by Snow, Nicole
Every color in that tie-dyed tank top, which she rocks without the cardigan, hangs loosely in the flickering sunset. It loops down her freckled ivory shoulders, showing off cleavage like peaches and cream.
It’s fucking painful to keep my hands to myself, to resist the urge to yank her into my lap and kiss her, to steal every breath from her lungs.
The wine must be curdling my better judgment.
“Listen, just so we’re clear, I’m insanely grateful for the bonus. But in the future, it isn’t cool for you to research my par—”
“Background check,” I cut her off.
Damn her, she’s too cute.
“I know, Mag, but you can’t just buy my mom’s books. She’ll think she has real sales and living, breathing fans. She’ll start thinking she can count on those sales to—”
Screw resisting.
Screw her worries, too.
Before I can stop myself, I reach out and grab her, pulling that lithe body into my lap. I bend my head, facing her lips.
She doesn’t complain.
In fact, she sighs.
And every muscle in my body hardens.
“Save it for another time,” I whisper. “We’ll talk about it, I promise, but right now, we can’t save this magnificent sunset.”
“Oh.”
One word, and not even that, just a hot sigh pouring out of her, cascading against my mouth from the sliver of space left between us.
This woman will end me, and I’ll die smiling at her beauty.
Perfect sunsets aside, there’s something else I can’t save.
The narrow gap between us closes.
Her eyes go wide, all anticipation, an energy whipping through her.
My tongue flicks across her bottom lip.
She opens her mouth. This time her sigh is longer, higher pitched.
So much for a prayer of holding back.
I devour her then, slipping my tongue in and tasting her mouth, exploring her winding tongue, the inside of her lip, her top palate, and every airy breath she gives.
It’s a fuck-hot kiss for the ages under the tinted desert sky, as if we’re part of this landscape of sorcery and sin.
Her hands move to my head, her fingers attacking my hair, those nails that once wanted to slash ribbons across my face now begging for more. She shifts her weight over me.
Right over my hardness.
It’s a sweet hell, agonizing, and if it doesn’t stop now, it’s going to go too far. I deepen the kiss, pull her closer, claiming her with my hands, my teeth, my tongue.
My grip around her tightens, savoring the last few seconds, one last hurrah.
Because I know damn well what I have to do next.
I’m almost snarling as my head snaps back, jerking away, gasping for air.
I’m not alone. She’s panting, struggling to catch her breath while every bone in my body soaks up this sickness.
Fuck.
I’m just like my old man. I can’t lose the best EA I’ve ever had—not like this—and I won’t let her suffer through a scandal I probably deserve.
Office scandals follow women, and for her, it isn’t fucking fair.
“Sorry. We’ve both been drinking,” I say, trying to brush it off as the reckless, godawful wine-fueled error that it is, without making her feel ruined.
Right.
She stares at me wide-eyed but doesn’t say anything.
“I had to do something to calm you down. You were acting like a lunatic because I bought a few books.”
She’s confused. “Mag?”
I shake my head.
“Forget it. I meant every word of what I said; your bonus paid to your mother was well deserved, and you shouldn’t worry about it. Umm—” I wag a finger between us. “This thing that happened...too much wine and not enough water. I always forget how dry the air gets out here, even in the cooler months. Again, I had to do something to calm you—”
Her eyes bore into me, and she cuts me off.
“Got it. It’s not like I asked you to.”
Shit. Is she talking about the money or the kiss? Does that mean she didn’t want it?
“We’ll never speak of it again, and you’re still the best EA I’ve ever had. Deal?” I ask, offering my hand.
She doesn’t answer.
She storms away.
Downhill in flip-flops.
My gut clenches and my heart jumps into my throat. She almost fell several times on the way up, and going down, she’ll only have more momentum.
I race up behind her and scoop her up again, tossing her over my shoulder. She’s like a down pillow in my arms. She fights at first, her face crimson, but then she relents, shifting to stare at my lips like she can’t believe we went there.
I’m such an unholy jagoff.
“I thought we were done? Never speaking of that stuff again?”
“We won’t, but I’m not letting you break your neck either, woman. I have too much work for you to do.”
“I hate you.” Her words are humorless, menacing, a tone I haven’t heard her use before, and fuck, do I deserve it.
Let her loathe the ground I walk on and surround herself in barbed wire.
It’s the reminder I need, before I do the unspeakable.
If Sabrina Bristol hates me, maybe that’s the best thing I could hope for.
* * *
Years Ago
To: Magnus Heron
From: Jesy Cho
Subject: You People Are Stupid
Heron,
When we signed a six-figure contract for media and advertising management with Heron Communications, this company wasn’t expecting a block of ten a.m. commercial breaks. I need to know three things:
1. What moron books TV advertisements during The View? I don’t know about you, but my grandmother doesn’t wear designer jeans.
2. How are you going to fix this, or do you plan to cancel my contract with a full refund? Or do we need to sue, because most judges will agree I didn’t get what I paid for.
