The Do It List (The Do It List #1) (6 page)

“Woo-woo! Aunt Gracie sleeps in her boyfriend t-shirt and lace cheekies—woo-woo!” A new, happier, girly-girl Hannah tossed her hair about and giggled.

Heat swept across my cheeks. “Circa late nineteenth-century Paris,” I mumbled, pointing to the bed. “A Columbus Avenue Flea Market find.”

Bradley turned to Hannah. “I was thinking you might want to call your father.”

Hannah’s eyes grew wide. “To say I’m sorry for being me.”

Bradley shrugged. “I know that when my daughter calls me after an ugly time, that’s what she calls them, it makes us both feel better.”

Hannah sucked in air so fast she could barely speak. “You have a daughter?”

“I do.”

“Is she my age?”

“Close, she’s seven.”

Hannah gasped. “Does she live with you?”

“She will soon. Right now, she lives in London with her mother.”

“What’s her name?”

“Olivia.”

Hannah clasped her hands together. “Could we be friends?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“May I call her, now?”

“Let’s see, five hours difference, she’s fast asleep.” Bradley showed us a picture on his phone. “Here we are at the London Zoo. See the odd furry creature with the black eyes in the pen behind us? That’s Pipsqueak the meerkat. Liv and I adopted him last year and visit quite regularly, at least we used to.”

Hannah grabbed my hand and led us back through the kitchen. “Is he replacing Derek? Because if he is,” she leaned close and whispered, “I like him much better.”

“Go call your father. Hurry, before he’s in surgery.”

Hannah turned to Bradley. “Very nice meeting you. May I call you Bradley?”

“I much prefer it to Mr. Craig.”

We both watched her trot down the hallway to her room. Strong hands on my shoulders began to rub. “So this Derek chap, is he the one you’re seeing?”

“He’s been over a few times.”

“As in sleep over—over?”

I pivoted around to stare.

“Obviously none of my business.” Bradley’s hands went up in surrender. “I just like to know who my competition is.”

“I’m…seeing someone….very irregularly.” In fact, Derek and I were about as iffy as it gets. “My life does not revolve around finding some imaginary hero to sweep me off my feet and take care of me.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” His intriguing half-smile teased. “Why don’t you get ready for bed? I’ll check in on Hannah and call for a car.”

The man exuded some sort of…? Mother used to call it je ne sais quoi, an intangible quality that makes someone irresistibly attractive, or distinctive. And in Bradley’s case, trustworthy in odd ways. There was an element of crisis bonding going on. Being trapped in the elevator together had supercharged the friendship as if we had known each other for years. Instant closeness on a staggering other level.

I trusted him more than a little—but not entirely.
 

I took a quick shower—very quick—and stopped in to say good night to Hannah. Fast asleep with the most angelic look on her face. She could be so infuriating, but I loved her dearly. I caught a glimpse of my sleepwear in her dressing room mirror. A soft black lace teddy over cotton cheekies, and a super-cozy thin gray sweatshirt. My second favorite sleep ensemble.

I found Bradley in the kitchen, on his phone.
 

“Irving Place and…?” He looked up at me. “What’s the cross street here?”
 

“Nineteenth.”
 

He ended the call and picked up a half-empty bottle of pinot noir. “I found this in the fridge. Any interest?”

“Better taste first, I opened that over a month ago.” I got down a glass and he poured.
 

 
“She went straight off to the Land of Nod.” He sipped a drop of wine, then a bit more. “Perfectly fine. May I pour you one?”

I lifted the glass from his hand. “When we were little, Grandma Nona used say, ‘you look like angels when you ’re asleep so that I can forget you were little devils all day.’”
 

He zeroed in on my mouth. The angle of the glass, the slosh of liquid, how the wine wet my lips. “You’re good with her, Bradley do you babysit?”
 

I waited for a cute quick comeback, but none came. From the look on his face, my sleeping attire caused the distraction—the lower half anyway—where the see-through teddy revealed skimpy panties.

 
“We have about five minutes until my ride arrives.” He reached for my hand and led me into my bedroom, which overlooked the street.

I pulled back. “We’re not going to…you know.”

