The Heartbreaker

by Cat Carmine

  Why the hell couldn’t she have been the muffin girl? I could be banging her in my office as we speak, lifting that blue dress and bending her over my desk and taking whatever I wanted from her.

  My cock starts to stiffen at the thought, and I try to push the image away. Because I definitely can’t be thinking about this girl in that way. Thinking about spreading those creamy white thighs, about untying that braid and pulling on those long locks. About turning her into a writhing, whimpering mess under my hands.

  My cock surges again. Fuck.

  I have to get her out of here. The sooner the better. I shouldn’t have even let her stay today, should have called security to come and escort her out of the building, post-haste. So why didn’t I?

  I know the answer to that, too.

  Because I didn’t want to.

  I’m not used to people telling me what to do. Having Ed waltz in yesterday and tell me how to run my business had pissed me off. Even if he did have my best interests at heart. Even if part of me knew he was right.

  Because fuck all of them. I’ve been running this business for almost ten years now, since I was just twenty-six, after my father had died suddenly of a massive coronary. I’ve more than proven that I have what it takes to lead this company. Who cares if I like to get my dick wet in the office pool? Does that make me any less capable of running the company?

  Fuck no.

  Letting Blake stay today was a childish act of rebellion, one that the rational part of me knew I had to quickly undo.

  Damn Georgia. If she hadn’t called the wrong person yesterday, I wouldn’t be in this position right now. I make a mental note to call Christine later and voice my displeasure. It takes a truly incompetent person to make a mistake like that.

  Something niggles at the back of my mind, a half-formed thought about Blake’s resume. About how it could have ended up in Georgia’s pile.

  The answer comes to me almost immediately. I crack open my laptop and find the email from my buddy Tyler. I read it more closely this time — his fiancee’s sister has just moved to the city and is looking for a job. I open the resume, and there she is. Blake Holloway. From Highfield, Connecticut. Former executive assistant at Bloomers, a flower shop.

  I scrub my hands over my face. Great. So not only have I hired a woman, after Ed specifically advised me not to, I’ve hired a friend of a friend. If I fire her now, it will no doubt get back to Tyler, and he’ll wonder what the fuck happened. Normally, I wouldn’t care about that — business trumps relationships — but Tyler’s been a good friend to me over the years. He’s one of the only people who didn’t treat me differently after Laura had … well, after what happened.

  This is a mess. I know Blake has to go, but that doesn’t make it any easier. On my brain or my dick.

  I decide not to think about it for now. I’m about to dive into the waterfall of emails that are pouring into my inbox, but the sound of my cell phone ringing interrupts me. I slide the phone out of the pocket of my jacket and almost smile when I see the name on the display.

  “Hello, my dear Heather.”

  “It’s Mom’s birthday next week.”

  “Nice to hear your voice, too.” I have a barely suppressed grin. My sister is one of the sweetest people I know, but as a wife and mother, she’s a brilliant tactician, and she runs that household with military precision. Reminding me that it’s Mom’s birthday next week is probably just one of the thousand and one things she has on her to-do list for today.

  “It’s nice to hear your voice, Logan,” she says, though I detect more than a hint of sarcasm. “It’s Mom’s birthday next week.”

  “I have it in my calendar.” I’d had one of my assistants — can’t remember which one, now — plug all my family’s birthdays in my calendar. The one year I forgot Heather’s birthday is a hell I have no interest in repeating.

  “Good. Don’t forget we’re taking her out to dinner at La Fourchette.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.”

  “Have you made the reservation?”

  “Of course.” Shit. I’ve actually got no idea if I have or not. I think I asked Amber — the last assistant — to do it, but I couldn’t say if she did so or not.

  “Good. So I can cross it off my to-do list?”

  “Absolutely,” I assure my sister. I scratch the words La Fourchette? on the notepad beside my laptop.

  “Great. Thanks for taking care of that. We’ll be coming into the city on Thursday afternoon and driving back Friday morning.”

  “Do you need a place to stay?”