3. How many damn emails do I have to send my account manager to get a response?
Thanks,
Jesy Cho
Marketing Director, Go Boom Denim International
I push my chair away from the desk and sigh.
Apparently, Jesy emailed her account manager four times before shooting this off to me, and...
Yeah. I get why she’s upset. The moron in charge of her account hasn’t responded either.
At this point, we’re losing a client and the why doesn’t matter.
Dad shouldn’t be putting up with this bullshit. I’d can a crappy account manager on the spot.
This is first-year intern fodder. The manager only rose through the ranks because he was one of my dad’s frat buddies, too. He had no fucking idea what he was doing when he was hired, and years later, he still doesn’t.
He obviously got talked into the worst ad slot available with the station. But I saw the bill for it. That poorly targeted slot hadn’t come at a discount.
Any more of this, and HeronComm will be heading for the shitter. Jesy Cho is a mover and shaker who knows a lot of people.
I’ve had it.
I storm over to my father’s corner office and barge in without knocking—every time I do, he always yells that he’s busy.
He doesn’t seem to notice me at first.
I freeze in the doorway, taking in the scene, trying to comprehend what I’m seeing.
My father’s face is a bright hell-red. He’s screaming incoherently and shaking his fist.
A tiny blond woman cowers in the corner, next to the filing cabinet with her hands out in front of her, like she’s trying to shield herself.
Maybe she is.
I’d never seen him this mad before, bowed up like he’s about to fucking hit her.
He shakes his fist above his head, his back turned, his voice this vile hiss.
“How dare you. How dare you march in here, you street urchin, asking f
or more money for you and that brat? I fired you years ago. We signed a settlement!”
What is this? I study the blonde in the corner. It takes me a minute to place her, but I recognize her at last.
She was an intern here a few years ago, right after I left the Marines and came back to the family business.
Marissa. Marissa Quail.
That’s her name, isn’t it? We’re roughly the same age.
“Hey!” I snap, the only word that comes to mind.
They both turn to look at me in slow motion.
Dad frowns, his lip curled in this vicious sneer.
Marissa doubles over, frantically wiping tears from her eyes.
Neither of them speaks as my blood pressure rockets and my hand forms a fist like a hammer.
“Dad? What the ever living fuck is going on?”
* * *
Present
My eyes snap open and my whole body jerks.
I’m on the jet, I realize, the dull white noise of engines droning over everything.
It was just a nightmare, a memory I’ll never forget no matter how bad I want to.
We’re on the way home to Chicago. Sabrina sits across from me with her head turned toward me, looking right at me. Her face is hard, the disdain clear, holding another newer, sadder memory.
And I’m the shit who put it in her head.
When our eyes meet, she jerks her head away and she stares at her phone, tapping away.
Fine.
She has a right to be angry. I hope she doesn’t quit.
From the sound of things, she can’t afford to, but I really don’t want to be without an EA again. And the assistant before Brina was as bad as a vacant position.
I stare at the back of her head, wanting to run my fingers through those long brown locks again. She’s beautiful, funny, and far more fragile than she looks.
That kiss messed with my soul. So bad I spent the whole night tossing and turning in my bed, pulsing with guilt and aching with desire.
I couldn’t even sleep until I jerked off like a college kid.
Goddamn.
This was not supposed to happen for too many reasons to list.
I need to keep my EA.
I need to stop fucking up.
I need to remember who I am, and who I’m not.
Not. Baxter. Heron.
Frowning, I open my laptop and get to work.
Well, I pretend to.
I can’t concentrate, but I have to put something in front of my face to keep me from gawking. To keep my eyes off the woman who’s become my own forbidden fruit. To keep a thin line of sanity between Brina and me.
Miss Bristol, I correct myself.
That’s how it needs to stay.
13
Secret Santa (Sabrina)
He kissed my face off.
He kissed me like a cyclone.
He kissed me freaking blind, deaf, and senseless.
Then he told me to never speak of it again.
The drive back to the hotel was ice-cold silence, and he didn’t say a word on the flight home.
He no longer needs my help attending meetings either, but has no problem emailing me all times of the day. He’s just as demanding as ever, and every bit as deserving of my hate.
Every time a new request comes in, it’s hard not to chuck my phone through the nearest window.
Miss Bristol, please pick up my dry cleaning.
Miss Bristol, make another coffee run.
Miss Bristol, I’ll need you here on Saturday and Sunday.
I’m waiting for the one that says, Miss Bristol, could you kindly adjust the Earth’s tilt?
Go ahead. Call me clueless.
For a moment, out in the desert, I thought he’d actually crack and open up like a human being. I thought he had it in him to be real with me.
I almost thought—
I don’t even know. That we were equals? That I might tumble into being more than his EA?
He kissed me in a way no one ever has, leaving me a puddle of confusion and clashing feels, and then the prick pretended it never happened.
So many questions and zero answers.
I’m even second-guessing the reason why I got this job.
Did he hire me all along because he wants in my pants? Or did something about me really impress him like he claimed when he was gushing all over me for a job well done, before the infamous, soul-stealing kiss?
