by Sierra Hill
But something inside me – my gut intuition – tells me she does feel it, too.
From the one and only kiss we shared weeks earlier, before we were ever boss and intern, it was real. My heart beats too fast, my pulse racing from the close proximity of her body. The heat that crackles with intensity every time we are close.
I’m willing to let go and jump into this if she is.
I search her gaze for any sign of reluctance. Or eagerness for my kiss. I need to see if that spark that ignited that first night is still there.
“I want to kiss you so badly, Peyton. Right now. Right here. Just one kiss.”
I let the word dangle between us, offering her a chance to say no. To slap me if I’m out of line. To kick me out of her room, tell me to fuck off and never come back.
Although, I’m not offering any quid pro quo here, one could say this is classic sexual harassment behavior. Powerful person wanting something from underling and uses said power to get what he wants.
But all I want – all I need – is just one kiss. And I would never intimidate or threaten Peyton’s position if she didn’t want it. I would walk away, and she would finish out her internship without any further interference from me.
But just the thought of how this looks from the outside has me questioning our current situation. I close my eyes, balling my hands into fists at my side and allow reason to take over. I take a step back toward the door. Then another.
When I open my lids again, I see confusion, or maybe even rejection, flitter across Peyton’s face and cloud her stormy-blue eyes.
I bow my head and rub my temples roughly. “I’m sorry. I know I can’t. I want to, but it’s inappropriate. You shouldn’t be put in this type of position. It’s wrong.”
I back up further until I’m flush with the door, the safety sign hanging on the door gauging into the back of my shoulder blades, while my hand searches blindly for the door handle.
“I’ve got to go. I have a conference call in ten minutes. I’ll see you down at the cocktail hour and then dinner at eight, okay?”
Her soft reply of “okay” is muffled by the sound of the door closing behind me, as I make my escape into the darkness of my own room next door.
Fuck me. I just made this ten shades of awkward.
I’m not typically risk-adverse when it comes to business strategy. I like to shake things up, move pieces around that don’t work, and change strategy to improve the bottom line.
But none of that seems to apply with Peyton. Taking a risk with her is too big and has far too many negative implications.
Even one kiss could ruin us both.
Chapter 17
Peyton
Fashion and design have always been my passion, since before I can even remember. When I was a kid, maybe nine or ten, my mom took me to the thrift store where I picked out a toy for my birthday. I wasn’t one to play with dolls or games, but as I mulled over the limited choices in the back of the shop, I came across an unopened fashion studio design kit. It included tools to create and draw, a little cloth mannequin with swatch samples and sewing kit, and all the fabric, ribbon and embellishments I needed to design doll clothing.
It was the best gift I could ever imagine.
I spent hours in my room, pouring my heart out into creating my doll fashions and even held a fashion show with the three outfits I’d designed for my two off-brand Barbie Dolls.
By the time I was thirteen, I was at the library on weekends reading everything I could about becoming a fashion designer and watching all the TV shows on aspiring designers. Project Runway was my jam. Everything about the fashion design industry intrigued me. I didn’t aspire to be the beautiful runway models who would strut down the platform in the one-of-a-kind designer fashions. I wanted to be the one who made them.
As I add the finishing touch to the cocktail dress I purchased from the secondhand shop on Sunset Boulevard, I nervously laugh at my current status.
Here I am, in New York City, wearing a vintage designer dress I’ve doctored up, getting ready to go mingle with industry giants. Designers who have never set foot in a consignment shop or purchase an off-the-rack frock. But none of that makes me as nervous as seeing Brody again.
While I want to look good and make a good impression with all the new industry people I’ll meet and mingle with, my real goal is to look good for Brody.
Brody.
I’m still stunned at what he confessed to me a few hours ago. And that almost kiss when our lips were so close that one step forward would have changed everything with the mouth-watering crush of our mouths.
And oh, how I wanted that. My blood rushed to all my body parts and tingled with arousal. The heat between us was so hot, it had nearly melted my panties.
But then it was doused with a cold splash of water. Like a coach receiving a Gatorade bath on the sidelines after a big win, I felt every bit of that icy cold rejection as it washed over me from head to toe.
The rejection left me numb and confused.
I may not have experience in either the boardroom or the bedroom, but I have experienced pain. And his words and his quick exit, as if the building were on fire, caused me severe turmoil and heartache.
If Brody really does want to kiss me again, why won’t he just do it? Doesn’t he trust me to keep it between us?
I suppose a man in his position can’t be too careful. I’m sure women want a lot from him because of his wealth and position. He’s a big catch. Incredibly handsome, successful, and so damn nice.
That’s what’s been the biggest surprise for me as I’ve gotten to know Brody. The stereotype my mother always warned me about has been ripped to shreds and decimated because Brody is none of those things. He’s not arrogant or conceited. He doesn’t use his power and privilege to hurt others or establish dominance to get what he wants. No, he’s not like that at all.
Brody Jensen is a kind gentleman, who cares deeply for his employees. He’s not out to make money and stomp on the little people to claim his fame. He’s ethical and has a high degree of integrity and a strong moral compass.
