by Sierra Hill
And the very same boss who has been infiltrating my very dirty thoughts and overly sexualized dreams for weeks.
I’m not going to survive this. Not one second of it.
Not if my sweaty, clammy palms and jumpy nerves have anything to say about it.
The minute I learned about this trip and we were excused from the meeting, I ran to the ladies’ bathroom and tossed my cookies. I swear, it wasn’t on purpose.
I was just so in shock by Brody’s announcement and his decision to bring me along on this business trip that everything in my stomach shifted and churned in fear and panic, and more than a little excitement. Not only was I surprised by it, but I also immediately felt guilty and unworthy of accepting this coveted trip. It felt like everyone was eyeballing me with suspicion and accusation, even though they all congratulated me on the nomination.
But it’s that type of attention – the spotlight that’s granted someone who doesn’t feel they deserve it – that wages a war inside a person battling an eating disorder like me. For years I’ve struggled with feelings of inadequacy and unworthiness. My stepfather made sure of that when I was a young girl. Dave would leer at me, making fun of me, calling me a stupid slut if I messed something up or didn’t bring home a high grade on a test. Or as I began to develop physically in my teen years, he would throw out names like whore and slut if I wore an outfit he disapproved of or found inappropriate, which seemed to be everything.
It grew worse and worse as time went on, and soon the verbal lashings weren’t enough, and he’d take out his frustrations over my shortcomings on my mother – physically, with whatever force he deemed reasonable.
It wasn’t until after I sought treatment and began talking with a counselor that I learned none of his actions were my fault. While that was helpful, it didn’t solve my problem. I had to learn coping mechanisms and healthy, body-positive responses to my anxieties and fears.
The toughest lesson I ever learned was that I wasn’t the stupid, fat girl my stepfather made me out to see every time I looked in a mirror. I had to search hard and long, but I finally found the woman in my reflection to be intelligent, worthy to be loved, and not responsible for anyone else’s failures or unmet expectations.
I’ve conquered a lot over a few short years, but those fears still continue to creep in when I’m faced with new challenges. Like taking a five-hour flight while sitting right next to my boss, who smells so incredibly good right now I just want to lean over and shove my nose into his neck and inhale all his sexiness.
I realize I’m staring when Brody turns in his seat and asks, “Everything okay, Peyton? You look a little green. You’re not a nervous flier, are you?”
Nervous? Me? Not for the reason he thinks, that’s for sure. I run my sticky palms over my jeans, stopping at my knees to wiggle my fingers in a way that looks like I’m playing a Chopin tune.
I lift my eyebrows skyward and shrug my shoulders with an exaggerated pause. “Me, nervous? Heck no. In fact, I’m not really sure if I’m a nervous flier or not because I’ve never been on a plane before.”
I immediately realize what I’ve said and drop my chin to my chest in embarrassment because Brody is probably wondering to himself how his twenty-one-year old intern has never flown in a plane before. And if he’s surprised by that little-known fact, I’d imagine I’d leave him speechless if he were to ever learn I was a virgin.
However unlikely that would be. Not exactly a topic that would naturally come up in polite workplace conversation. “Oh, what do you think about that new line of ties? By the way, I’m a virgin. And hey, what do you say we go with the I say we go with the red silk pocket squares?”
My throat dries up on a stifled chuckle over my theatrical internal dialogue, as Brody reaches over to lay his hand on mine in my lap. Everything around us grows silent as we both stare at the spot where our bodies touch.
The heat that manifests between us has me wanting to combust. The air nozzle above my head does nothing right now to cool me down, as sweat beads form at the top of my forehead and at the nape of my neck, drip, drip, dripping down the column of my spine.
I suck in a deep breath and Brody releases my hand, snapping it back so fast it’s almost comical. As if the skin on my hand was covered in acid and it produced a powerful chemical burn.
“I guess I’m surprised you’ve never been on a plane. Not even for family vacations or college spring break trips?”