  “No. We’ll be at the Plaza.”

  “Something wrong with my place?”

  She scoffs. “Logan, you don’t need me, Tim, and two kids invading your penthouse. It’s only one night — we’ll stay at the Plaza.”

  I ignore the slightly disappointed feeling that creeps into my chest. The truth is, I wouldn’t mind the company. Her two kids are well-behaved, and it’d be nice to spend some time with the whole family before they head back to Connecticut. Even though they’re only a couple of hours away, I don’t get to see them nearly as much as I’d like to.

  “It’ll be nice to see the kids,” I say, instead. “I bet they’re excited about coming into the city.”

  “They’re on pins and needles.” She laughs. Her voice instantly lightens every time she starts to talk about her kids. But then she pauses.

  “What’s up, Heather?” I know my sister well enough to know when she wants to say something.

  On the other end of the line, she sighs. “Tim has been nominated for this award with the National Association of Engineers.”

  I wait for the catch, but she doesn’t continue. “That sounds like a good thing.” Heather’s husband Tim is a civil engineer with a prestigious consulting firm in Hartford. He is, despite all my attempts to initially prove otherwise, a pretty damn good guy. He’s a good husband to Heather — down to earth, where she’s high-strung, and easy-going without dumping all the household responsibility on her. He’s also a great dad to Daisy and Jack.

  “It is a good thing,” she hums. “But the award ceremony is in Houston. We thought about taking the kids, but they can’t come to the ceremony itself, and then I thought about asking Mom to take them, but she’s in the Hamptons that weekend and … I guess we were wondering if they could stay with you? They would go nuts to get a chance to stay in the city with Uncle Logan for a weekend. What do you think?” Her words all spill out in a tumble.

  “What do I think?” I rub my temples. I think this isn’t the best time to ask me something like that.

  “Yeah — do you think they could spend a couple of nights with you? I wouldn’t ask if I had any other options. I mean, I guess I could stay home with them and Tim could go on his own but …”

  “No, no,” I say. “You should definitely be there. It’s just …” I hesitate. It’s not even because I don’t want to see the kids. I enjoy spending time with them — more than a lot of adults I know, actually. Everything that comes out of their mouths is unintentionally hilarious. It’s just …

  “It’s too much, isn’t it?” Heather worries. “I knew it was too much. You have no experience with kids. A weekend probably feels like a death sentence.”

  “Not at all,” I assure her. “It’s just … I wouldn’t know what to do with them.” All my time with Daisy and Jack has also been in the company of Heather or Tim. I’ve never flown solo before.

  “God, not much. I’ll pack Jack’s Xbox with them, and the iPad. They already think you’re the coolest, Logan, and if you let them play video games all weekend, they’ll think you’re an absolute God.”

  “Well, if only I’d known that was all it took to achieve God-status,” I muse wryly. “Sure. Why the hell not? I’ll even get tickets to a show or something.”

  “Are you sure?” Heather asks, as if she doesn’t want to believe it. “Oh, Logan, that’s great. They’ll be pleased as punch. As will Tim.”

  “Absolutely.” I
write down show tickets? on the sheet of paper, just under my earlier note. Then I add for KIDS? and about a half a dozen more question marks. Kid stuff is not my forte.

  Heather is quiet again, and I lean back in my chair, the phone still pressed up against my ear. “What’s up, Heather?”

  She sighs wistfully. “Nothing. Just thinking that you’d make a great dad.”

  I snort. “Yeah, right. I might pass as a cool uncle, but dad? No way.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, big brother,” she chides. “Do you ever think about maybe settling down again? It’s been eight years since …”

  “No.” I cut her off before she can say it. “I don’t. I had my chance. Besides, I like my life now. No responsibilities, no attachments, no expectations, no—”

  “Okay, okay, I get it.” Heather sighs. “Look, I have to go pick up Daisy at dance practice.”

  “She’s in dance?”

  My sister laughs. “You should see her in her little tutu. So damn adorable.”

