I take a fortifying breath, meet his eyes directly, and begin. “I’m the best at what I do for a reason, and I bring my A-game to every assignment. Every client deserves that—”

  “Especially me,” Carson adds.

  “Especially you,” I echo. “But I got us halfway down a path that was more about easy than innovation, and it wasn’t my best. To make matters worse, I brought up the festival idea with the whole team instead of doing it privately. You deserved the opportunity to hear the idea first, have time to tweak it with me and then present as a united front. Instead, I got overly excited and ran with it in the moment, and that was unprofessional of me. I’m sorry, Carson.”

  It all comes out in one long breath, leaving my chest aching and my lungs burning as I run out of oxygen. Carson’s stoic reaction, or non-reaction, I should say, doesn’t make me feel any better.

  “You done?” he asks.

  I’m ready for anything. At this point, he has every right to yell, to be disappointed in me, or even to fire me and hire another PR representative to help him and Americana Land. It’d serve me right for being blinded by him to the point of distraction. “Yes. Let me have it.”

  A shudder works its way through his shoulders, and he pins me with the fire in his gaze. “I would very much like to. However, about the matter at hand . . .”

  Wait, what did he just say? Is he flirting at a time like this? Whiplash shoots through my nerves. Maybe he’s not mad?

  But no, the snapped responses during that meeting made his feelings explicitly clear.

  “The festival idea is . . .” He’s searching for words, never a good sign. “Brilliant. I do wish we’d thought of it sooner, but every new idea comes from a spark, and that spark happened in real time today. We got to see it develop into a flame, and it was beautiful to watch. You were beautiful to watch as your mind raced, considering and rejecting ideas on the spot, planning possible ways to make it work and getting everyone in the room dedicated to this crazy idea of yours in a matter of seconds. It was stunning.”

  “I’m . . . you’re . . . uhm, what?” I’m stumbling over my words because my brain isn’t able to make the least bit of sense from what he’s said. I feel like I’ve got puzzle pieces from a Sesame Street ten-piece and a thousand-piece Impressionist painting puzzle and I’m trying to slide them together. But they do not go . . . at all.

  Carson softens before my eyes, his eyes brightening, his shoulders dropping, and a low chuckle rumbling in his chest.

  “You’re not mad at me?” I ask, still trying to find some logical connection between his earlier reaction and his current one.

  “For the festival idea? No.” He runs his fingers through his hair, one of his few tells that he’s got something heavy weighing on his mind. “But you did hit one of my sore spots, and it pissed me off. That’s why I said ‘I’m sorry’ to you—for my rudeness when you’re only trying to help us.”

  “I didn’t mean to press your buttons. Can you tell me what it was so I don’t do it again?” I ask carefully.

  “Not good enough. Not nearly good enough,” Carson grits out as though the words get stuck in his throat.

  At first, I think he’s talking about me, but when he gives me a pained look, I realize that he’s quoting me. I said that . . . about my concert series idea. And then it dawns on me . . . he thought I was talking about him.

  “Oh, Carson! No. That’s not what I meant. I meant what I gave you—my ideas—weren’t good enough.” I reach out to cover his hand with my own, needing to comfort him. I don’t know why that phrasing hit so hard, but I certainly didn’t mean to hurt him in any way.

  He shrugs, the movement an obvious attempt at downplaying his reaction. “I know. But like I said . . . it’s a trigger point for me.”

  The meeting comes into a sharper focus as I replay his reactions in my mind with this new lens. He wasn’t mad at me or disappointed in my ideas. It was something deeper and personal, something I can relate to. Because I said those words to myself.

  “Families are tricky things, shaping who we are in ways both good and bad. My family is full of high-achieving perfectionists who have it all, do it all, and crush any goal they set,” I admit. “It’s hard to shine in a family like mine. I usually feel . . . invisible? Or maybe not on their level?”

  I tilt my head, trying to put my feelings into words, but this isn’t something I share with people. It’s not even something I think about, but with everything I’m asking of Carson, the least I can do is offer my own truth.

