Tall, lean, and delightfully green.

My mystery man watches me cut through the crowd with a seductive sway of my hips. If I had any suspicions this emerald-clad gentleman was looking at someone else, they are gone completely.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you not to stare?" There's a playful roll to my words as I saunter up to him. "It's impolite."

"I have a lot of brothers and sisters," he answers with a slight grin that tells me he's willing and ready to play this game. "She didn't have much time to teach us etiquette. So, I hope you'll accept my apology. I admit, I was curious about you after that whole broken wine glass ordeal."

"Oh?"

Is it good or bad that he saw that? Neutral maybe. Whatever it is, I need to redirect the conversation.

"It's hard to find good help these days," I joke, knowing full well that Tori wouldn't have a problem with me throwing her under the bus. "My poor assistant is probably sulking somewhere and I'm still without a drink. I can grab you one too if you want."

"Shouldn't you be consoling your assistant instead of flirting with me then?"

Distracted by his finely cut jawline, broad shoulders, and elegant hands, I failed to notice the vicious humor glinting in his eyes. My cheeks burn and I pull back slightly.

"I beg your pardon? My assistant is fine. She just—"

My better senses stop my tongue. I can't tell him she only dropped the glass because I needed an in with BayBay. That reeks of desperation. Which it was. I'm not denying that, but I don't need to broadcast it.

"She what?"

"Uh, sorry," I say, shaking my head and flashing him a smile. "I have a lot going on right now so my mind is in a million places. Anyway, I was only playing. Tori is a strong, capable woman. She's likely cleaning herself off and not actually crying."

There. Good save. Way to go me!

"You can't just get out red wine. She's going to be locked in that bathroom all night. You could be helping her find new clothes or—"

"She's fine," I say, my words forced out through gritted teeth. "She can handle herself. I'm not some fresh out of college intern, okay? I'm an established businesswoman and I have the means to hire the best."

"Well, lucky you."

I look at his smug smile and though it sits on an attractive figure, I can't fathom how I found this man alluring enough to waste my time with such a demeaning conversation.

"I'm not lucky. I worked for all I've got."

"Is that so? I bet you've had some gifts that have helped you along the way."

"Excuse you, do you even know who you are talking to?"

It takes every ounce of willpower not to scream like a harpy and then claw the devil's enticing eyes out.

"Jess Sullivan." He spits out my name with an easy smile that I want to swipe right off of his frustratingly handsome face.

"Wrong," I retort with a bit more pleasure than I probably should have. I take a deep breath and continue on with my own patronizing smirk. "No one calls me Jess. My name is Jessica. Get it right."

"Really?" He poses his question with the raise of a single brow. "No one has ever called you by that name before?"

Well, my parents do and most of my childhood friends did, but I tossed that name when I started establishing myself. Jess is a little girl's name. It isn't the name for a women's shoe designer.

"Yes, I'm sure. You, sir, are ill informed."

"Admittedly, my information is a bit dated. It's been a long time since my employer heard from you."

"Heard from me?" I scoff with enough force to send me a step backwards. "And who, exactly, is your employer that I should be going out of my way to talk to them?"

"For a mighty businesswoman," he says as he bounces on the balls of his feet, "I'm surprised you don't know everyone in the room."

"Maybe your employer isn't worth knowing."

I step forward, rising up to meet his accusation so that only a few inches stand between us. He shrugs, the movement pulling him away. I feel like I've won the stare down, but to my disappointment, he continues the battle.

"And maybe you aren't worth knowing. Perhaps that's why we lost touch after you quit being an artist."

"You really don't know who I am," I reply, the gravel in my voice low and menacing. "I am and always have been an artist. Your sources are shit if you don't even know I am a shoe designer."

"Oh?" His tone is unperturbed by my ever increasing rage. "What was the last shoe you designed?"

"I don't have time to educate you on something so widely known..."

"I mean, if you can't even name one shoe—"

"Sullivan Snow Bunnies," I spit out, annoyed that I gave in to his teasing so easily. "They are my most recent creation and will be out next week."

"You designed them all by yourself?"

"No, of course not," I answer with a roll of my eyes. "I guided the design from conception to production."

"Guided is not the same word as designed, just so we're clear."

"What do you even know about artistry? About the business?"

I know I should just walk away. I don't need to ruin my day by waging war with some nobody wannabe in the middle of one of the holiday's biggest social events. Yet, here I am, determined to get the last stab in. However, my armor chipped and cracked long ago, while his smirk continues to remain firm upon his face.