Using gentle persistence, he towed me over to the window and held me close, rocking me gently from behind. We didn’t speak for several moments. An echo of footsteps and crunching leaves drifted up from below. Shadows passed under the street lamp, briefly materialized into human form, and then disappeared into the darkness.

“I can wait,” he whispered.

 
I had to imagine his heated gaze, but it wasn’t hard. And his husky words aroused all the female parts—nipples, belly, womb. Suddenly, I got it. He wanted so much more.

He pressed his body against mine. “I don’t mean to be overbearing, it’s just that I like you very much, even more than I imagined.”

Before I had a chance to protest, to remind him that I hadn’t made up my mind about any do it list we might put together, he moved his hands up my back. Strong fingers kneaded my neck and shoulders until I moaned with relief.

He encouraged me to lean against him. “I want see you naked in this bed, feel your beautiful body beneath me.” He pressed against my bottom. “You’re going to reach orgasm quickly because you’ve been anticipating, and you’ll be impatient for it.” His whispered words breezed through the damp curls of my hair. “You’re also going to be insatiable, so I will have to insist you come again. And maybe once more, just to make sure you’re satisfied.”

His thumbs pressed along each side of my spine, as he moved down to the small of my back. A car turned onto the street and slowed. He swept an arm around my waist and slipped his finger under the lace trim of my panties. Arching against him, my nipples peaked and my belly fluttered.

 
“Afterward, when I hold you, I want you wobbly-legged, unable to talk—completely and utterly spent.”

 
His British accent, in combination with his raspy whisper nearly sent me over the edge. He kissed my temple and backed away.

I hesitated a moment too long. By the time I reached the entry, the door closed quietly. “Wait.” My speech was breathy, aroused.

The gruff male voice that drifted through the door sent shivers through me. “Lock me out, Gracie.”

I SCROLLED THROUGH my morning e-mail, trashing or dashing off replies before arriving at [email protected].

Subject line: DO IT LIST. Sent from his mobile at 7:01 this morning. No message, just a vertical stack of ten numbers ending with a question mark.

I smiled. Worse, I sucked in a deep breath and sighed.

Besides his drop-dead good looks and the fact that he oozed masculine potency and sexual prowess, could Bradley Craig also be fun? A big part of me needed a little fun in my life. Working long hours and helping to raise my niece occupied most of my down time. Mitch had just begun his third year of residency at Mount Sinai. Becoming a world-class brain surgeon was no easy task, and he still had several years to go.
 

I hit inbox zero and closed email.
 

I swear I used to be fun, I was almost sure of it. Something simple and sexy with Bradley Craig might be just the answer.

“We’re meeting in my office, Gracie.” Axel rested his palm against the doorframe and leaned into the creative conference room. His wry grin told me our intrepid, high-energy Chief Strategy Officer was up to something.
 

“If it’s about Unilever, I’ve already heard the rumors. We’re pitching a new line of personal care products.” I ran a fingertip over my new business card, specifically the engraved letters of my name, barked from the snarling under bite of a bulldog wearing a spiked collar. College team mascot kitsch—competitive, blood thirsty—only with tasteful type design. The contrast was brilliant. It had Derek Moubin’s style imprint all over it. Pantone 152 orange-red, and black ink printed on cream-colored card stock.

“Wanna hear what Adweek has to say about your promotion?” A big fan of my work, Axel could also be a royal pain in the ass at times.

I hunkered down and squinted, ready for something snarky.

He turned his phone sideways and used his thumb to scroll. “Twenty-eight- year-old Grace Taylor-Scott has been appointed copy chief of boutique creative group Barking Mad. Taylor-Scott’s work cuts through the ad clutter with insight and compassion. Her artfully edgy ads have La Perla and Unilever courting Darcy, Wexler, Dean, New York.”

A bit of heat swept across on my cheeks. “When did that come out?”

“PR just received the pre-release. You’re in tomorrow’s front page box.” He pocketed his phone. “Before my day reaches DEFCON four, I’d like to introduce you and your team to the new head of Insight, Bradley Craig.”

My stomach flip-flopped. “Bradley?” I answered absently, stuffing my new business card back in the box.

“I stole him from the London office.” Axel could not have looked more pleased with himself. “He’s on the Unilever pitch.”

Sarah Springer, the only other female in my creative team, leaned across the conference table. “Lisa Peterman in HR says he’s hot.”

