“This one,” I say to Peg, pushing past the curtain. I wait for her answer.
She smiles. “Yes.”
Chapter 20
Byron
Prior to Leila’s arrival on Tuesday morning, I stop at Stella’s to buy her coffee, setting it on her desk for when she arrives. Five minutes before eight, she greets Peg upon entering the office, like she does every morning, warm and inviting. I’m already anticipating the click of her heels. With each step, she nears my door. I force myself to relax deeper in my office chair, though it feels like my body wants to tear itself from my skin. She passes in a flash of color, then stops. It feels like someone’s clamping their hands around my heart. I wait.
Leila backs up, bottom lip caught between her teeth, and waves shyly. “Mr. Schaffer.” Her voice is a whisper.
I offer her a slow, warm smile. “Ms. Engleton.” She still struggles with calling me by my first name. I’ll have to discuss that with her later. “You look lovely this morning.”
Her mouth parts, and she glances down at her outfit. Black slacks and a frilly pink blouse. Her hair is pulled back, but I wish it was down so I could see those flyaway curls in their natural state. “Thank you, Mr. Schaffer.” With a nod, she disappears into her office, and again, I wait in delicious anticipation of her walking through my door, her sweet scent trailing.
It doesn’t take long. The click of her heels sounds a second before she appears. “What is this?” Leila holds up the coffee cup. It dangles from her fingertips like it’s a dead rat.
A muscle slides in my jaw. Winning Leila’s trust is going to be harder than I thought.
“It’s coffee,” I say.
“Why is it on my desk?”
“I bought it for you.”
Her face pinches in puzzlement. Her mouth opens, and shuts. “You bought me coffee?” she rasps out. Uncertainty takes over her features. I sense her hesitation, the need to fight or flee.
I shift in my chair. Fuck, why does my suit jacket feel like it’s strangling me? “Is that a problem?” I say, rather harshly.
Slowly, she lowers the coffee cup. Stares at it like it’s an object from an alien planet. “No.” The word is drawn out. “But I thought that was my job—to bring you coffee.”
“Just say thank you and drink the damn coffee,” I growl out.
She jolts, and the top to the cup pops off. Hot liquid sloshes over Leila’s hand.
A gasp, and she drops the cup. Coffee seeps into the rug at her feet. Her cursing rings against the panes of glass as she presses her burned hand to her chest. I’m already out of my chair, striding toward her in concern. The coffee must have been scalding.
“Let me see.” I reach for her hand, but she snatches it back. Peg’s nosy self can see everything that’s going on, so I quickly shut the door to give Leila and I some privacy.
“Mr. Schaffer.”
“I told you,” I say, catching her arm so I can better see the damage. “Call me Byron.”
Her eyes widen. The hazel is more green than brown today, a dark gold ring encircling the irises. My touch gentles as I lift her hand for inspection. Her skin, though pink, hasn’t blistered yet.
“Let’s get some cold water on this.” A gentle tug forward.
But she digs in her heels. “Where are we going?” she demands. Her eyes dart from floor to ceiling to door, like she’s a cornered hare being led into a wolf’s den. “The bathroom is that way.” Leila points out into the hall.
Ah, Leila. Honest to God, no other woman has come close to making me smile, and she’s not even trying. She’s herself, and that’s enough. “I have a bathroom in here. It’s closer. Quiet. Unless you want the other employees to gossip about why you have a burned hand. Say… Karen, perhaps?” My mouth twitches. I’m aware Leila and Karen aren’t the best of friends.
Leila takes a moment to mull it over, then nods and lets me lead her into my bathroom.
“Wow,” Leila whispers, looking around as I turn on the sink. “This is nice.”
It’s a master bathroom, complete with a shower, closet, and tub. There’s even a sitting area with a couch. In the past, it’s been used for various sexual acts. That was years ago, however.
What would happen, I wonder, if I locked the bathroom door and dragged her into the shower with me? If I inched up her thin blouse, or even better, left it on so I could watch the water mold the fabric to her curves? Would she like me to hitch her legs around my waist? What about shoving my face against her hot sex and sucking at her drenched folds?