"I worked as a craftsman for many, many, many years," he says with a sigh. "I specialized in woodworking, though. Not fashion."

"Many, many, many years, huh?" I raise my brow and cross my arms. "What are you? Like twenty-eight? You can't be older than thirty."

He cocks his head and shrugs. "Seems like a good age to retire. Unfortunately, I have to work a desk job before I can clock in my time card for the last time."

"Oh yeah? And what exactly is it that you do?"

"I work in acquisitions, specifically re-acquisitions." He then drops his voice and leans in with a playful twist on his lips. "In fact, my current project is to reacquire you."

"Well, that's a first," I reply with a laugh. "I've never had a head hunter use that strategy. Of course, most head hunters are smart enough to know I currently have several contracts with major distributors. In fact, I'm in talks with Gloria Designs to become their new brand manager. If my Snow Bunnies are a success—which they will be—then I will be leading my own shoe development department."

"Brand manager? That's a funny word for artist."

He cocks his head with mock confusion, while my skin boils.

"We're done here."

Like a toddler trapped in a tantrum, I ball my hands into fists and turn on my heel before marching towards the door.

"Hey, wait," he calls out with a merry laugh ringing in his voice, "I'm sorry. Can we start over?"

I don't answer him, but unfortunately I can't stop my feet from hesitating. He uses my uncertainty to his advantage and catches up to me. He, however, doesn't block my exit. Instead, he stands by my side, looking at me with a pleased grin and a twinkle in his pine green eyes.

"How about we take a breather, huh? Maybe a dance would help."

I can't believe his audacity. However, when I turn to tell him off, I catch a fragment of an apology in the curve of his brow. Just a sliver, mind you. It's tucked deep beneath a thick layer of cockiness, but it's there.

"Hands are the only things allowed to touch me, and they never go below my hips or above the waist. Understood?"

"Absolutely."

He stretches out his hand and, though I think I've lost my mind, I take it.

We step into the fray of gently swaying couples. I slide my other hand onto his shoulder while he places his free hand just above my hip. With about a foot between the two of us, we sway to the lilting music of some ballad, the words lost in the rumble of the party.

"So what's your goal here?" I ask, my lips desperate to renew conversation now that I can feel the heat building between our palms and bodies. "Is this a stalling tactic? A desperate last stab at enlisting my services?"

"This is you and me," he answers, his gaze intense and his voice low so only I can hear him, "dancing to a song at a party."

"I don't even know who you are." I look away and swallow hard in a desperate attempt to moisten my throat and regain some of my conviction. With a shake, I glance back up with a resolute set to my jaw. "What is your name?"

"Alistair."

"That sounds, uh, really old."

"I have to agree with you on that."

He sighs and I suppress a chuckle.

"Oh? Did we actually agree on something?

His answer is unspoken. Instead his lips twist into a smirk and he bows his head down just a fraction of an inch. I'm now painfully aware how close we are and I need to keep this conversation professional.

"So, Alistair, who is your employer?"

"Can't we put business aside for one dance? I think we'd get along better if we did."

"No, we can't," I answer, though I do keep our dance going. "I'm not here for fun, I'm here for work. I imagine you are too. I think it's fair to ask who I'm doing business with."

"This isn't business. This is a dance. Don't you think it would be nice to stop working for once in your life?"

"What do you know about my life?" Now my hands drop and I take a step away. "We've known each other for fifteen, maybe thirty minutes."

"You've had a long history with our company."

"Bull shit, I still don't even know who your company is. Look, I'm on the clock as far as I'm concerned and I don't have time for this."

"Wouldn't you at least prefer to not be working right now?"

"You know what? Perhaps you're right. Maybe I don't want to be working right now. In fact, my desire to end this business transaction is so strong, I'm going to bid you farewell and head right out that door and straight home. Goodnight, Alistair."

"Would you like me to walk you home?"

"Absolutely not. I'm a big girl with a fabulous car. My chauffeur is all I need. If you are still determined to discuss with me about whatever business proposition you have royally fumbled tonight, you can talk to me later. I'm going to assume you know how to reach me. If not, you weren't worth talking to in the first place."

"I'll do that, Ms. Sullivan. We'll see each other again soon."

"You keep telling yourself that."

I pull out my phone to text both Tori and my driver that I'm ready to leave. Once home, I slide into a warm bath and lose myself in a book. Perhaps the solitude of my tub and my residual anger at Alistair's incompetence will be enough to wipe his smug, handsome face from my memories.