Read Online The Dirty Girls Book Club by Savanna Fox - Free Book Online
Authors: Savanna Fox
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reception desk, the same pretty Asian girl who’d been there yesterday gave him a stunning smile. “Good morning, Mr. Hanrahan!”
“Hey, sunshine. Call me Woody.”
She smiled even brighter. “I’m Sandra, and a huge fan.” She pumped her delicate hand in the air. “Bash ’em, Beavers!”
He returned the trademark salute.
“Go on in, Woody. It’s conference room B, beside the one you were in yesterday.”
As he headed down the hall, his stride faltered. He’d shoved Georgia out of his mind, but now she was back. Yesterday, she’d gone from snippy to businesslike to passionate—man, had she been passionate—to pissed off. And no wonder, after he’d plowed into her like a rookie.
Not knowing what to expect, he stepped into the conference room.
No Georgia. Just, sitting across from each other, a knock-your-socks-off blonde wearing a jacket in shades of pink and green that made him think of plastic flamingos on a new spring lawn, and a young man in a trendy shirt and tie who might or might not be the actor from
Slumdog Millionaire
.
“Sorry,” Woody said. “Got the wrong room.”
The young guy leaped up and hurried forward. “No, you’re in the right place.” He stuck his hand out. “Man, is it great to meet you, Mr. Hanrahan.”
“Woody.” He shook.
“Bad luck about the game last night.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You’ll bash ’em in Anaheim on Friday.”
They’d sure as hell better.
A female cough made him turn toward the woman. “Terry,” she said, “introductions?”
“Sorry. Woody, I’m Terry Banerjee, and this is Viv Andrews. It’s going to be so great to work with you.”
Woody turned to the woman, who didn’t rise but held out her hand. “Nice to meet you,” he said.
“You too.” She gave him a warm smile and studied him intently, like she was analyzing him in detail.
Georgia must’ve been so mad at him, she’d bailed on the campaign, transferring him to these two. Maybe that was for the best. Working together would’ve been tough. “So,” he said, “Georgia …?” What had she given them as an excuse? What had she said about him?
Viv’s arched brows rose, maybe because he hadn’t used the nickname George. “I’m sure she’ll be here any moment.”
So she hadn’t dumped the campaign.
“Have something to eat?” Viv offered. “A cup of coffee?”
“Don’t drink coffee, thanks.” He went to look at the selection on a sideboard. High-fat muffins, which he ignored. He poured a glass of orange juice, then sat at the foot of the table.
When Terry started to talk about last night’s game, Viv steered the conversation toward world events. Watercooler chat. Woody’d never been good at that stuff. The women he went out with were usually happy talking about sports, or about themselves.
He gave Viv short answers, finished his juice, went for a refill. He hated the whole idea of the VitalSport contract, but he’d signed it. So could they just get on with things? Restless tension sent him over to the twentieth-floor window.
Vancouver Harbor was busy this morning. A red-striped floatplane bounced down onto the water. Sky was blue; sun was climbing; he could be out doing something. Georgia was fifteen minutes late. If that was some kind of pointed message directed at him, he wasn’t grasping that point.
The door crashed open and she rushed in, gasping for breath the way he’d done on the first mile of his morning run. She wore a suit that looked like the navy twin of yesterday’s charcoal one, except today the bottom half was a straight skirt that covered her knees. Her cheeks were pink, and loose tendrils of hair escaped the knot to straggle around her face. As she wheezed, today’s white shirt rose and fell in a manner that made him remember the pretty curves underneath. He’d been inside this woman. And been a crappy lover. They’d promised they’d put all that behind them, but it wasn’t going to be easy.
She choked out a few words
“Hey, sunshine. Call me Woody.”
She smiled even brighter. “I’m Sandra, and a huge fan.” She pumped her delicate hand in the air. “Bash ’em, Beavers!”
He returned the trademark salute.
“Go on in, Woody. It’s conference room B, beside the one you were in yesterday.”
As he headed down the hall, his stride faltered. He’d shoved Georgia out of his mind, but now she was back. Yesterday, she’d gone from snippy to businesslike to passionate—man, had she been passionate—to pissed off. And no wonder, after he’d plowed into her like a rookie.
Not knowing what to expect, he stepped into the conference room.
No Georgia. Just, sitting across from each other, a knock-your-socks-off blonde wearing a jacket in shades of pink and green that made him think of plastic flamingos on a new spring lawn, and a young man in a trendy shirt and tie who might or might not be the actor from
Slumdog Millionaire
.
“Sorry,” Woody said. “Got the wrong room.”
The young guy leaped up and hurried forward. “No, you’re in the right place.” He stuck his hand out. “Man, is it great to meet you, Mr. Hanrahan.”
“Woody.” He shook.
“Bad luck about the game last night.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You’ll bash ’em in Anaheim on Friday.”
They’d sure as hell better.
A female cough made him turn toward the woman. “Terry,” she said, “introductions?”
“Sorry. Woody, I’m Terry Banerjee, and this is Viv Andrews. It’s going to be so great to work with you.”
Woody turned to the woman, who didn’t rise but held out her hand. “Nice to meet you,” he said.
“You too.” She gave him a warm smile and studied him intently, like she was analyzing him in detail.
Georgia must’ve been so mad at him, she’d bailed on the campaign, transferring him to these two. Maybe that was for the best. Working together would’ve been tough. “So,” he said, “Georgia …?” What had she given them as an excuse? What had she said about him?
Viv’s arched brows rose, maybe because he hadn’t used the nickname George. “I’m sure she’ll be here any moment.”
So she hadn’t dumped the campaign.
“Have something to eat?” Viv offered. “A cup of coffee?”
“Don’t drink coffee, thanks.” He went to look at the selection on a sideboard. High-fat muffins, which he ignored. He poured a glass of orange juice, then sat at the foot of the table.
When Terry started to talk about last night’s game, Viv steered the conversation toward world events. Watercooler chat. Woody’d never been good at that stuff. The women he went out with were usually happy talking about sports, or about themselves.
He gave Viv short answers, finished his juice, went for a refill. He hated the whole idea of the VitalSport contract, but he’d signed it. So could they just get on with things? Restless tension sent him over to the twentieth-floor window.
Vancouver Harbor was busy this morning. A red-striped floatplane bounced down onto the water. Sky was blue; sun was climbing; he could be out doing something. Georgia was fifteen minutes late. If that was some kind of pointed message directed at him, he wasn’t grasping that point.
The door crashed open and she rushed in, gasping for breath the way he’d done on the first mile of his morning run. She wore a suit that looked like the navy twin of yesterday’s charcoal one, except today the bottom half was a straight skirt that covered her knees. Her cheeks were pink, and loose tendrils of hair escaped the knot to straggle around her face. As she wheezed, today’s white shirt rose and fell in a manner that made him remember the pretty curves underneath. He’d been inside this woman. And been a crappy lover. They’d promised they’d put all that behind them, but it wasn’t going to be easy.
She choked out a few words
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