“That cannot possibly be true.” I’m laughing at him, but I’m blushing too, because of course I’ve read those parts over and over again. Of course I’ve imagined what it would be like to have a man in my life who’d just drag me over his lap and smack my ass.
“Disprove it,” he says, aiming his index finger at me. “You can’t, can you?”
“No one can prove a negative,” I tell him.
He’s chuckling now. “But it’s not a negative, is it? ‘There is a woman somewhere in the world who doesn’t like spanking.’ That’s all you need to prove. Just one woman. Find me one. There’s a woman in this room right now, in fact. It would be so easy, and yet…”
Damn it. “I’ve never been spanked.”
“Oh.” His face softens. “I’m sorry.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, picking up my drink. “I don’t need your sympathy.”
His laugh is warm, and deep, and it speaks of something I’d like to know much much better. But I can’t. He’s my boss, and he’s made it very clear he thinks it’s a bad idea for us to continue what we started in the pool.
We talk for a while that night, before he leaves, taking his bourbon with him - and hesitating on the threshold like he wants to do something, or say something, but he doesn’t quite know what.
I can’t possibly sleep. The alcohol’s warmed my blood, and I crank up the music instead, mouthing along with the words as I sway around the room by myself.
I’ve been a bad, bad girl…
CHAPTER SEVEN
I’VE NEVER TAKEN a luxury town car to La Guardia before. It doesn’t actually make the traffic move faster, but the back seat is big enough to lie down and take a nap. Or it would be, if that didn’t mean putting my head in Adrian’s lap.
This is weird. I’ve gone across town with him for meetings before, but never on a long trip. Never anything like this. He’s never asked me to go away with him on business, presumably because someone still needs to manage his incoming mail and phone calls while he’s gone. I don’t know if that’s abnormal or not, but I’m always grateful for the respite.
Now, I’m about to spend a week with the guy, pretending to be someone I’m not. But at least I also get to pretend that we’re equals. That’ll be a laugh.
The driver bypasses the roads that lead into the pickup/drop-off area completely instead heading up to a gated road and slowing down to swipe a card that swings the massive barricades open. Just a few hundred yards away, I can see a few small, sleek planes sitting on the tarmac. And we’re driving right up to them.
I’m staring, and I’m too damn tired to pretend I’m not.
I am not impressed. I am not impressed. I am not impressed.
If Adrian’s head gets any bigger, it’ll explode. I can’t afford to leave him with the idea that anything about him, or his lifestyle, impresses me.
But holy fuck, I’m about to get on a private jet.
Two men in sharp suits come jogging over to grab our luggage out of the trunk, before I’ve even unbuckled my seat belt. Adrian comes over to my door and gives me his hand, and I guess it would be excessively rude to ignore it. So I let him hold me steady as I climb out of the car. His grasp is warm, and firm, and confident. For a moment, I just look at him.
I have no idea why this didn’t occur to me. Of course a man like him doesn’t take commercial flights. Why would he, when you can charter a private jet for a mere…
Yeah, I have no idea what private jets cost. And I’m not about to ask him.
“Mr. Risinger, Ms. Burns.” The captain tips his hat as we board. It’s roomier inside than it looks, with huge, cream-colored leather chairs and a wine-red carpet that seems like it would feel heavenly under my toes. But if I take my nice heels off before the flight, I’ll never get them back on.
Our luggage is stowed in the corner, and I belatedly realize we didn’t even have to go through a perfunctory security screening.
I did not know the meaning of “privilege” until this moment.
“You could’ve told me,” I say to Adrian, as he sits down across from me, unbuttoning his jacket. “I actually spent time trying to fit my toiletries into a quart-sized baggie.”
“Oh, right.” Adrian chuckles. “Sorry. I forgot that’s still a thing.”
I could kill him.
“Laugh it up,” I grumble. “You know, the TSA is talking about starting security screenings for private jet passengers.”
I only know this because the article popped up in search on my phone for “how much does a private jet cost.” Because I have to know.
He gives me some flippant answer, but I don’t really hear it, because I just saw the number.
Eight thousand dollars an hour.
Eight. Thousand. Dollars.
An hour.
I’m not prone to airsickness, but I feel like I might end up puking all over him.
“Question,” I say, as a woman dressed like a goddamn ‘70s Pan Am stewardess brings us some champagne. “Does money actually have any meaning to you at all, or is it basically just like this weird confetti that you throw around more or less at random, and never seems to run out for some reason?”