  “I’m a behind-the-scenes person, Carson. If I’m doing my best work, nobody sees it or realizes they’re seeing it. It can make it hard to feel like I matter because it’s not tangible. I can’t say ‘I increased profits by ten percent’ or ‘decreased expenses by one million dollars’. I can’t even tell my family that I prevented a PR catastrophe because that would defeat the purpose of doing it. So, realizing that what I’d set in motion here, for you and Americana Land, wasn’t good enough, wasn’t my best . . . disappointed me. And since I’m the only barometer I have, the expectations are higher than high.”

  Probing delicately, I ask, “Did what I say trigger you because of your family?”

  His growl is one of frustration and long-held anger, and I don’t think he’s going to answer, but after a moment, he says, “Did you know Archer was the chosen son when I was younger? That he even worked here for a short while?”

  “What? That wasn’t in any of my research.” I’m surprised. My deep dive into projects borders on obsessive, to the point I often find info my clients wish I didn’t know. But nothing in my investigation of Americana Land, Carson, or the Steen family showed Archer as anything other than a playboy who flits around from woman to woman, living off a trust fund. Certainly, nothing hinted that he’d actually worked, much less at the family business.

  Carson nods. “One of my first jobs as Chief Marketing Officer was to wipe everything I could, and to be honest, there wasn’t much out there on Archer, the professional, because he wasn’t. But here, in the office, I had to prove myself over and over again because people figured I’d be like him. And I worked my ass off to show that I wasn’t. But no matter how hard I work or how much I do, I can’t wipe that assumption from one person’s mind. My dad’s.”

  I hear the sharp grind of his teeth as he closes his eyes and wonder what voice is playing in his head right now . . . his father’s or his own? I suspect they’re one and the same at times.

  “There’s no way your dad thinks you’re like Archer,” I refute bluntly. “I’ve seen what you do here, how much you care. Hell, the whole reason I’m here is because you stepped in to help an employee. You could’ve walked on by, said it was her job, not yours, but you didn’t because you care about people. And now you’re the one paying the price for it.”

  “But it’s still just one more fuck-up to dear old Dad. If I’d kept my head down, the situation would’ve still been handled but there wouldn’t have been all this drama and dragging Americana Land and the Steen name through the mud again.”

  “Again. The key word there is again. Nobody’s perfect, least of all Ben Steen. Fuck knows, he messed up, and his personal choices definitely affected his professional image. Back then, things were different, though. Gossipy grapevines were forgetful, not instantly and perpetually searchable with the click of a button. And you don’t have to be some perfect robot son to be worthy of your role as CMO or as his son.”

  “If only that were true,” he scoffs.

  “Are you sure it’s not you who expects you to be perfect? Because obviously, I’ve got my own issues with that.” I offer a small smile with the self-deprecating sense of camaraderie. “Maybe we’re two peas in a pod?”

  Carson looks up at me through thick lashes and finally offers a hint of a smile. “Not sure that’s a good thing. This pea pod is pretty fucked up.”

  “Nobody wants pristine, organic pea pods anyway. I had to do image rehab once because an actress went all Mother Earth-granola-crunchy to the extreme, telling interviewers about her detox shits because ‘Everyone poops and it’s perfectly natural.’”

  I laugh at the memory and how hard I had to fight to keep a straight face during that conversation, especially when my client wanted to discuss my own bowel habits. No, thank you, not interested in that convo.

  “You’d think that wouldn’t be controversial, but you’d be so very wrong. She went from beloved to most hated overnight because everyone thought she was being all holier-than-thou about it, and honestly, she was. I had to help her find a balance between her personal self and the image she needed to be hirable. Point being—perfect is boring, and people hate it even though they think they want it.”

  “You might want to repeat that to yourself,” Carson quips pointedly. “I think you’re being too hard on yourself about not coming up with the festival idea sooner.”

  “Hey!” I protest, pointing my finger at him accusingly, “Don’t use my own mental mojo on me. I’m working my magic on you.” I mean as a client, because sometimes my job requires me to be more like a therapist than anything else.