As my cock begins to harden, I clear my throat and angle my body away from her. “Put your hand under the water.”
“I’m sorry about your rug. I really am a klutz.” Leila lets the water course over her burns.
“It’s just a rug, Leila. Don’t worry about it.”
“I’ll bet it was expensive.”
“It means nothing to me.”
“I’ll pay you back for it. Or I’ll pay for it to be professionally cleaned.”
God, this woman won’t drop it. It’s everything that’s happened in the past five minutes. The fact that she was burned because of me, because of something I did. How she’s slow to trust me. How I want to tell her I’m the pizza guy and I’ve seen her naked and heard her moans. Fuck.
“Leila.” I press against the side of her body. My control is bare threads.
There’s a faint hitch to her breath. It feels like the air hollows out suddenly, like a vacuum. I shift again, simply for the sake of touching her. It’s the best and worst sound I’ve ever heard, her gasp ringing against the tile. I want to devour her and I know I can’t. Not yet. Her eyes, when they meet mine, are dark, heavy with desire. Tension snaps between us, pulls taut. I know she feels it. She has to.
“I don’t care about the damn rug,” I tell her, lowering my voice further. She stares at my mouth. “I care that you don’t get hurt. Understand?”
She shudders. It seems to take over her entire body. “I didn’t know th-that,” she whispers.
“Know what?”
Her eyelashes flutter against her cheekbones. “That you care.”
Hot, furious anger sweeps through me. It’s not her fault. Of course it’s not her fault she thinks so. It’s mine. “Leila. Look at me.” When she doesn’t, I grab her chin and lift it, forcing her eyes to mine. “I care about you. I do.”
Her slender throat works as she swallows. “I should… go answer a phone. Or something.”
The urge to flee is written in the tension of her body. I release her. “Or something,” I say.
She’s gone before I can call her back.
On Wednesday, I take Leila out to lunch. Joe’s Deli, because I’ve learned it’s one of her favorite places, though she rarely goes there herself. I buy her two pastrami sandwiches. When she asks who the second sandwich is for, I say, “King Henry. He likes pastrami, right?”
I’ve shocked her to the core. A minute passes in complete silence, her mouth agape, eyes shiny with unshed tears. Then she nods. It seems the way to her heart is through her grumpy cat. Good to know.
On Friday, I ask Peg to cancel my afternoon meetings, which she does with no short amount of trepidation. In all the years Peg has worked for me, I think I’ve only asked her to cancel one meeting, and that was because I had strep throat.
“Any reason in particular?” she asks, blatant in her curiosity. Technically, it’s Leila’s job to cancel my meetings. Though she’s growing into the position, she still gets nervous when altering my schedule. I’d rather keep her in a good mood.
I shrug flippantly, slip my hands into my pockets. “I have other plans, that’s all.”
“What plans?”
I rock back onto my heels. It’s not like Peg is privy to this information, but I trust her not to blab anything to the rest of the staff. She knows I prefer to keep my
private life private.
The thing is, I’ve never been so determined to win over a woman. Historically, women pursue me. And I let them, generally, if only because I like the power it gives me. Leila’s different. Somehow, I find myself working to prove her perception of me isn’t real. It’s a mask to the rest of the world.
“If you must know—”
“I do,” she interrupts.
I grit my teeth and force back a spitting reply. I’ve only ever lashed out at Peg twice. Once when I learned my ex fiancée only cared about my money, and a second time when Peg had a heart scare and I visited her in the hospital. It was too similar a situation with my own mother, who I visit every month. Most visits, she’s asleep in bed, drugged out of her mind. It sucks, but that’s life.
“There’s Shakespeare in the Park this afternoon. I thought Leila might enjoy it.”
My receptionist’s hand claps over her mouth as she stares at me with misty eyes. “Byron,” she whispers.
“Don’t—”
“You really like Leila, don’t you?”