  “I can imagine,” I say, picturing Heather’s four-year-old daughter in a poofy pink skirt. I might be biased, but I happen to think I have the cutest niece on the whole damn planet.

  Heather and I wrap up, finalizing our plans for next week, then say our goodbyes. As soon as I hang up the phone, I’m thrust back into my current reality.

  Blake.

  The woman in the copy room down the hall, the blonde in the tight blue dress, the voluptuous muffin just begging to be devoured …

  As I think about her, I realize something. I can no longer hear the hum of the copier through the walls. Since I’ve been in here, I could hear the low rumble of the machines as Blake presumably worked her way through the stacks of copies.

  Now, though, it’s quiet. Too quiet.

  I should really go check on her, I think. Just to make sure she’s okay.

  That’s the lie I tell myself, anyway, and it’s the lie that powers my steps as I head back to the copy room, to the blonde bombshell that’s already managed to weasel her way too far into my thoughts.

  I push open the door of the copy room, completely unprepared for the sight in front of me.

  Blake is sitting on the floor, stacks of papers spread around her. She’s kicked off her shoes and is barefoot, sitting with her legs open wide, a stack of papers between them. She’s taken off her jacket, too, and from up here, I can see the way her tits are barely held in place by that dress. I try to look away, but all I can do is stare helplessly at the soft crease of her cleavage.

  She’s deep in thought, twisting the end of her braid around her fingers, and hasn’t heard me come in. I stand there for a minute, just watching her. And knowing, right down to my bones, that I’m in deep shit.

  “Muffin girl,” I snap, because it’s better than doing the thing I really want to do. “What’s the hold up here? I’m not paying you to sit on your ass.”

  She turns her face up towards me, blinking in surprise. This time, she doesn’t look nervous or intimidated. Just … amused.

  “I noticed something when I was collating the reports,” she says. She waves one at me.

  “What is it?”

  Instead of answering, she gets up. I try not to look at the way her dress rides all the way up her creamy white thighs as she does, at the way her tits threaten to spill out of her dress. Once she’s standing, she thrusts the report at me.

  I snatch it out of her hands, careful not to let our fingers touch. I’m smart enough to know that one touch from this girl could very well be my undoing.

  I look through the report briefly but don’t see anything amiss. “What’s the problem?”

  “Here.” She leans over my arm, her breasts pressing against me. I take a cautionary step backwards. “See that?”

  She’s pointing to the corner of the page. I squint, then hold it up to the light. “What is that?”

  “It’s a watermark.”

  “What’s it supposed to be?”

  She snickers and then turns it into a cough. “I think it’s supposed to be a guy, um, being intimate with a coffee cup.”

  “What?” I turn the report sideways and then rightways again. I can kind of see it.

  “It’s actually worse than that,” she says. She’s genuinely stifling a laugh now.

  “Worse than a picture of a guy penetrating a coffee cup?”

  “Um … it’s sort of animated.”

  “Animated?”

  She takes the report from me — I ignore the way her fingers brush mine — and flips through the bottom corner of the pages quickly. The illustration is repeated on every page, with slight variations, and as the pages turn rapidly under her thumb, the gentleman in question appears to be thrusting his hips into the coffee cup over and over.

  “What the fuck is this?”

  “I think they call them flip books.”

  “I mean what the fuck is it doing in our quarterly report?”

  “I certainly don’t know,” she says, planting her hands on her hips. Without her shoes on, she’s more than a foot shorter than I am, and I can imagine lifting her up and feeling her wrap her legs around me and …

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?” I bellow.

  Instead of backing down, she just glares. “Um, I mean I literally got here today. So I don’t know how it got in the report. But I think I just saved your ass, didn’t I?”

  I only grunt in response, staring down at the pages again. This is unfuckingbelievable. How the hell did something like this make it into the report? Was it a mistake? An accident? Or a deliberate act of sabotage? I think of Ashley, the last assistant who’d touched these, the one I’d fired not that long ago. And then I think of Ed, and of Ray Kellerman — interesting timing, I note now, that Ed would issue his warning right before something like this happens.