  Carson grabs my hand, encircling it with his own until our fingers interlace. “Yes, you are.” He brings our hands to his lips and presses a gentle kiss to the back of mine. The scratch of the scruff along his chin against the sensitive skin of my hand sends a jolt straight to my core. “There’s one more person you’ve got to bewitch, though.”

  He kisses my knuckle.

  “Huh?” Okay, so intelligent wordsmithing isn’t my forte when all the blood in my body has gone south.

  “We need to tell Dad about the festival.” His tongue dips into the valley between my index and middle fingers. “It’s going to take funding and coordination between all departments. I need to grease the way for Spencer and Kyleigh.” Another kiss, this one wetter and promising similar attention elsewhere on my body.

  His dad. Ben Steen. Carson’s own devil.

  Well, that’s one way to splash cold water on the heat that was building. I think my pussy just went drier than the Sahara.

  “Could we not talk about him while I’m imagining you kissing me like that somewhere else?”

  Carson’s evil grin is diabolical. He releases my hand so that our fingers aren’t interlocked any longer but then takes my index finger into his mouth, his tongue swirling over the pad. He nibbles the plump flesh there gently. “Where do you want my mouth, Jayme?”

  He lays kisses along each fingertip, leaving me fascinated by the pucker of his lips, the pink fullness surrounded by dark scruff, so soft and yet coarse, both sensations driving me crazy. “Everywhere.”

  “Tell me . . . do you want me to kiss your neck?”

  My head lolls over, giving him access, but he simply takes my middle finger into his mouth, sucking gently. I whimper in disappointment, but it’s because I want more. More of what he’s promising—with words and actions.

  “Your breasts?”

  I nod, arching my back to lift my chest encouragingly for him.

  “What about your pussy? You want me to lick and suck you there, lapping up your cream until you come for me?” He turns my hand over, laying a soft kiss to the palm before licking a long line down the center to show me exactly what he’d do to my core, which is pulsing in time with my racing heartbeat. I scissor my legs, looking for relief.

  “Yes,” I moan.

  He flicks his tongue along the sensitive skin between my thumb and index finger, and it’s easy to imagine it’s what he’d do to my clit. This has been building between us over weeks, and I’m weak with desire, on the edge without so much as a touch to my pussy.

  “Fuck, I can’t wait to taste you, drink you down. I bet you taste delicious,” he groans before teasing my hand again.

  “Touch me, Carson.” I don’t beg or plead, it’s a demand. If he doesn’t touch me, I’m going to do it myself, right here on his couch. At least I know there’s no camera in his private office and the day shift security isn’t getting an eyeful.

  There’s no slow progression up my thigh to my center, and Carson doesn’t let go of my hand. But with his other, he dives up my skirt and under my soaked panties, finding my core easily. “Oh, fuck,” he murmurs when he feels how wet I am. “For me?”

  “For you,” I confirm. “You drive me crazy. I shouldn’t be doing this, but I can’t stop.”

  He taps my clit, a slight punishment for saying I shouldn’t do this when it feels so good, but the sting sends a shiver of pleasure through me. He circles my clit, tapping it again as he presses our interwoven hands over my head. I could get away, but I don’t want to. Not at all. I want more.

  I buck my hips, and he slips two fingers inside me instantly, curling them. “Right there? I can feel your walls clenching me tight, wanting me inside you. Is that what you want?”

  I make some sort of unintelligible noise that sounds like, “Uhhuhmmm.”

  Carson must understand, though, because all at once, he grinds the heel of his hand against my clit, curls his fingers against my inner walls, and squeezes my hand tight. The pressure of it all sends me flying into space, shattering into pieces that will never fit back together the same way.

  “Beautiful,” I think I hear his whisper, but maybe I imagine it.

  The waves slow, my body and my consciousness crashing back together. “Oh, my God,” I pant.

  “You can call me Carson, not God,” he jokes.

