Casey's Night In (The Mirage Agency #1.5)

Chapter One

Casey flopped down on her overstuffed couch and blew her bangs out of her eyes. It had been a hell of a day. She was ready to sit back, relax and do what she’d been thinking about since lunchtime.

She leaned over and pulled the shiny new magazine from her purse. She placed it gently on her lap and stroked a finger down the crisp uncreased page. She’d passed the magazine on the store rack while buying a sandwich at lunchtime and had been powerless to resist buying it. After a quick glance at the table of contents, she flipped it open to page thirty-six. A pair of brilliant gray eyes stared back at her. The same eyes that haunted her every night while she slept.

Andre Lavin.

Fashion Designer Extraordinaire. Italian Bad Boy. Multimillionaire. The article’s headline was deliberately sensational but there weren’t enough labels in the world to adequately describe this man. Not enough in the universe to describe the way he made her feel.

The agency she worked for handled his advertising and PR. She’d only been working the reception desk at Mirage Advertising for a few months but she’d seen him countless times. Unfortunately, the majority of those times consisted of her either stuttering or doing something equally embarrassing.

“Such as spilling my coffee all over myself.”

The dark brown stain on the front of her white blouse was evidence of her humiliation. He’d been in the hallway as she was leaving the employee lunchroom that afternoon. All it had taken was him saying hello, those marvelous eyes crinkling at the corners. She’d been so lost in his gaze that she’d kept walking straight ahead.

Right into a wall.

Embarrassment swept through her all over again. Luckily he didn’t come in to the agency every day. She needed some time before she could look him in the eye without blushing.

She had to give him credit though, he hadn’t laughed at her when it happened. He’d actually been really nice, had even offered her his handkerchief. It was still in her pocket.

She wasn’t accustomed to mopping up spills with delicate squares of linen that probably cost more money than she made in a week.

The entire time he’d been muttering in Italian and she’d been too flustered to point out that she didn’t understand. So after he’d left she’d asked Milo, one of the designers who spoke Italian fluently, to translate some of the things he was saying.

Apparently piccolina meant “little one”, which wasn’t surprising because she knew she was short. However, the other word he’d used, tesoro, was something used as an endearment. Milo had given her a knowing smile when he told her it was something you’d call a lover or a close friend.

What the hell was she supposed to make of that?

“Don’t make it more than it is, Casey. He probably has a pet name for all the girls who dump coffee on him.”

She pulled the neatly folded cloth from her pocket and held it to her cheek. It smelled faintly of sandalwood, shaving soap and what could only be his cologne. She stroked the soft cloth over her skin, pretending it was the touch of his hand.

“Okay, enough fooling around. Time to get the laundry done.”

She leaned her head back against the back of the chair to rest her eyes for a moment. There was always so much to do and so little time. Daydreaming over a handsome man in a magazine was the closest thing to a vacation she could afford. Plus it wasn’t as if he’d ever know all the wicked, dirty things she’d imagined doing with him. Things she would never be comfortable doing in real life.

The sudden peal of the doorbell yanked her straight up in her seat.

“Just a second,” she called out.

She swiped a hand over her face as she plodded to the door. Who would be visiting now? She wasn’t expecting any deliveries and doubted any of her neighbors had suddenly gotten the urge to be friendly. She pulled open the door and stared at the man who stood with his hand raised, poised to push the bell again.

Lightning gray eyes stared back at her.

“Oh my god, it’s you,” she whispered.

All the oxygen in her lungs seized up into a knot. A few beats passed and her breath left her body in a big whoosh of air.

Andre Lavin is at my apartment.