by Jewel E. Ann
As if the gods of revenge are granting extra wishes today, my phone vibrates with a text from Mr. Seven himself.
I’m finishing up some paperwork downstairs. Send him back down if you need to leave or have other things to do. Thanks.
“Harry, I’m going to run downstairs for a minute. I’ll be right back.”
“K.”
I take the stairs, my heels clicking on each concrete step as I stomp my way to the first floor. I hum, trying to calm my anger, but it’s not working.
“Hey, Elle.” Amanda smiles, twisting off the cap to a glass bottle of flavored tea.
“Hey …” I hold up a finger as I breeze past her. “I just need a quick second to talk to your boss.”
Flint looks up from his paperwork as I shut the door behind me. A slight smile curls his lips. It’s not a stellar smile. I’d give it a seven out of ten at best.
“Ms. Rodgers.” His slight grin twists into a smirk that I want to punch off his face.
“You can’t bury your face between my legs and then call me Ms. Rodgers.”
His smirk fades, his expression settling into discomfort as he glances past me toward Amanda. I wedge my way between him and his desk, forcing him to roll back a foot or so. His gaze makes a quick inspection of me as I sit on the edge.
I love the quick glances he makes to Amanda and the thoughts that must be going through his pretty little head. What if she turns around? How must this look? Why doesn’t “Ms. Rodgers” care what Amanda thinks?
He clears his throat. “Sorry, what shall I call you? Ellen? Elle? Are we friends now?”
I ease my leg up, resting the toe of my shoe on his lower abdomen and pressing the pointy heel of it into his junk.
He grunts, grabbing my ankle.
“How about you call me Ten.”
Flint’s eyes narrow a fraction as he continues to tighten his grip on my ankle to fight the pressure I’m exerting on his cock. Within seconds, realization steals his expression.
“That little shit. He’s so selective with what he acknowledges, but he hears everything.”
“Don’t pass the blame onto him. He only repeated what you said. I just came down here to let you know that I am not a seven. Not a D. So you can be an ass all you want. You can try to make me feel inferior and unwanted, but I am not that girl anymore. So go fuck your own hand. I’m sure it’s the only thing you consider a ten, you egomaniac.”
I jerk my foot out of his grip and push off his desk. That was not cool. I know it, but I’m suppressing the shame the same way I did after I popped his birthday balloons.
“Bye, Elle,” Amanda says.
“Bye.” I don’t stop for small talk, instead I run to the lobby restroom and splash water on my face, closing my eyes and humming Chopin. After my pulse settles into a slow steady rhythm, I exhale a cleansing breath and make my way to the elevator. When the doors open on the second floor, Flint—leaning against the opposing wall with his hands resting in his pants pockets, one leg crossed over the other—twists his lips and makes a slow visual assessment.
It’s quiet. The lights at the accounting office are off, and I don’t hear Harrison on the guitar.
“Who made you feel less than perfect?”
I laugh a little, stepping off the elevator. “Where’s Harry?”
“Doing his homework in my office.”
Brushing past him, I continue humming Chopin.
“Answer my question.”
Plopping down in my desk chair, I lean back and prop my feet on the desk, watching the sun begin to set behind a curtain of scattered clouds. “Besides you?”
He doesn’t respond; I knew he wouldn’t. I don’t look at him. And I’m not going to have this conversation with him.
“Did you know that music and exercise are the only two activities that stimulate your whole brain? It also stimulates the release of dopamine. And it can heal … not just emotions. Music can repair brain damage. Parkinson’s disease, stroke victims, gunshot wounds to the head. I’ve worked with so many people and they all think I’m responsible for this miraculous recovery, but … it’s the music. I’m just a facilitator. It never stops amazing me. I know what could or even should happen over the course of treatment, but it still shocks the hell out of me every single time.”
“Do you think it could help Harrison?”
I turn toward him. “Maybe. No two autistic children are the same. But, honestly, he’s already helping himself. Every time he picks up that guitar, good things happen. It helps him focus on something that’s truly good for his mind—not like hours in front of a screen. It’s calming. And when he plays with me, or let’s say you put him in band someday, it will help him build connections and learn to work well and collaborate with other people.”
Flint blinks slowly. If thoughts made sounds, I’m certain his would sound like a marching band.
“I have plans with my parents this weekend.”
“I’ll be out by Sunday night.” I ease my feet off the desk and stand, taking slow steps to him. “So is this goodbye?” I straighten his tie. Absolutely any excuse to touch him … even if I’m a seven in his mind. He’s a ten in mine because he touched me when I needed it so desperately.
“Why are you humming?”
“Because,” I whisper, keeping my eyes on his tie, “it calms my heart.”
“What’s wrong with your heart?”
“It gets a little out of control when I touch you—like it could explode.”
“Then why touch me?”
I glance up to meet his softened gaze. “Because you never feel more alive than when you’re flirting with death.”
“Have you flirted with death?”
I smile. “Yes.”
He drops his head into an easy nod. “Do you want me to tell you why this is goodbye?”
“I already know. You don’t feel worthy.”
“Of?”
