Not Just A Pretty Face

2. Gideon

Shit, this kid had balls.

All I knew about Leonel was that he was blessed with the kind of looks that had got him in the front door, apparently had relevant experience, and was fueled with the bravado and arrogance of a twenty-two-year-old for whom the doors of the city would open in a flash… bedroom or boardroom.

The first part was the most important to me.

I’d walked in right when Leonel was sassing Shay, implying that he should check his résumé rather than ask stupid questions.

I kind of liked that attitude, as much as I hated to admit it. I recognized it in myself; it was what had grown Prestige so fast. I’d been pretty young -- just about this guy’s age -- when I’d started the business. At twenty-seven now, that hadn’t been that long ago.

In my early twenties, I hadn’t had as many friends or contacts as most other agencies. I’d just acted like an important CEO -- too important for everyone -- for a couple of years. Then, the agency had become important.

Fake it until you make it.

Leonel clearly thought he was too good for expense reports. I was inclined to agree -- at least, for now, he was too pretty for them.

The consultant last year had insisted I look for an assistant of my own within the next eight months, rather than micromanaging my own affairs. It was the next phase in growth. Even a modest increase in my productivity would, apparently, pay for an assistant’s salary.

But I liked booking my own flights, calling my friends and business contacts at other companies to get in touch directly, and fuck it, ordering my own lunches. I wasn’t lazy.

On the contrary, growing up, I’d been called a higher-functioning kid. I had always needed to stay busy to keep myself sane.

In the last few months, that had become especially true.

I pulled my thoughts away from myself to take in Leonel as the little blond spitfire rose to his feet.

God, he was pretty. He had full, pink lips and long lashes -- the kind that looked great wrapped around my cock and peering up at me for approval, respectively.

He was thin -- maybe a bit too thin. Model-wannabe? As he held out his slender hand to shake, my eyes fell to the slender fingers and limp wrist. He screamed gay from about the other side of the city.

And those baby-blue eyes were captivating. I examined them for long moments, trying to guess what was going through his mind.

“Leonel James.”

“So I’ve heard,” I told him, keeping my voice soft and not confrontational. I was intrigued by this guy’s attitude. Another hot, firebrand young stallion raging against the world, but there was intelligence behind his eyes, whatever vain fashionista gay he liked to play the part of.

Interesting.

“Is this the final interview, then?” he asked, his long fingers sliding just a little too far down my palm. Soft fingertips pressed to my wrist for a moment before Leonel’s palm lined up with mine for a single slow handshake.

Shit, this guy wanted me, and the feeling was mutual. I was aware that Shay was watching us, so I stuck to one handshake before dropping Leonel’s hand. I circled around the desk and leaned on the side of it, shaking my head once when Shay tried to rise to offer his chair.

“Carry on,” I told him.

Shay looked unnerved by my presence, which was slightly amusing. Even though I worked from the office whenever possible to keep everyone familiar with me and keep the tight ship running, I had a public image that intimidated a lot of guys.