kitchen that could also have been on the cover of various home decorating magazines. Granite countertops, an island with a wine cooler in it, skillets hanging down from a rack suspended from the ceiling.
    And an espresso machine with enough chrome accents on it to make any hipster red in the face.
    Ward went to work quickly, and I heard the hiss of steam and a low buzz as the machine made some fresh-ground espresso.
    My mouth started watering. He makes his own espresso?
    “You know, I had you pegged as an order-everything-in kind of guy,” I said, the relaxed and warm atmosphere throwing me off my guard.
    I knew that I should tell him to stop. That I didn’t want or need his coffee. It stepped over that professional line in the sand that I had drawn.
    “Happy to surprise you,” Ward replied. “But also somewhat puzzled. I have a pretty wide array of talents. You don’t get to be where I am being good at only one thing.”
    Bravado. Boasting , my mind warned. However, I felt inclined to agree with him. Looking at him now, I saw he wasn’t much older