Dez

T he dusty, rock covered driveway rattles the car we're traveling in like a stormy ocean. I take a deep breath and try to not let it bother my stomach. I was too nervous to eat this morning, and I'm regretting that second cup of coffee. Feels like it's sloshing around in my guts, just waiting for the opportunity to embarrass me. I can't imagine a less attractive first impression than puking on my new client's shoes.

I'm still pinching myself. I cannot believe we managed to secure this client. Ian Worthington-Jones is the former bassist for Courage, the biggest emo band of the nineties. He's retired from rock stardom and is now shifting over to become a professional celebrity brand. His first venture, believe it or not, is opening a winery.

While Ian's been off the radar for a bit, I'm certain that InWard Joy Winery is going to be successful. That's not just twenty years of being an IWJ fan. That's my determination to make it so.

"We're here." Daphne Washington, the agent for most local celebrities, parks her SUV in front of a fancy-looking farmhouse. When she said we were going out to wine country to meet with Ian, I thought the place would be more, I don't know… rustic. It's clearly not a sleek city condo, but the house is surprisingly elegant, with stone fencing along the property line and an endless vista of grapevines.

"I should warn you. He's a bit of an ass—" Daphne catches herself. "He can be a challenge."

"Understood. That's what you hired me for, right?"

She smooths her tall hair back from her face and sighs the biggest sigh I've ever heard from a person so short. "Right. I just don't want you to take anything he says personally."

I'm about to reassure her I have plenty of experience with difficult clients and absolutely won't take anything to heart when the door to the farmhouse opens, and out walks the literal man of my teenaged dreams.

Well, not just him. Two attractive pale blond women who might be twins emerge, giggling and running just fast enough not to get caught, followed by Ian himself.

Ian's hair is long. His dark brown curls are lightly streaked with grey, and graze his broad shoulders in a casually tender kiss I instantly envy. Though he's shirtless, covered in muscles and rippling abs, his sharp features stop me in my tracks. His face is transformed from the stern frown that stared down at me from my teenaged bedroom walls to the beautiful smile now taking over.

Ian snaps a towel at one of the girls. "That's for making me do that stupid move earlier. I nearly blew my back out!"

His voice is a curious mix of his parents' accents. I remember reading an article on Teen Dream Machin e explaining that while his father is minor English aristocracy, his mother is a literal Southern belle from Tennessee. An actual beauty queen.

The blondes dance away, laughing themselves silly. "Try harder to keep up next time, old man."

Ian flips them off. The two women slide into their SUV, still laughing as they zoom off down the long driveway.

Daphne and I get out of her vehicle, and walk toward the house. The smile that lingered around Ian's mouth turns to a frown when he sees us. By the time we reach the door of his palatial farmhouse, it's become one of his equally famous scowls.

"Daph." His voice is gravel and rust tumbled in a dry cocktail shaker. "What the fuck is this?"

"Good morning to you too, crab ass." Her tone is mild, despite the attitude she gives him right back. "Don't act like this is a surprise."

"I may have agreed to see you at this ridiculous hour," he grouses, checking his watch. "But I don't have to be happy about it."

"Stop being a baby and let us in."

He turns his gaze on me. But not just any gaze. I get the Ian Worthington-Jones special. It's a slow, measured look from the ground up that sends heat spiraling from the soles of my shoes up to my ends of my hair.

He scans every inch of my body, studying me like I'm a subject he intends to master. He doesn't say a word, but his eyes promise all kinds of wretched, filthy things I cannot wait to experience. Whatever he wants to try, I volunteer to let him do once every day and twice on Sundays.

" Green," I say, holding out my hand. Ian ignores it, turning back to Daphne.

"Well," he drawls, turning back to Daphne, "she's prettier than the last babysitter you tried to stick me with. Thanks for giving me something nice to look at."

"Ian —" she interrupts.

He keeps going like she never spoke. "Now send her back wherever you found her."

Dang. They say never meet your heroes. I'm beginning to understand the wisdom of that advice. On the plus side, his words are like a cold bucket of ice water on my instant lust.

That's a good thing, too. For a second, my inner teenager was about to throw herself on the altar of this rock god and worship him to his face. My outer thirty-nine year old, though, is another matter. She's got better ideas — and knows how to handle spoiled rich clients.

"Mr. Worthington-Jones," I tell him, drawing his dark eyes back to me, "I understand you don't want me here. I also understand that you don't have a choice in this matter. So you might consider coming down off that arrogant high horse before you hurt your aging back."