I quirked an eyebrow.

“Fresh meat from the UK.” Axel grinned. “I’m always looking out for my single ladies.”

“He looks like that model—shit, what’s his name?” Sarah’s gaze flitted from me to Axel and back again. “Someone give me a head smack. You know the one—he’s up in Times Square.”

Mentally, I compared Bradley Craig to the five-story poster and nodded. “The model in the knit boxers with the nice—”

“Package.” A self-proclaimed fangirl of all things Abercrombie and Fitch, Sarah was an invaluable resource for hotness levels of all kinds, from fashion trends to celebrity meltdowns. She also happened to be the only woman in Manhattan I trusted with dating advice.

“Call me when Miranda Kerr goes up.” Axel referenced the agency’s new Féria campaign for L’Oréal featuring the gorgeous supermodel.
 

For a suit, Axel was more than okay. A lean, cuter-than-cute, forty-something ad man with a million-dollar smile and a mouth like—well—had you asked him about the merger three days ago, his answer would have sounded something like this:
 

“Fuck Scacchi & Scacchi—it’ll be a cold day in hell before I’m caught wiping my ass with old stationery. Therefore—no new business cards. We’re keeping the goddamn worldwide because we’re more than ready to go global—when and if—the deal is fucking right.” Our fearless, foul-mouthed leader had left the conference room trailing expletives behind him.
 

“…Motherfuckers.”
 

Temperamental shortcomings aside, Axel had been my first friend and mentor in New York and would always remain so. He also loved edgy advertising and for that reason alone, he was held in the highest esteem by all the creatives in the agency.
 

I put my iPad to sleep. “We’re making a Lo’s Rickshaw run.”

Axel reversed course and handed Sarah a large bill. “Bring up…what is everyone drinking these days?”
 

“Jasmine-infused green or black tea, iced or hot, with or without bubbles.” My art director shrugged. “You asked.”

“Make mine a decaf chai latte.” He pointed from Sarah to me as he backed out of the room. “My office—ten minutes—both of you.”

I rolled back my chair. “FYI, the model up in Times Square is Jake Hudson. He’s the new face-slash-torso for the A/X Spring collection. Derek has a shoot with him next week.”

“The bath tub layout for Acqua?” Sarah’s large brown eyes went Gollum on me. “That rat—he never said anything.”

“We just booked him.” I flicked my gaze upward. “It was a nightmare—sign him or lose him. His agent just confirmed yesterday.”

Speaking of Giorgio Armani, I grabbed my distressed black leather messenger bag and thought about Bradley’s remark last night. He seemed genuinely curious about human behavior, be it the psychology of sale shopping or the length of time it takes a woman to reach orgasm.
 

Geekishly smexy.

Sarah sprang out of her chair and caught up with me in the hallway. “Do you think Derek will let me drop by the shoot?”

“If he doesn’t, I’ll have to send you over with a rough cut of the Swatch spots in need of urgent feedback.” Somewhat gingerly I stepped toward an open elevator.

I turned to Sarah. “Do me a favor?”

She nodded. “Anything.”

“Push me inside.”

I adored my art director’s ready sense of play and adventure. Without so much as a raised brow, Sarah shoved me inside the metal box.
 

I ignored a few tetchy looks and resisted the urge to monitor my thumping pulse rate. Not quite as bad as the ride up this morning.

With no Bradley Craig around, I needed a distraction. I listened absently to Sarah complain about her quasi-date with a casting director.

According to the Urban Dictionary a quasi-date is an ex-girlfriend or boyfriend you still hang out with because they’re smokin’ hot. Instantly my mind wandered to last night in the elevator—in fact, this very elevator—and Smokin’ Hotness himself.

“I was stuck in this elevator during the blackout.” I blurted out, much to the consternation of everyone on board including Sarah.

“Holy crap! And you waited this long to say something?”

I checked my watch. “It’s nine-thirty. And I haven’t told anyone because…” I lowered my voice. “There would be questions.”

I might have given things away with an eye roll.

Sarah’s mouth dropped open. “You weren’t alone.”

I imagined every ear in the elevator swiveling like a radio telescope dish. I cleared my throat. “Could we take this up outside?”

Sarah, bless her heart, waited until we got in the tea truck line.