I sigh. “Me. Something that’s for you. A life beyond Harry and your work. Sex in your greenhouse. Wine with your neighbors. A second date. A pet rat … or five. Pleasure without guilt. Puddle jumping when it’s lightning outside. Driving with one hand on the steering wheel. Unprotected sex.” I press my hand to his chest, smoothing his tie. “I don’t know … maybe you don’t feel worthy of life because your wife’s not here to share it with you.”
His right hand cups my jaw. My eyes drift shut when the pad of his thumb traces the curve of my lips. “Maybe,” he whispers.
Before I open my eyes, his lips replace his thumb, leaving me with a gentle kiss. I can’t look at him because if this is goodbye, then I want to feel it. I want to remember this rhythm that my heart falls into only when he touches me.
His lips release mine and his hand vanishes from my face. All that’s connecting us is my fingers feeling the soft silk of his tie one small increment at a time until it releases.
My closed eyes hold back all emotion.
The heat of his body fades along with his footsteps. My heartbeat slows, mourning the loss of his touch. I open my eyes to the empty space before me and pull in a slow, shaky breath.
“Bye,” I whisper.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Flint
“HEY, BOSS. DID you have a good weekend? I tried calling you last night. You must have been out with your parents.” As I drag my tired ass into work just after noon, Amanda hands me a list of calls I need to make.
“Stenson no longer wants to make a deal. He said he’d rather live on the street than give his ‘cheating bitch of a wife’ the house he built ‘with his own goddamn hands.’”
“Of course he did.” I yawn, unbuttoning my jacket and easing into my leather desk chair.
bang bang bang
I glance up. “What’s that?”
“Elle. She’s a music therapist. We’ve been over this.”
“It’s Monday. She was supposed to be out yesterday.”
“Oh, didn’t you hear or see it on the news?”
bang bang bang
<
br /> I roll my eyes to the ceiling again. “See what?”
“The Dickson building burned to the ground the other night. They still haven’t determined the cause.”
“Let me guess. That’s where her office was located?”
“See there … you really are much smarter than you look. Had you answered your phone last night, you would have known that I told Elle she could stay here until she found another vacancy.”
bang bang bang
“How kind of you.”
“Yeah, I thought so too. Harrison will think it’s pretty fantastic.”
I glance up from my desk.
Amanda shrugs. “Okay, he’ll be moderately happy in his own way.”
“Remind me to discuss the word fantastic with you.”
She spins back around in her chair. “I’ll do that. In fact, I’ll set a reminder on my phone right now. You have a gap tomorrow between 1:30 and 2:00, so I’m putting ‘fantastic discussion’ in that spot.”
In the world of football, people respected me. In the courtroom, people respect me. I think the broken link has to do with women. It’s revenge—karma. I killed my wife and now the women around me are hell-bent on driving me crazy.
“Shut my blinds and my door, please.”
Amanda sighs and rounds the corner into my office. “By all means, don’t you get up. I’ve got this.”
No respect.
She closes the blinds to the glass wall separating my office and her desk, and she shuts the door on her way out. “I know you’re going to take a nap while you’re on the clock.”
I slide off my jacket, loosen my tie, and recline back in my chair with my feet propped up on my desk. Damn right I’m going to take a nap.
bang bang bang
I groan and attempt to block out the noise above me.
“The wheels on the bus go round and—”
Oh for fuck’s sake. I shoot to my feet, sending my chair back into the bookshelf.
“Short nap,” Amanda says as I storm out of my office.
“You’re fired for letting her stay.”
“Sure thing, Boss. You know where to send my unemployment check.”
When I get to Ellen’s door, I wait outside. The noise has stopped and she’s talking.
“You missed it. She sang today.”
A woman chokes out a cry. I feel her pain. I wanted to cry when the singing started too.
“Thank you.” The woman sniffles.
I give a polite nod as the teary-eyed woman and an older woman make their way past me to the elevator.
“Are you going to make me cry too?” I step into her office space.
Ellen turns, setting her phone down on her desk. My anger escalates because I’m tired, she’s still here, and she felt the need to wear tight jeans, a fitted sweater, and high heels. I need to have words with her, but at the moment I’d like to have my way with her.
Her lips twist to the side. “I have another appointment. And since we both know you only cry when you orgasm, then I’d say … no. Maybe a raincheck?”
“If a man talked to a woman the way you and Amanda talk to me, everyone would call him a jerk. But when women say similar things, they’re labeled sassy. It’s not right.”
“Not true.” She holds up her finger. “I think you’re incredibly sassy.”
“You think I’m sex in a suit.”
Ellen bites her lips and her cheeks turn pink.
“What if I called you Sex in a Skirt? You’d scream sexual harassment.”
Her eyes widen for a few seconds before she makes her way to me. She’s going to mess with me—my tie, my jacket, my resolve—and I won’t move because I like her hands on me, the fruity smell of her hair, and the view of her cleavage when she’s right under my nose.
I’m fucked.
“Do you feel objectified?” Her hands go right to my tie. By this point she might as well grab my dick since it’s now programmed to respond to her yanking my tie every which way. “I’m not wearing a skirt today, but after my last appointment I could change and we could role play your sex-in-a-suit and sex-in-a-skirt scenario. Or …”
She lifts onto her toes and licks my neck from the top of my tie to my chin. “We could job shadow each other. I could let you play with my bongos and you could show me your briefs.”