Daphne chokes back a laugh as Ian scowls in my direction. I give him my sweetest, sunniest smile. For a millisecond, it seems like he's going to smile back. But it disappears so fast I'm not sure it was ever there. Then he takes his saucy smirk and turns back to his manager.

"We're just gonna let her talk to me any kind of way, huh?"

He pouts. Actually pouts. Crosses his arms and sticks out his lower lip just enough to make me think about biting it. I'd laugh if his ridiculous attitude wasn't directed at me.

She shrugs. "You make that bed, friend. Now you have to lie down in it."

"Fine. I'm not entirely sure I know what you meant by that, but consider your point made." To me, he turns and barks out a rough "Sorry. Excuse me for being an unfeminist asshole."

I'm so startled but his apology that I almost miss his next words to Daphne. "What are we doing here, Daph? Surely this isn't necessary. I don't need a human ankle monitor."

"Ian. You know the investors demanded this before they'd agree to fund the project," she retorts.

"Considering that you managed to remove the last monitoring device you had after you were arrested for trashing that hotel room in London—" I begin.

"That was fifteen years ago!"

" — it's not a bad idea for you to have a professional here to help you with a crash course in appropriate behavior and hospitality."

If looks could kill, I'd be blasted all the way to outer space and back. I make a tsking noise at him.

"Oof. that scowl is going to become permanent if you keep that up." I say. "Are you sure you really want those frown lines to stay there?"

"Listen here, little girl," he says, stalking toward me like a panther. "I am a man. Frown lines add to my charm."

He hovers over me, standing a little too close for comfort. He's a shade over six feet tall, so this position forces me to look up.

Typical wanna be the boss dude thinks he can intimidate me. Nice try. I'd roll my eyes if it weren't completely unprofessional. But rolling my eyes would mean I didn't see the challenge sparking in his. He's into this.

"One question: were you paying the person who told you that nonsense about the frown lines? Because it sounds like something they told you that to soothe your ego."

Ian starts to reply, but the sound of the engine drowns his words out. We turn to find his manager has hauled my suitcase out of her SUV and placed it on the ground beside her idling vehicle.

"Ms Peterson?" I call. Is she abandoning me here? This wasn't quite the plan.

"Daph, what the hell are you doing?"

"You'll be fine!" She yells, putting the car in reverse. "I'll be back for you, .. Eventually. Shouldn't take that long to work out a plan for the winery opening and get yourselves in order."

She shoots us a thumbs up and drives off. Rocks scatter in the wave of her squealing tires and the fast turn she executes away from the property. Leaving me alone here with the incredibly handsome, unbelievably arrogant man I've just ticked off.

Great. Just great. I'm stranded and I've kicked the hornets' nest. Poked the bear, or whatever other country fried metaphors my brain can dredge up. It's not the ideal situation, to say the least.

I swallow hard. Remind myself that Olivia, my boss, gave me this assignment because she knew I could handle it. She believes in my ability to soothe even this most savage beast. I can't let her down. This is my chance to prove myself. If I can succeed with a client no one else would even want to take on, I am definitely ready for bigger and better things at Behind Closed Doors.

Plastering on my most professionally charming smile, I turn to Ian with a shrug.

"Well. That was dramatic, but I think it underscores how very much your team wants this to work."

He folds his arms over his very bare, very muscular chest, and looks at me like he can't believe the line of bullshit I just fed him. Truthfully, I'm not sure I can either. But I have to try something. This relationship — and my career — depends on it.

"Mr. Worthington-Jones —"

"Ian. Worthington-Jones sounds like my father." A hint of amusement dances along his mouth. It gives me hope. This is the nicest he's been since I arrived. I take it as a good sign. After all, he's got to know I'm just doing my job. The investment team hired me for a reason. Once he realizes that, we'll get along fine. This doesn't have to be a combative relationship, right?

"Ian, it feels like we've gotten off on an awkward note. I think it's better if we start again." Maybe with a little less hostility.

"Forgive and forget, hmm?"

"Something like that." He stares at me for a moment, so quietly that I'm not sure he heard me. His ability to hold so still, while he seems to peer into my very soul — I don't know how he does it. But I feel myself wanting to fidget beneath his piercing gaze.

"No." The word is a soft growl. It seems to come from somewhere around his feet. The rumble of his voice makes the air in my lungs seize up. I want him to whisper all the words against my skin, speaking life and heat into my body with every intonation.

"No?" I manage. My mouth is suddenly dry as the dusty hills behind us.

"No." He gives me a wicked smile. "You've got the world's most innocent face, and the devil's own tongue. I won't forget that."