I shake my head feeling very “less-than” and ridiculous. I never knew anything about summer vacations or family trips. When my mom was married to my stepdad, he spent his money on gambling and booze, not taking his family to Disneyland or skiing in the mountains in Tahoe. And my mom in her own drunken state of mind, who was simply fighting to live day-to-day, didn’t find it as important as other kids’ parents to give me the things they had when it came to vacations.
I shrink back in my seat as far as I can possibly go, trying to make myself invisible, hoping to end this humiliation quickly and painlessly.
“We’d normally stick around Arizona or go places that were in driving distance.” I leave it at that because I’m not about to open up that can of worms with my boss.
I’m saved by the chirpy flight attendant who asks us for our drink orders.
“What can I get you, miss? Would you like a glass of champagne or a mimosa to start?” he asks, a friendly, open smile across his face.
I’m not prepared to order anything and don’t really have money to spend, so I flap my hand in the air. “Oh, nothing for me. Thanks.”
As if realizing that I’m an inexperienced traveler, Brody casually leans over, his shoulder grazing against mine, and whispers in my ear.
“Drinks, alcoholic or non, and food are free in First-Class,” he says with a wink, pulling back just slightly for me to see his face and crooked grin. “You can get whatever you want.”
I run my tongue over my bottom lip and change my mind. “Oh. In that case, a mimosa sounds great. But light on the champagne, please.”
“Atta girl,” Brody says approvingly and orders his own. “I’ll take a Bloody Mary, double with Tito’s. And bring us both the bagel breakfast sandwich.”
Brody turns to me again, raising an eyebrow, his tone a mix of humor and sincerity. “Is that okay with you? Or do you prefer the gluten-free, no carbs, vegan, whole-food, environmentally conscious and sustainably grown breakfast?”
I snort loudly at his joke, covering my mouth with my hand and shaking my head. “That’s fine with me, just no cheese on my sandwich.”
Four years ago, I would have avoided even the celery stalk in the Bloody Mary because of the calories it contained, and hell-to-the-no would I have ever eaten a bagel with cream cheese. But now that I’m mindful of my disease and I’ve come to terms with the way I view food, I can eat the things I want and enjoy without feeling the need to purge everything out.
The flight attendant nods at my request and heads to the next row, leaving Brody and me silent for a moment.
Although he’s sitting upright in his chair, his head still tilts down close to my ear, his shoulder still brushing mine. “I apologize, that was so rude of me to speak for you. I forget myself sometimes.”
Brody’s apology throws me because it hadn’t bothered me one bit. In fact, I found it helpful, especially in light of my naivety with inflight dining.
“Don’t be silly. You’re the boss and make decisions all the time. I’m sure it just comes naturally and is part of how you run your business. Don’t worry about me. I’ll speak up if something doesn’t work for me.”
As if I’ve just said something dirty, he gives me a playful smirk.
“Don’t I know it. You gave me an earful the other day when I gallantly got you down off that mountainside.”
I face palm myself. “Oh my God, really? Do you have to bring that up again? Let me just forget that embarrassing fiasco.”
“Why? I rather enjoyed it. It made me feel like Super Man.”
I bump his s
houlder with mine. Playful yet still professional. Flirty but not sexual.
“Exactly which part did you enjoy? The part where I humiliated myself by being incapable of walking on my own? Or the part where you demonstrated how strong you are by carrying me all the way down the mountain?”
He snickers. “I won’t lie. While I’m sorry you got yourself into that predicament, I’m not sorry I was the one to save you. Must be the hero-complex I have.”
I shove him again and he teasingly bumps me back. My nerves have finally dissipated, and it feels good to be able to be silly and flirty with Brody. It feels natural. He’s not at all the type of guy I thought he was the first night we met. There’s not an egotistical bone in his body.