Or—horror of horrors—maybe I’m that bad a kisser.
One smooch and he instantly realized I’m better EA material than fuck-buddy grade.
God.
I hate this.
I hate him.
I hate that I have to wonder, ponder, and decipher some more.
All because he can’t just man the heck up and talk to me.
Maybe it’s a blessing that I don’t have to see him much these days with December grinding on toward its Christmas peak, the only break we’re bound to get. This Chicago winter rode in with a vengeance, leaving the city a slab of drab grey, howling wind, and glistening ice.
The dinging elevator pulls me out of my head. So does the painful shock.
Mag’s damn coffee burns the palm of my hand. Wincing, I shift the cup into the other hand and shake my fingers out until the stinging fades.
I head straight for his office to set his dark Kona with a splash of heavy cream in its usual spot, but he’s at his desk.
He looks up with this wisp of a smile, just in time for me to hand it to him instead.
“You should invest in Kona beans,” I say, my voice so tight.
He grins. “I own the farm.”
“You—what? What farm?”
“I bought a Kona farm in Hawaii several years ago after sealing a particularly lucrative deal. The Bean Bar uses my beans. Don’t you ever read the signs? It’s called Heron Blend. It’s the highest quality and the only kind I’ll drink regularly.”
Well, la-di-da.
“So, you’re a huge coffee snob on top of everything else?” Including asshole, jerk-off boss, brutally good kisser...
“Don’t you have work to do?” He scowls up at me, those eyes dark-blue whirlpools.
I plan to leave his office without another word.
I’m still pissed at him anyhow. I make it as far as the door when he says, “Miss Bristol?”
Lovely. So I’m only Brina when your tongue is down my throat, huh? I think, trying to hide the bitter crease in my lips.
I turn to face him, ever so slowly.
“Yes, Mr. Heron?”
“Take the week after Christmas off. We’ll be running on a skeleton crew.”
“Hmm, I don’t know, I have work. Just like you said. Maybe I prefer not to wind up buried after the holidays.”
“What do you mean? I don’t need an assistant while our clients are off counting their holiday sales hauls. Marketing is the last thing on anyone’s mind until January first.”
“I’d rather bank my vacation days for when I have a real vacation. Somewhere tropical like Kona with smoothies everywhere, maybe.” I fold my arms, daring him to push back.
I get my wish.
He clasps his hands neatly on the desk, leans his head forward, and sighs. “You can’t work the week after Christmas. I’ll give you extra comp time so you don’t have to use your precious vacation days. You’ll enjoy Hawaii more when winter teases us into thinking it’s over before slamming everyone with a March blizzard.”
“I—”
“My mind’s made up, Sabrina. Go spend some quality time with your folks.”
There.
There’s that hornet sting to the heart again, reminding me this horrible man knows about my parents, my family, and for some ungodly reason...he still seems to care.
I stare at him. “Whatever. I just...I never thought I’d see the day when you ordered me to work less, but okay.”
With a sad parting smirk, I exit and close the door, breathing a huge sigh of relief.
&nb
sp; Our interactions are few and far between the rest of the day. Back to ’normal.’
Honestly, I think he’s purposely avoiding me more, but as long as I’m collecting my paycheck with extra time off, I shouldn’t complain.
Still. I take every opportunity I can to look through his window, trying to make out details behind the frosted glass.
Every now and then I catch a glimpse of him in his office with his head buried behind his laptop, or taking a call, slouched in his chair.
His usual King of the Universe aura is gone.
I don’t know what happened, but something’s very wrong.
I’ve seen Magnus Heron be a jackass, a tyrant, a prick, and an unexpected, overprotective sweetheart.
But one thing I’ve never seen him be?
Deflated.
And it scares me.
I know. After the stunt he pulled—teasing my tongue like he wanted to devour me and acting like nothing happened—I shouldn’t care.
But I do, and I hate that he’s miserable.
That’s why I push my doubts aside and stop at Sweeter Grind after work. I walk out with a bag of Hawaiian coffee, a box of Heart’s Edge truffles, and my usual cinnamon latte. Back at my place, I hide the stuff from Paige and discreetly wrap up the coffee and truffles in shiny red and green paper, tie a ribbon around it, and write out a card.
Mr. Heron,
I thought some variety might perk you up. No, it’s not handpicked Kona beans, but it’s Hawaiian. I hope you like it. Try not to work too hard over the holidays.
Merry Christmas,
Brina
The next morning, I leave it on his desk next to the steaming hot cup from the Bean Bar.
At my desk, a fancy gold-wrapped package sits in my leather chair, waiting for me. And here I thought I’d be the one to surprise him...
Ripping through the paper that almost looks too expensive to ruin, I find a leather-bound planner with a black cat prancing across the cover.
A thought bubble over the kitty’s head says, As long as I’m yours, I’m lucky.
Oh my God.
It’s from one of my own art pieces. One of the last designs I did before Purry Furniture ditched me, and I stole away so they couldn’t recycle it. I had it posted on my little website portfolio, which he’s obviously seen.