So fucked—and not just because my dick is jealous of my neck; it’s her ridiculous, suggestive words that shouldn’t turn on any guy in his right mind. Bongos and briefs?
“Do you even know what the words ‘sexual harassment’ mean?”
She laughs, releasing my tie and taking a step back while shoving her hands in her back pockets. “Hey, unrelated to you gawking at my boobs in spite of calling me a seven, I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you’re letting me stay until I find a new place.”
She sighs and shakes her head. “It’s scary to think had I moved in just two days earlier, I would have lost all of my stuff in the fire.”
No drums or cymbals? Tragic.
“How’s the search for a new place going? Anything look promising?”
She coughs a laugh. “I haven’t started looking. I’ve been working. This fire was a little unexpected, so I need to regroup and start from the beginning again.”
I glance at my watch. “What time are you done?”
“Four.”
“Good. I’ll wait for you downstairs.”
Her head cocks to the side, exposing her neck. I like her neck, specifically when I can feel her pulse racing against my lips. “Are you asking me out on a date? If so, I think you need to work on your sales pitch.”
“No. I’m taking you shopping for a new space to rent.”
“Do you think I’m incapable of doing it on my own?”
“I know the area. And I know some places that might be available, but they’re not advertising it to everyone.”
“Oh, you’re connected.”
“Yes.”
“And you can’t stand having me here.”
“I can’t work with you here.”
“Because I’m not a ten?”
“Because you’re too loud.” I turn and walk down the hall before this gets any crazier.
“On a scale of one to ten…” she pokes her head around the corner just as I push open the door to the stairwell “…how loud am I?”
“An eleven.”
*
I MANAGE TO grab a nap before Amanda squeezes in a last minute appointment at the end of the day.
“Your husband ‘not looking at you the same way’ does not prove that he’s having an affair. I can’t make a case out of that. I need more.”
“He sends me chocolates at work every week. That proves he has a guilty conscience … and that proves he’s trying to make me fat because he knows I don’t want to have sex when I feel bad about myself.”
“Bernadette—”
“Bernie. Gordon calls me Bernadette. You’re on my side, not his.”
I set down my pen and lean back in my chair. “Bernie … I get paid whether you win or lose. But I don’t feel right about taking your money when I know you don’t stand a chance of winning with nothing more than a look and chocolates. So either you stay and see if things get better or you file for divorce. But without proof of an affair, you won’t get a dime since you signed the prenup against my advice.”
She sighs as a sad smile pulls at her glossy lips. “He told me the prenup was just something stupid his attorney wanted. He told me I was his forever.”
“All good attorneys want their wealthy clients to have prenups. And…” I stand and button my jacket so she gets the clue that our meeting is about over “…nothing lasts forever.”
“Don’t sugarcoat it.” She stands, shimmying her tight dress down over her chocolate-indulged hips.
“Never have, never will.”
“Hey, Elle.”
I glance up as Ellen smiles at Amanda before making eye contact with me. I should have kept my blinds shut.
&n
bsp; “I thought I was your last appointment today,” Bernie says while hoisting her fancy purse over her shoulder.
“You here to chat with me or see Flint?” Amanda asks.
Keeping those fucking seductive eyes on me, Ellen’s grin intensifies. “Flint. We have a date.”
My eyes narrow a fraction as I usher Bernie to the waiting room.
“A date?” Amanda whips around to me with wide eyes.
“Well…” Bernie huffs “…if he asks you to sign a prenup, I’d advise against it.” She marches past Ellen, straight out the door.
Women. If I could convince my dick I didn’t need them, my life would be a hell of a lot easier.
“Not a date. I’m finding a new space for Ms. Rodgers to rent.”
I don’t have to look at Amanda to know she has some knowing look on her face. She knows nothing. Ellen knows nothing either, but I get the feeling she thinks she does. I step back as she moves toward me.
Don’t touch me. I warn her with a stern glare.
My next step ends with my legs backed into Amanda’s desk and Ellen’s body crossing every possible personal space boundary.
“But if I buy you dinner afterwards, it’s a date.” Ellen keeps her gaze locked to mine.
It’s a miracle her hands remain idle at her sides instead of wrapped around my tie.
“It’s not.”
“Is it just me or is it warm in here?” Amanda asks behind me.
“It’s Ms. Rodgers’ fever, which would also explain her hallucinations.” I take a step forward, forcing her to retreat a step, refusing to let her ruffle me. “Shall we go before you get any worse?”
“You mean like … a seven?” Her head cocks to the side. “Right now I feel like a ten, but if this fever of mine persists, my condition could downgrade to a seven, and I have it on good authority that a seven is like getting a D in school.”
“Yep,” Amanda mumbles, “it is definitely hot in here.”
“Let’s. Go,” I say.
Ellen tips her chin up as if she’s readying another comeback. I narrow my eyes a bit more to let her know this conversation in front of my secretary is over. She can be so damn infuriating and stubborn.