And I really like being with him. Even if he is my boss and things will never progress from here. At least we can have some resemblance of a normal conversation without me getting tongue-tied and stupid because I’m crushing on him so hard.
And just to tease him some more, I give him another dig.
“Hmm. Sounds to me like an over-inflated ego more than anything. Because I remember that day very differently and I think we both know who the real hero was that day.”
The laugh that erupts from inside Brody’s chest stirs something inside me, producing a giddy and weightless feeling in my tummy.
Or that could just be the takeoff.
Or both.
Chapter 14
Brody
I tried to get some work done the majority of the five-hour flight, adding to the presentation I’m scheduled to deliver in front of the thousand conference attendees on Saturday, but I’ve gotten sidetracked on more than one occasion. Perhaps it’s from the sweet-smelling perfume that Peyton wears which draws my thoughts elsewhere.
In places it definitely should not be.
Like in her pants and underneath her blouse. I imagine my nose and mouth planted in all those secret, intimate places currently covered by her clothing and my dick swells to epic proportions and puts me in a very precarious position.
As I rewrite my closing remarks in my notes, my attention is drawn to Peyton’s lower back. Or more specifically, to the smooth expanse of skin and rear set of dimples just above the edge of her jeans. She is bent over at her waist, riffling through her bag underneath the seat in front of her feet, her shirt untucked and lifted to expose the string of her thong that strains tight against her skin.
I try not to salivate at the sight as my dick throbs at my zipper.
I knew this was a piss-poor decision the moment I made the declaration at the staff meeting last Monday. But fuck me, I craved her presence. I wanted to be with her in whatever capacity I could, even if that meant sitting on a cross-country flight, hard as a rock and unable to touch her. Even though my rigid length remembers the distinct pleasure I derived from kissing her soft, full lips and tasting her bubblegum mouth. And knowing the exact weight and give of her pliant body in my arms and how incredibly tight her ass is in her hiking gear.
And now to top it all off, I have the visual of her pink thong that I know is nestled tightly in the crease of her ass and probably rubs tight against her pussy. Maybe even giving her clit friction right this minute.
Fuck me, I’m a masochist.
“Um, Brody? Would you mind? I need to get up and use the restroom.”
I blink and notice Peyton positioned at the edge of her seat, purse in hand as she waits politely for me to move so she can get out of our row.
“Oh, of course. Sorry about that.” I flip the lid on my laptop closed and shove it back in my leather bag at my feet and then unbuckle my seatbelt.
I’m about to stand to move into the aisle, but a very large, older man blocks the aisle as he reaches up into the overhead bin. I do the only thing I can do and sink back down into the seat, and swing my knees to the side, allowing enough room for Peyton to get by.
I gesture with my chin for her to scoot by, but that is a mistake.
Big. Fucking. Mistake.
Peyton stands, her back and ass facing me as she maneuvers herself up and over me. But as she does, the strap of her purse gets stuck around the armrest, jerking her off balance, and she stumbles over my feet.
I instinctively grab onto her hips to steady her, so she doesn’t topple over, but due to the unexpected touch, Peyton contorts herself around, managing to throw herself further off balance. She reaches out a hand to the seat back in front of her, but it’s too little too late. She loses her footing and careens, smack down into my lap.
For one incredible and fulfilling moment, it is pure pleasure, as her ass mashes snugly into my flagpole erection, my cock rejoicing in how good it feels. And yes, it is too good to be true and grows increasingly awkward as my cover is blown and realization dawns across Peyton’s face that she is sitting on her boss’s fucking hard on. She gasps, whether from being groped or from my pervert erection and I practically spring her from my lap, pushing her to her feet so fast it’s as if she’s been bounced off a trampoline.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” she squeaks out a breathy exclamation. “Are you okay, Brody? Did I hurt you?”
I want to laugh. But I grimace instead, flicking my hand in the direction of the lavatory. “No, it’s fine. Just go. Go use the restroom.”