He gives the woman a smile that I distinctly dislike, and I catch the way his eyes follow her rear end as she sways back to the galley. This should not be bothersome to me, except that I find myself wondering if she’s included in the fare.
Okay, that’s pretty low of me. I’m sure she’s a very nice person, and she’s just hoping for a generous tip. But Adrian really needs to pop his eyes back into his head, before I do it for him.
“Money,” he says, slowly. “That’s the thing you exchange for goods and services, right?”
“I’m going to throw my champagne on you.” I make a face. “It sucks, anyway.”
“It doesn’t suck,” he says. “You suck.”
“That’s real mature.” I kick him under the little table that separates us. It’s an impulsive move, but I’m drinking champagne at eight o’clock in the morning on a private jet with my asshole boss. If not now, when?
And he’s right. It doesn’t suck.
He laughs, trapping my foot between his. “Ouch, Ms. Burns. But you’ll have to strike a little quicker than that to get the best of me.”
I wriggle my foot free. “I’m rubber, you’re glue…”
“You know, a good employee would thank me for taking them on this wonderful adventure,” he says, gesturing to our surroundings. “Instead of acting like a little brat.”
“And yet, going on five years, and I’m the best you can do.” I pout at him. “It’s a sad, sad story, Mr. Risinger.”
I step out onto the tarmac in Austin, and I don’t feel the instant prickles of sweat on my scalp that I expect. It’s hot, sure, but it’s not inhumanly hot.
Adrian’s insisted that we arrive the day before the conference actually starts, so we’ve got time to “settle in.” I don’t know what that means, but I’ve saved all of my really nice outfits - including the silky underwear - for the actual conference. I’m hoping that we don’t run into anyone I’m supposed to impress, but part of me suspects it doesn’t really matter. Nobody actually expects writers to dress like models, do they? Don’t most of them wear bathrobes and slippers?
I glance sidelong at Adrian, trying to picture him in a bathrobe.
Danger! Abort abort abort. Okay, yeah, picturing him in anything that can be removed easily with a single flick of the wrist probably isn’t good for my sanity.
The ride from the airport seems to take forever, following a complex grid of side streets and alleyways that make me wonder where the hell all those massive highways go. Clearly, not wherever we’re headed. But I start to enjoy the local color as we creep our way from stoplight to stoplight; the psychic palm reader across from the expensive-looking luxury homes, the taco trucks with the neon lights, the city bursting with a joyful energy that defies any thoughts of beige gentrification.
We’ve got adjoining rooms at t
he hotel, both under his name. I wonder what the clerk’s thinking, as she checks us in. I wonder why I care.
The first thing I do, after dropping my bags, is make sure the connecting door is locked. He made a big deal about the adjoining rooms when we checked in, and I can’t figure out why he thinks it’s going to matter. Unless he thinks we’ll have a reason to travel back and forth without being presentable enough for a hotel hallway.
Stop it.
It’s a pretty nice place, but I’m guessing it’s a far cry from the ultra-luxury hotels he’s used to staying at. I wander over to the picture windows to draw the curtains back, only to discover that the windows are actually sliding glass doors.
The midday heat is really starting to settle in now, but curiosity draws me out of my air conditioned oasis to explore the little balcony. It extends much further than I expect - and I soon realize that’s because it connects to Adrian’s room, as well.
He’s pulled his curtains back, too. I can see him pacing, with his tie undone, talking animatedly on the phone with someone. I immediately feel like a creep. He probably hasn’t realized yet that our balconies are attached. He’s got no idea anyone can see him, least of all me. This is the tallest building in the block by far.
Face burning, I creep back to my room and make sure to lock the the sliding glass door behind me, and close the curtains again. I don’t know why. It’s not that I actually think he has that little respect for my privacy, but I feel better anyway.
I flop down on the bed and start flipping through the channels. There’s nothing on TV here, either. The streets below us are bustling with activity, and when I was outside I could hear the thudding of live music starting somewhere down the street. A few years back, I would have thrown on a cute dress and gone down to wander the streets, stopping into any bar that had the doors open to see how cheap their beer was. I’ve heard Austin is a friendly city, and nothing I’ve seen so far can contradict that. Back before Adrian, I probably would have tried to pick up one of those hipsters with a handlebar mustache and rolled-up jeans, riding a rental bicycle to the Alamo Drafthouse. And I would’ve had a good time, too.
But that was me, then. This is me, now. I hardly recognize myself anymore.