Which is why I can understand his reasons for bolting from my hotel room and out of the situation as soon as things got heated.
I think I understand it, but I don’t like it. The rejection still bruised my heart and ego and shattered my self-confidence.
It was dumb of me to think he’d prefer being with me over someone like Muriel Laurent.
Anyway, I need to pull up my big girl panties - even if they were destroyed by the gush of arousal earlier – and pretend this never happened. I’ll act and look professional, and not like a young woman with a crush on her boss.
I check my appearance in the mirror one last time before I head out. I’ve styled my hair in bouncy waves, tucking one side behind my ears, just the pink tips peeking out. I’ve lined my eyes with a charcoal liner and used a palette of eyeshadows to enhance my blue eyes. I decided to wear contacts tonight and leave the funky glasses behind.
I slip into my strappy, secondhand leopard print Steve Madden stilettos that I’ve paired with the tight red min-cocktail dress with the deepest V I’ve ever worn and fasten leopard print suede dangling earrings at my ears.
Inhaling to count to three and slowly let it out, I pick up my black clutch, slip my keycard inside, and step out the doors. The ballrooms are on the fifth floor, so I punch the down arrow on the elevator and wait.
I check the phone in my hand for any messages from Brody but find none. The voicemail icon still blinks at me, trying to gain my attention, but I continue to ignore it. Although my mother and I have repaired much of the damage she caused throughout my childhood, I’m still not rushing to establish a besties relationship with her. She always needs something from me and that’s not how a mother-daughter relationship should work.
“I hope you have someone special waiting for you tonight.” A deep, throaty voice from behind me startles me. I didn’t hear anyone come up with my attention having been focu
sed on my phone.
A handsome older gentleman in a suit steps up to my side and I flick a glance at him.
Dashing is a good word to use to describe him. Certainly not has hot as Brody, but the look of confidence he wears works for him.
I chuckle nervously. “No, not tonight. I’m just here for a business function.”
He nods, drinking me in with his eyes. “Lucky business associates.”
A weird sensation prickles at the nape of my neck. It feels creepy.
“I’d say I’m the lucky one,” I offer glibly, stepping into the elevator as the doors open. “Which floor?”
My finger depresses the fifth-floor button at the same time he extends an arm and his hand covers mine over the same button. I snap mine away, instinctively stepping out of his reach. There is a strong sense of predator and prey vibe and sadly, I’m the timid prey in this scenario.
Clueless to how uncomfortable he’s making me, the man turns toward me with a charming smile, lifting a brow to match the arc of his grin. “Well, it looks like we’re heading to the same function this evening. How fortunate for me. I’m Charles McAlister, by the way.”
He offers a hand and I do the polite thing and shake it, smiling graciously, even though his name evokes a very negative connotation. I know who he is now. His name has been in all the papers and news recently and not for his business genius.
Charles owns a major fashion house and worldwide corporation that supplies designs to hundreds of retailers and high-end boutiques. His business is a multi-billion-dollar conglomerate and he’s been at the top in the field for over twenty years.
Charles is also a piece-of-shit harasser and has settled more sexual harassment lawsuits than any other celebrity out there. He obviously gets away with things because of the settlement hush money he throws their way to keep them quiet and out of court.
I can feel the anxiety building in my chest, one brick at a time, causing my breath to grow tighter and more clipped, as I stare at the lighted board and count the seconds until I can get off this elevator.
But I seem to have captured his attention.
“And your name, beautiful?”
“Peyton.”
“How very fitting. A beautiful name for a beautiful girl. Are you a model at this weekend’s event?”
I nearly choke out a laugh because I am far from model stature nor would anyone ever mistake me for a runway model. I’m not tall enough or skinny enough. And certainly not pretty enough. This man is obviously just kissing my ass to see if he can get between my legs.
“No, definitely not a model. I’m a design student and an intern.”
He gives me an appraising glance. “Really? And which firm is lucky enough to have you on their staff? Maybe I’ll see about stealing you away.”
I laugh nervously and hope to God he isn’t serious. I’d never leave Brody’s company, anyhow, especially to go work for a man like this.
“I’m working for Brody Jensen.”
As if I’ve just said a dirty word in polite company, Charles scoffs loudly, as the doors open to a hallway overflowing with the glitter and glow of fashionable people in every direction. Charles guides me out with a hand laid indecently at the small of my back, as I try to walk faster to avoid his touch.
I search the crowd in vain, hoping to spot Brody, but I don’t find him readily available. Charles is at my side, his hand slithering around my wrist and catching me off guard.
“May I get you a glass of champagne, Peyton? I’d love to discuss more about what you’re doing with Jensen and what you’re looking to do in the future.”
I look up into Charles’s eyes and notice how deviously dark they’ve grown. He’s staring at me but doesn’t really see me. Only what he wants to do with me. That much I know.
I might be naïve, and perhaps under different circumstances, I’d be flattered to have an industry titan like Charles McAlister interested in me. Someone who could sling shot my career with just a flick of his wrist. But I know what he wants and I’m not about to be swayed by his underlying message.