  I laugh lightly at the stupid joke, unconsciously pushing his fingers out of me. He lifts them to his mouth, licking each one slowly and deliberately. “Delicious. I knew you would be,” he growls, acting like my juices are the most luxurious delicacy he’s ever tasted. “I want more.”

  Heat burns my cheeks, and I’d bet I’m turning seven shades of red from his dirty compliment. “I’m never gonna get you to be a ‘good guy’, am I?” I tease back, making sure he knows I’m kidding. Because Carson Steen is a good man, he just has some rough edges that I do not want to file down. At least not for real, because I’m finding I rather enjoy them. “Just a tamed beast?”

  “Barely tamed,” he declares shamelessly, stretching his arms out along the back of the couch and spreading his knees wide. I can see the hard ridge of his thick cock in his slacks, but it’s the shit-eating grin on his face that makes my heart stutter. He looks relaxed, confident, and calmer than I think I’ve ever seen him.

  “Is this the part where you offer me a ride on your motorcycle?” I drop my eyes to his lap to indicate what I expect him to want me to ride.

  He cups himself, shifting his cock to a more comfortable position in his slacks. “No, this is the part where we bask in the afterglow of that glorious orgasm of yours. And once we’ve done that justice, we’ll get back to work.”

  I blink, surprised at his answer. “That actually sounds like a great plan,” I confess, not ready to move yet. “Reluctantly.”

  I curl into Carson’s side, my head on his shoulder. It feels good to just be for a moment, still and steady as we relax and catch our breaths. I try to close my eyes, but the blood rushing through my body is now redirecting to my brain and ideas are sparking like crazy.

  “What if we do a laser light show? With those smell machines like they have on 4d rides where we pump out citrus scents with orange lights, fresh mowed grass with green, or ocean with blue? We could make each musical set have its own vibe with sensory additions beyond the music. And sell LED necklaces and bracelets to add to the rave effect? We need one of those drinks where the cotton candy melts into it—alcoholic and non-alcoholic versions for the younger crowd. And special edition Freddy Freebirds.”

  My mouth is running at warp speed, but my brain is going even faster.

  Carson sighs, and I look up, expecting him to be annoyed with my overzealousness. But he’s smiling happily. “Guess our afterglow moment is over? You know the first thing we have to do, though, right?”

  I furrow my brows. “Write up a bullet point list to go over with Spencer and Kyleigh?”

  He shakes his head. “Talk to my father.”

  “Shit,” I say.

  “My feeling exactly,” he answers, laughing at my concise summary.

  Ben Steen leans back in his chair, his elbows on the armrests and his hands steepled in front of his mouth as he considers Carson. “A party? This is your grand idea to fix the Americana Land image?”

  He sounds uncertain, but not harsh. To me, at least. Carson seems to feel differently.

  “Yes. A ‘party’, as you called it, otherwise known as a festival, that will be a social media buzz loud enough to drown out any other storylines while creating an improved image for Americana Land as a vacation destination for not only families with young children or older people but targeting a different demographic in an innovative manner.”

  It’s nearly verbatim what Carson and I discussed before approaching his dad, delivered with considerably more bite. Ben’s eyes go hard, returning Carson’s determined glare. Two bulls preparing to charge one another without realizing they could get so much more done if they worked together.

  Using a soothing tone, I echo Carson’s pitch. “This will be a way to reach a new demographic, which happens to be the Abby Burks generation. A festival will be a direct rebuttal to her drama, creating a positive social media presence around the Americana Land name.”

  “Hmm,” Ben says thoughtfully, his gaze turning to me. It’s my job to read people and situations, but Ben Steen is not only a closed book, but rather, one with a lock securely fastening any thoughts or emotions inside. I don’t know if he’s going to laugh at me or agree. Or maybe yell? There’s no telling. “And you want carte blanche to run with this?”

  That definitely does not sound promising.

  “Yes,” Carson answers immediately, taking Ben’s attention back.

  “What about the timing? We have the charity event coming up soon too, you know. It’s a big deal for the local children’s hospital. We can’t interfere with that.”