“Hush,” I hiss, glancing over my shoulder in fear of Leila overhearing.
Her expression softens, and against all odds, I find myself wanting a hug. A gesture of comfort. Fuck me. I don’t like feeling this way: out of control.
“Am I overstepping myself?” I whisper furiously. “Maybe she doesn’t like theatre. Going to lunch would be easier.”
“No. I think Leila would enjoy the play. You should take her. And if you like her, I don’t think it’s overstepping. If she makes it clear your advances aren’t welcome, then back off. Simple.”
I don’t think I’m overstepping, but Peg has a point. I’ll take it slow. The point isn’t to conquer, not anymore. The point is to learn more about Leila. A rare thing, but I think it will be worth it.
“Hey, Peg, can you help me with something?” Leila calls as she steps out of her office. She catches sight of me and stops, biting her lip. If only she knew how much it drove me crazy. “Mr. Schaffer. Byron. H-hi.” Today, Leila wears a knee-length green dress, belted at the waist, and black flats. Her hair is a great curling cloud atop her head. The mess begs for my fingers to twine through it.
“Leila.” My eyes darken, and I step toward her. “A word?” Without waiting for an answer, I gesture her into her office and shut the door. Alone in the small space. Beneath the thin fabric of her dress, her chest rises and falls in a fitful motion. The pulse flutters in her neck like a bird taking flight.
Warily, she inches toward her desk, effectively putting the wooden contraption between us. “Was there something you wanted to speak to me about?”
So many filthy scenarios play out inside my head. Her bent over the desk. Her legs splayed open, laid out like a feast for me. Or perhaps she could sit in the chair and I kneel before her, eating her soft, sweet flesh to my heart’s content.
With effort, I bring my focus back to the matter at hand. She and I will get there, eventually. “The Delacorte Theater is showing Shakespeare in the Park this afternoon. It starts in an hour. Finish up whatever you’re doing, and we’ll leave shortly.”
She gapes at me. A minute passes in utter silence, but I’m not going to be the one to break it.
“We’re going to see a play?” She stares at me, dazed. “But… I’m working.”
“I’m giving you the afternoon off. Paid, of course.” I know she needs the money.
Slowly, Leila shakes her head. Puzzlement pinches her expression. I wish I could smooth away the lines of tension on her forehead, but I haven’t earned that right yet. “I don’t understand.”
“You don’t have to understand.” Moving around her desk, I grasp her elbow. She goes still, as if my touch hurts her, though I know it doesn’t, considering my grip is extremely loose. “We’ll leave in thirty minutes. All right?”
“Why are you doing this?”
I sigh in exasperation, frustration. Only Leila would question a paid afternoon off. Why can’t she accept it for what it is—a gift? “Meet me in my office,” I growl, heading out. “Thirty minutes.”
“But—”
The door snaps shut.
Chapter 21
Leila
I think my boss is taking me out on a date.
I can’t be sure—I am, after all, wrong about a lot of things—but I’m pretty sure I’m right about this. We’re going to Shakespeare in the Park. That’s not something a boss takes his personal assistant to. He has a motive. And I think his motive is that he’s finally realized I’m hot stuff and wants to get into my pants.
I’m not completely opposed to the idea.
What I am opposed to is the excitement I feel about the outing. My stomach is already beginning to cramp, and we haven’t even made it onto the elevator yet. If I’m excited to spend time with Mr. Billionaire, then that means I like him, and if I like him, chances are I’m hoping he’ll make a move on me. And that’s inappropriate. Way too inappropriate.
Right?
Well, let me tell you, my panties don’t care that Byron Schaffer is my boss. My hoo-ha is having a field day at my expense, because this man is delicious as sin. He has the devil’s smirk and right now, as he and I wait for the elevator, his ice blue eyes rest on my face, perusing. He doesn’t say anything. That’s almost worse.
“What?” I say, shifting another inch away from him. It’s for his safety, really. Any closer and I’ll likely attach myself to him like velcro.
