Hollywood Bad Boys Club: Book 2: Mason by Alexis Adaire

isn’t such a bad idea after all. She’s cooking up something and I need to know what.

12

Claire
    I ’m nervous all day about this damned dinner, barely able to focus on my work.
    I leave the office at four and go home to shower, then rummage around in my closet for a while. Mason didn’t say where he’s taking me, and I would rather be dressed too upscale than not upscale enough. Besides, the last thing I want is for him to look better than me.
    I spend a silly amount of time before finally deciding on a navy blue cocktail dress with lace detailing. It’s short enough to show off my legs, but with a high neckline so Stark won’t gawk at my cleavage like he did last time.
    My reflection in the bathroom mirror surprises me because I’d forgotten how the dress clings to my breasts and fits snug around my waist. I’ve somehow chosen one of the sexiest things in my entire closet, pairing it with black strap heels and a small black clutch. I convince myself I’m wearing it to tease Stark, to get his hopes up about the sex he will never actually have with me, but part of me knows that I really just want to look sexy around him.
    When I return to Creative Talents, though, I become concerned that the dress is too sexy. The few employees still here give me not-too-subtle looks as I walk to my office. What was I thinking? What is it about Mason Stark that clouds my judgment?
    Anyway, it’s too late to change now, so I’m committed. As the minutes slowly tick down to seven o’clock, I start feeling butterflies in my stomach. I try to tell myself it’s because I’m seconds away from a rather unexpected dinner date with the man I’m trying my best to screw over.
    Though true, that doesn’t fully explain my anxiety.
    Stark is right on time and calls to ask if he should park and come up, but I tell him I’ll meet him downstairs in front of the building. I want to keep him off of my turf.
    I check myself in the elevator’s mirrored walls, making sure my red lipstick is perfect and my hair spills artfully over my shoulders. His gray Mercedes is curbside when I strut out. He exits the car to open the passenger door for me, and my bravado takes a hit when I see how impeccably put together Stark is. He’s wearing a charcoal gray suit that fits him like a glove, paired with a violet spread-collar dress shirt and a lovely purple silk tie with small diagonal stripes.
    I rarely describe men as breathtaking, but Stark’s look is flawless and I literally stop breathing for a few seconds when he smiles as I approach. I instinctively want to wrap him up in a big, warm hug, then remember with a jolt that he’s the enemy. No hugs tonight.
    “You look stunning this evening, Miss Jarrett,” he says, holding the door open.
    “As do you, Mr. Stark.” I’m aware that he’s watching my legs as I sit, my hem riding up my thighs when I raise my feet into his car.
    En route to dinner we chat about industry gossip, steering clear of any talk of Texas Flood and Cheyenne Parris – and especially the bet. He drives me a few miles from Hollywood to a tiny restaurant called Marcel’s, a spot I assume he chose because he doesn’t want anyone to see us together.
    Marcel’s is a charming little place with less than a dozen tables, and they’ve reserved one in the corner for us. I make a mental note that this would be a nice choice for a romantic date, with its old world décor and subdued lighting.
    Stark holds my chair out for me, and as I sit down I catch a whiff of his cologne. I don’t recognize the scent, but damn, it’s intoxicating. As he takes his seat across from me, I wonder if it would smell that good on another man.
    I’ve given myself a strict two-drink limit tonight, and the luscious Viognier wine Stark orders will certainly test me. We start off with escargot, also his choice, and they’re scrumptious. As we finish off the delectable morsels, I take advantage of the moment to satisfy my curiosity.
    “So, Mason, I have