Confusion is evident on face, as her eyes cast down and she slowly walks forward down the aisle. In all the commotion, I find it amusing that Peyton apologized for thinking she hurt me by falling into my lap. The girl is feather-light and barely a buck ten. If that. The only way that girl could ever hurt me is…well, shit.
Definitely not physically, unless she tied me up and strung me to a wild bull in a rodeo. And that wouldn’t happen.
But the idea that something does exist between us, and if we ever had the opportunity to explore it and it didn’t work out, I suppose it could eventually hurt me. Or hurt us both.
It doesn’t even matter because it’s not possible. She’s not only my employee and my intern, but she’s also a hell of a lot younger than me. She’s what, twenty-one? And I’m nearing thirty this year. She’s still in college, for Christ’s sake and will return to Phoenix in less than a month to finish out her degree. And then she’ll start her life and career, while I remain in L.A. to continue the life I’ve built and manage the company I own.
There’s a reason I’ve remained single since my divorce. I’m married to my job, with my head down and eyes on the prize with the goal of making this company profitable again – a contender against the behemoths in the industry. To change the reputation of our business and prove to my father that I can do it ethically and with fair business practices.
And while my scruples are certainly being tested with every passing minute I’m around Peyton, I will not give in to her and behave like my father who slept with one office girl after the next. I need to find something – anything – about Peyton that I don’t like. Something that’s a deal breaker so I can stop thinking about her all the fucking time.
Okay, let’s see. There’s the fact that she originally lied to me about who she was. Yes, that’s a good reason. I should distrust her for the way she deceived me.
Although, that issue was put to rest the minute she explained to me why she did it. Looking at it from her viewpoint had me understanding her position on the matter.
Dammit.
And speaking of her position. She’s a goddamn college intern. She’s young. Inexperienced in the business world. On a typical Saturday night, Peyton probably goes out with her friends to frat houses – a wild and immature college student who sucks back ten Jell-O shots from a guy’s abs and then vomits on the lawn before passing out in a stranger’s bed. I’m well-past that party period in my life and don’t want to go back.
There’s also potential that Peyton is a gold-digger who would eventually sell me out for fame or recognition by throwing our relationship out into the social media spotlight.
The problem with all of these worst-case scenarios is that it’s just not Peyton. I cons
ider her behavior both in and outside of the office since we’ve met. What you see is what you get. I may have done some snooping on her social media accounts after we ran into each other last weekend on the hike. Interested in what she shares with the worldwide web about her life.
Her Instagram was public and showed nothing that would indicate she’s a party girl. Most of her posts are about design and fashion. Not even a freaking duck-face selfie in her profile to make me question her judgment or maturity level.
All in all, I can’t find one single thing about Peyton that turns me off.
But that in and of itself pisses me off. I don’t want to want her.
Maybe I wouldn’t if I didn’t find her so damn irresistible and perfect.
I come to the conclusion that I’ll just have to spend as much time away from her during this trip as I can. That way, I won’t be tempted to do something stupid.
Like kiss her again.
Chapter 15
Peyton
Brody is acting differently toward me ever since we landed in New York. Almost as if he’s bored with my company and just wants me out of his sight.
I have no idea what I did, if anything, to cause this change. Perhaps he’s just tired or anxious about the presentation tomorrow, but he hasn’t said more than two words to me since we departed the plane.
In fact, it was right about the moment I returned from the bathroom when an iron curtain came down and he shut off. Maybe my uncoordinated mishap when I fell into his lap gave him the wrong idea about me.
Or it could have absolutely nothing to do with me whatsoever and I’m just being lame. To think his mood has anything to do with me is ridiculous.
Whatever it is that changed his mood, I just try to keep myself calm and busy myself with my phone as he checks us in at the front desk of the hotel. There are texts from Kyler and Brooklyn asking if I made it to New York yet, and there’s also a voicemail message. From my mom. I stare at the ominous message icon and groan internally.