Over Charles’s shoulder I lock eyes on Brody, who is talking with a man, each of them with drinks in their hands. We stare at each other, with no words exchanged, but the meaning conveying as he continues to talk to someone else. All I want to do is ditch Charles and head over to Brody, but I feel trapped.
A waiter walks by and Charles grabs two champagne flutes, handing one to me, which I accept, as he clinks his glass with mine. He extracts a business card from his jacket pocket and fans it between us before he slips it inside the material of my dress right above my right breast.
I’m literally a doe caught in the headlights stunned as his knuckles brush over my skin and his smile turns licentious. Both his touch and the implications make my skin crawl and my stomach revolt in fear.
“Get away, now!” a voice inside my head shouts.
Although we’re surrounded by hundreds of people, and there’s no chance he could do anything to harm me, his touch and the ownership it conveys is a violation of my body. My blood grows cold and I shiver.
He mistakes this for a sign of interest. “That has my personal number on it, Peyton. You should call me soon so we can discuss what I can offer you in terms of positions.”
It’s clear he wants me to read between the lines, and I do. I know exactly what he means and what he’s looking for.
I tilt my head and smile tightly. “Thank you, but no thank you, Mr. McAlister. Your offer doesn’t interest me.”
A look of anger crosses his face before he hides it with a devious smirk.
“Perhaps not right now, Peyton. But hold on to it. You may want it in the future.”
“Doubtful, but thanks. Have a nice evening, Mr. McAlister.”
My legs shake so hard I’m not sure I have the wherewithal to walk away, and it takes all my strength to go. As I head toward a rack of samples along the wall, I glance back over my shoulder at Brody.
A very worried looking Brody.
A slightly angry looking Brody.
Great.
I down my champagne and sigh.
I can’t seem to win between the top dogs tonight.
Chapter 18
Brody
The minute I saw Peyton talking to Charles McAlister, I had the overwhelming need to break something.
Especially McAlister’s fucking nose.
The inner beast rages inside the depths within my soul, clawing its way up to do something – anything – to keep Peyton out of the hands of that monster. To claim her as mine and not his.
Everyone knows his reputation. He’s one of the richest designers in the world, has a yacht and country estates in France, penthouses in New York, and offices in various cities across the globe. And he’s a skirt-chasing, pussy-grabbing scoundrel.
Although he’s been able to shut the lid tight on all the lawsuits related to the way he preys on young women, we all see behind the curtain. I’ve heard the stories and the eye-witness accounts. He can try to hide behind his fancy suits and well-paid lawyers, but we see it in his actions and his shady as fuck business practices.
And now that he set his sights on Peyton, all I want to do is kick his ass and take him down. This only adds to the ever-growing list of reasons I despise the man.
He’s one of my biggest competitors and business nemesis. Charles and I met ten years ago, before I ever took hold of the reins to my family business. At the time, I was young and impressionable. He threw a party on his yacht on the Mediterranean Sea and invited me and my dad to join him. My dad, ever eager over the invite because he was between wives at the time and looking for a hookup, was thrilled to be going.
And I was a twenty-year-old college student whose main focus was on partying, getting drunk and getting laid by hot women.
So, yeah. It was an exciting adventure. But sometime during the event, I was feeling a little nauseous and went to find a quiet spot to lay down. I was tucked in the corner at the back of the boat, w
hen I heard Charles talking on the phone in his office, the door slightly ajar so I could eavesdrop on him.
It wasn’t like I tried to get the skinny on what he had going on, but I just happened to overhear him telling the person on the other end of the line what he’d learned about my father’s upcoming line of men’s fall apparel and how he wanted to beat him to market.
Charles walked out of his office shortly after that, never the wiser that I’d overheard him, and I ran to the toilet and heaved. Then I went back up on deck, found my father and told him we needed to go.
Dear old dad wasn’t too thrilled with my demands, considering he was having a pretty good time with a woman half his age, but he saw it in my eyes and realized the seriousness in my tone. We flew back home that night, and I told him what I’d heard. He quickly worked with his marketing team to push up all the dates.
We won the race that time, but it wouldn’t be the last of McAlister’s attempts to derail our campaigns and upend our business. He’d even tried buying out several of our other smaller competitors to put us under. But my dad always fought back and came out swinging.
So, yeah. I have many reasons to hate Charles McAlister. He’s a slimy, douchebag businessman who will stop at nothing to get what he wants.
And I fear that holds true for Peyton.
I find Peyton browsing a rack of samples from one of the spotlighted designers at tonight’s event. She holds a half glass of champagne in one hand and is strumming her fingers over the silky material of the design.
“That’s a beautiful piece,” I say, working to keep my tone neutral and tamp down the anger that was seething inside me a bit ago. “But nothing compared to how you look tonight.”
Peyton doesn’t turn around but moves her head so I can see her side profile. She smiles and I see a blush creeping over her neck. Her long, sleek neck left exposed by the short bob cut of her hair and the slope of the mini dress she’s wearing tonight.