  I stare incredulously at Blake, who still has her hands planted on her hips. She’s breathing heavily, as if she’s preparing for a fight, but at this moment, I don’t have any fight in me. At least not for her.

  “Thank you,” I say instead, my voice low.

  Blake deflates. Her posture goes back to normal, and her face softens. “You’re welcome. I don’t know what happened, but I’m sorry.”

  I wave off her concern. “Not your problem.”

  Blake stares up at me, her blue eyes wide and curious and … sympathetic.

  Crazy how your world can shift in a single second. I had learned that lesson with Laura, when one routine doctor’s visit had turned our world on its head. I feel the echoes of it again today. Five minutes ago, I trusted everyone in my company implicitly. Now the only person it seems I can trust is …

  I blink, my focus still on Blake’s face. Somehow, the girl with the muffin has turned into the only person in this place who seems to be on my side.

  That’s all it takes for me to decide. Fuck Ed and his edicts.

  I turn and start to walk out of the room. I can feel Blake’s eyes following me, but she doesn’t move until I’m out in the hall and turn back to face her. “Are you coming?”

  She blinks a couple of times. “Where?”

  “I want to show you to your desk.”

  “My … desk?”

  I give her a look that I know has undone dozens of women in the past. “Welcome to Cartwright Diamonds, Muffin.”

  Five

  “Well, how was it? Tell me everything!” Lucy greets me at the door of our apartment as soon as I get home.

  The first thing I notice is the sweet smell of some kind of banana bread, which makes my stomach growl. I didn’t have time to get lunch today. Mr. Cartwright kept me busy all afternoon, collating those stupid reports. After I found that drawing, he’d been furious, and he insisted on sitting with me and going through every page of the report, ensuring there was nothing else that wasn’t supposed to be there. Once he was satisfied that the report looked as it should, he printed off a fresh version and banished me back to the copy room to finish the job. The whole thing had to be c
opied and assembled from scratch. My fingers are full of tiny paper cuts, and the knuckle on my index finger has a big slice from where I’d nicked it on one of the coil bindings.

  I collapse onto the couch in a heap, not caring that I’m wrinkling my only work-appropriate dress, not to mention Lucy’s blazer.

  “It was kind of nuts,” I admit.

  “Nuts how?” Lucy flops into the chair across from me.

  I shake my head. “My boss is just kind of …”

  “An ass?”

  An ass? Yeah, sort of. But also … smoking hot. Sexy as hell. Disturbingly shrewd. Stoic and yet sardonic, wry. With the world’s most ripped body and the most smoldering eyes and…

  I have to look away from Lucy. I can’t tell her any of those things. I don’t know how to explain Logan Cartwright to anyone else … and I definitely don’t know how to explain the effect he had on me today.

  Because every time Logan Cartwright was in the same room as me, my brain turned all gooey and hot and melted. Kind of like cheese fondue. My body fared about the same. The few times our hands had accidentally brushed, like when we were sitting in his office and I handed him the last section of the report to review, had been like an electric jolt running through my body, from my fingertips straight to my … Southern Hemisphere. I jumped like I’d gotten a shock, squirming in my seat. I think Mr. Cartwright might have even noticed, because he gave me a strange look, his eyes darkening. I told him I’d hit my funny bone on the arm of the chair, but there was nothing funny about the vibrations that hummed through my body when he looked at me.

  I am definitely not allowed to have those feelings for my new boss.

  “Yeah, kind of an ass,” I say instead, because it’s easier than saying any of that other stuff.

  Lucy grins. “Then you deserve a glass of wine. Red or white?”

  “That sounds amazing. White, please. I’m going to go change.”

  By the time I emerge back into the living room, Lucy’s poured us each a glass of wine, and I’m prepared to log some quality time vegging and thinking about anything but Logan Cartwright. But of course, as soon as I sit down, Lucy peppers me with questions about him, about my new job, about the office, about whether I met anyone nice.