“Nothing.” Soft voice, yet with a hint of promise underneath. Oh, boy.
“Nothing. Right.”
He seems pleased by my short reply. Almost like this is a game to him. “What do you think is going on in my head?” he asks.
Can the elevator be any slower? “I don’t know. I’m not a mind reader.”
“Oh, come on. Play along, will you?”
“Fine. You’re thinking what an excellent employee I am. You’re counting your lucky stars you hired me. You’re also considering giving me a hefty raise.” I shoot him a toothy smile. “That’s totally what you’re thinking, right?”
He laughs. “You’re right, Ms. Engleton. That is what I’m thinking.” But the banked heat in his eyes tells me otherwise.
“Are you really wearing that to the play?” I gesture to his navy suit and tie. It looks great, sure, but doesn’t he know how to let loose, even for a few hours?
His gaze narrows. “What’s wrong with my outfit?”
“It’s kind of stuffy, don’t you think?”
“Oh, so now I’m stuffy?”
The elevator dings, and the doors open. We step inside. I expect Byron to move to his side of the elevator, since that’s proper etiquette, but he invades my personal space instead. Our shoulders brush. With his body turned toward me, he has effectively pushed me into a corner. My chest tightens as I breathe him in.
“I mean—” Man, he smells good. “Yes, you’re stuffy. Controlling. You like things how you like them.”
He mulls this over, then asks, “Would you prefer I take off my suit jacket? Is that what you’re implying? Or are you implying I should take off all my clothes?”
“I’m n-not saying anything like that!” I gasp out, the image of his naked body searing into my brain. “But do you really need to wear a tie to this sort of thing? The jacket will probably feel uncomfortable.”
We reach the bottom floor, and the doors open. Except Mr. Billionaire doesn’t move out of my personal bubble. If anything, he leans closer, placing one of his large hands near my head and dipping his mouth near my ear. I bite make a moan. That’s probably the worst thing I could do. Was I the only one who felt the chemistry between us last week? Surely if he wanted to kiss me he would have, right?
“You want me to take off my jacket,” he clarifies.
“Yes.”
“Do it for me.” A blatant
challenge.
I pause, certain I heard wrong. Byron wants me to take off his jacket? Me?
We’re still in the elevator. The doors begin to close. I lunge, hoping to stop them from shutting, but Byron nimbly steps into my path, forcing me to stop unless I want to run into his body. The heat of his skin seeps into me.
“My jacket,” he repeats, and the temperature warms another notch, bringing sweat to my skin.
“If you’re sure,” I say hesitantly.
The blue of his irises warms. They’re like two oceans, deep and inviting. “I’m very sure.”
With our eyes locked, I take a step toward him, mesmerized by the play of light and shadow across his handsome face. My hands reach out, grab hold of the lapels, and part his jacket to reveal the white silk shirt beneath. But I don’t pull it off. I’m distracted by the strong column of his throat which, were I to stand on tiptoe, I could taste with my mouth. I watch the muscles shift as he swallows.
“Leila.”
His deep rumble brings me back to myself. “Yeah?”
“My jacket.” Amusement lightens his expression. The hint of his smile melts the usual cold façade. In its place is someone charismatic, playful, irresistible. Byron Schaffer is too beautiful for words.
“Oh. Right. Jacket. Of course.” Get it together, Leila! Carefully, I tug his jacket the rest of the way off. Byron takes a moment to roll his sleeves up his forearms, baring a sexy smattering of hair, corded muscle, and tanned skin.
“Thank you, Leila.” The warmth infused in those words washes over me like a bath.
My face flames. I quickly shove his jacket into his arms and press the open button, grateful for the whoosh of cool air that hits me when I step into the lobby. I’m going to have to be more careful in his presence. He’s so good at pulling me under his spell.
We make our way to Central Park in silence. It’s a silence of tension, of awareness. A silence of waiting. Waiting for someone to speak, to make a move. I am nothing if not stubborn. If Byron wants to have a conversation, he can speak first. He’s the one who invited me on this outing, after all.
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