Read Online The Dirty Girls Book Club by Savanna Fox - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Savanna Fox
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between gasps. “Car broke down. So sorry.”
Broke down, he wondered, or just ran out of gas?
Viv went over to her, face anxious, and touched her shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, except I speed-walked from Robson and Burrard.” The gasping was easing.
“What did you do about the car?” Woody asked.
Defensively, she said, “No, I didn’t leave it sitting in the middle of the road. I pulled off—” She shook her head. “Forget the car. I’m sorry to delay the meeting.”
She sat at the head of the table, yanked her hair back into its neat knot, then pulled a laptop out of her briefcase.
Figuring she could use a glass of water, Woody poured one.
When he put it down in front of her, she froze, staring at his hand. It made him remember stroking her pussy, thrusting a finger inside her steamy depths, teasing her clit.
Realizing he was getting hard, he let go of the glass and took aseat. Thank God for the loose Beavers jersey that hung down over his swelling fly.
“Thanks,” she muttered, then took the glass and downed half the contents. “Terry, can you hook up my laptop to project?”
“Sure.”
While he did, Georgia went over to the side cabinet and returned with coffee and a chocolate chip muffin. “We’ll start with a little brainstorming.” She turned to Woody, her gaze sliding past his without meeting it. “Brainstorming, Mr., uh, Woody, is a creative process where we toss out ideas without worrying whether they make sense.” There was an edge to her voice that said, “You should be good at that.”
Yeah, he got the message yesterday: she didn’t think much of his brain. It was true he’d never done well in school, preferring to be outside and active. True, too, that he’d always been more interested in the sport of hockey than the business side, so he’d left contracts and finances to his agent. He used to think that playing well was all that mattered. Now he was learning differently.
Damn it, he wanted to impress this woman, and if he’d failed in the sex department, he didn’t stand a hope in hell when it came to smarts.
Why did she get to him? Why were those amber eyes more intoxicating than beer?
“I’ll type up our ideas as we go along,” Georgia said briskly. She clicked through menus until a document appeared on the wall screen, blank but for the title “VitalSport Canadian Campaign—Brainstorming Notes” and today’s date. “We want to be creative and open to discussing ideas, not critical.”
Woody chose to stay quiet and listen. The best strategy was to size up the opposition, and even if this marketing campaign wasn’t exactly opposition, it was a challenge.
He learned that Terry was a sports junkie and knew as muchabout the Beavers and hockey as Woody did. The women weren’t into sports. They were smart, though, and creative.
Would Georgia be creative in bed? No, he wasn’t supposed to be thinking about sex with her, but how could a guy concentrate on business when his throbbing cock kept telling him it wanted to get back inside that woman? Not that she’d allow it, after his miserable performance.
Viv caught his attention when she said, “Woody, let’s look at what you’re wearing now. Old jeans—not designer ones, am I right?— and a rather worn Beavers jersey.”
“Nah, not designer.” The concept of
designer
jeans was stupid.
“He wore the same clothes yesterday,” Georgia put in as she got up to refill her coffee. She’d demolished the muffin. Fat, sugar, caffeine. She’d never survive on the ice.
“Different jersey,” he said, offended. Did she think he didn’t do laundry?
“On the video clips,” Viv said, “you and the other players wore suits when you went in and out of the stadiums.”
“They have to,” Terry said. “They’re going to work, they’re paid a lot to do that work, and they’re supposed to look professional. Right, Woody?”
Woody nodded. “Yeah, and it sucks.” He hated those uncomfortable
Broke down, he wondered, or just ran out of gas?
Viv went over to her, face anxious, and touched her shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, except I speed-walked from Robson and Burrard.” The gasping was easing.
“What did you do about the car?” Woody asked.
Defensively, she said, “No, I didn’t leave it sitting in the middle of the road. I pulled off—” She shook her head. “Forget the car. I’m sorry to delay the meeting.”
She sat at the head of the table, yanked her hair back into its neat knot, then pulled a laptop out of her briefcase.
Figuring she could use a glass of water, Woody poured one.
When he put it down in front of her, she froze, staring at his hand. It made him remember stroking her pussy, thrusting a finger inside her steamy depths, teasing her clit.
Realizing he was getting hard, he let go of the glass and took aseat. Thank God for the loose Beavers jersey that hung down over his swelling fly.
“Thanks,” she muttered, then took the glass and downed half the contents. “Terry, can you hook up my laptop to project?”
“Sure.”
While he did, Georgia went over to the side cabinet and returned with coffee and a chocolate chip muffin. “We’ll start with a little brainstorming.” She turned to Woody, her gaze sliding past his without meeting it. “Brainstorming, Mr., uh, Woody, is a creative process where we toss out ideas without worrying whether they make sense.” There was an edge to her voice that said, “You should be good at that.”
Yeah, he got the message yesterday: she didn’t think much of his brain. It was true he’d never done well in school, preferring to be outside and active. True, too, that he’d always been more interested in the sport of hockey than the business side, so he’d left contracts and finances to his agent. He used to think that playing well was all that mattered. Now he was learning differently.
Damn it, he wanted to impress this woman, and if he’d failed in the sex department, he didn’t stand a hope in hell when it came to smarts.
Why did she get to him? Why were those amber eyes more intoxicating than beer?
“I’ll type up our ideas as we go along,” Georgia said briskly. She clicked through menus until a document appeared on the wall screen, blank but for the title “VitalSport Canadian Campaign—Brainstorming Notes” and today’s date. “We want to be creative and open to discussing ideas, not critical.”
Woody chose to stay quiet and listen. The best strategy was to size up the opposition, and even if this marketing campaign wasn’t exactly opposition, it was a challenge.
He learned that Terry was a sports junkie and knew as muchabout the Beavers and hockey as Woody did. The women weren’t into sports. They were smart, though, and creative.
Would Georgia be creative in bed? No, he wasn’t supposed to be thinking about sex with her, but how could a guy concentrate on business when his throbbing cock kept telling him it wanted to get back inside that woman? Not that she’d allow it, after his miserable performance.
Viv caught his attention when she said, “Woody, let’s look at what you’re wearing now. Old jeans—not designer ones, am I right?— and a rather worn Beavers jersey.”
“Nah, not designer.” The concept of
designer
jeans was stupid.
“He wore the same clothes yesterday,” Georgia put in as she got up to refill her coffee. She’d demolished the muffin. Fat, sugar, caffeine. She’d never survive on the ice.
“Different jersey,” he said, offended. Did she think he didn’t do laundry?
“On the video clips,” Viv said, “you and the other players wore suits when you went in and out of the stadiums.”
“They have to,” Terry said. “They’re going to work, they’re paid a lot to do that work, and they’re supposed to look professional. Right, Woody?”
Woody nodded. “Yeah, and it sucks.” He hated those uncomfortable
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