The fact that I’ve agreed to speak on a panel is proof enough that I’m not even recognizably Meghan anymore. Of course, I didn’t really have a choice. But something that would’ve put me in a cold sweat, once upon a time - suddenly it doesn’t feel like such a bad idea. Maybe because I’m not me, I’m Natalie. And Natalie knows how to speak to a crowd. It’s something about romance trends or whatever - basically, I feel like I can reasonably fake my way through it, especially if I let everyone else do the talking.
My stomach’s growling. I frown at it, trying to remind it that I just ate on the plane. But traveling always makes me ravenous, and as usual, it’s not listening to reason.
I pull out my phone and text Adrian.
Any plans for dinner?
He starts typing back quickly, but it takes him a while to actually finish the message.
Got reservations with Kara actually. Feel free to order whatever you want from room service.
My heart sinks. Kara’s here? I don’t know why that surprises me, but it does seem odd that she didn’t fly with us. I’m grateful, but disappointed that she’ll be monopolizing his time like this.
Great. I don’t want to be around him, but I can’t stand to be without him. This is shaping up to be a fantastic trip.
I don’t answer his text. Fucking room service? Really? I’m about ten feet from some of the country’s best barbecue restaurants. I realize he was just offering to pay, but I’ll fucking buy some brisket myself if I want to.
I’m overreacting. I know I’m overreacting. But there’s something rude about the way he told me, isn’t there? Not even letting on that Kara was here, until he absolutely had to. He knew I wouldn’t react well. Why do men always try to hide things until the last possible second, thinking it’s going to be better that way?
It’s never better that way.
I run a brush through my hair, grab my purse, and stalk out into the lobby. I’m going to find some good barbecue, damn it. And I’m going to do it without Adrian.
I’m sitting on a crowded deck with the smell of hickory smoke all around me. I’ve got a plate of melt-in-your-mouth barbecue and my new favorite side dish, green chile mac and cheese, sitting in front of me. But I’m not smiling.
Fucking Adrian. Dragging me down here, and don’t get me wrong, it’s nice - people in this city are so friendly I’m starting to get suspicious - but now he’s ditched me for his publicist, and since when do authors even have publicists? I guess he doesn’t need an agent, seeing as he publishes under an arm of his own damn company.
I guess a part of me has always believed that what I share with Adrian is unique. Special. Why, I don’t know. It seems stupid now that I’m really examining it. And why do I care? The man’s heart is constructed from splinters and rusty nails. His approval shouldn’t mean so much to me.
But it’s all I have.
“You want another beer, hon?”
The server is beaming at me. I put on a smile, with a supreme effort, so she doesn’t worry about me too much.
“Yes, please,” I say. “Please keep them coming until you’re legally obligated to cut me off.”
Her face contorts in sympathy. “Rough day?”
I nod. “Travelling.”
“Oh, I gotcha. You from out of town?”
I nod again.
“Welcome to Austin! I hope you have a great time, once you’ve had a chance to rest up.”
“Thanks,” I tell her, sincerely. Because it really is nice to hear a friendly voice, even from a stranger.
I hear a familiar voice over the noise of the crowd, and it makes my heart skip several beats. Which is completely ridiculous. I know he’s here, but what are the odds? Sure enough, moments later, I see Adrian round the corner with Kara. Immediately, I avert my gaze, feeling awkward and guilty like I’ve done something wrong.
They’re seated where I can just about see them, out of the corner of my eye. Something about the angle must be blocking their view of me. Kara looks very put-together as usual, but relaxed and smiling in a way I’m sure she wouldn’t be if she spotted me. I’ve got no idea what her problem is - like I could possibly compete for Adrian’s attention with the likes of her. He once claimed he wasn’t interested, but I don’t believe that for a second. A woman who looks like her, she gets any man she wants.
And right now, she’s got Adrian. He’s listening to her with rapt attention, smiling occasionally, even laughing. Having a good time.
When the server brings me my beer, I ask her for the check. I’ve got to get out of here before I lose what little is left of my mind.
After a fitful night’s sleep, I take a long, scalding shower and actually blow-dry my hair. Usually, this backfires, but I manage to tame it into something presentable. I know it’s going to be a long day. After the signing, which is the only part of this event that’s open to non-industry people, there will be panel presentations and workshops I’m expected to attend, not to mention the after-hours events. I’ve got no idea what I’ll be expected to attend, but I’m bracing myself.
I haven’t heard anything from Adrian since yesterday afternoon, but I’ve already checked out the conference schedule and I know where and when I need to report for the signing. If he doesn’t want to show up, then he doesn’t have to. I’ll just improvise.
I stop by the mirror on my way out the door. Yeah, I look pretty damn good. Professional, but imaginative. Perfect. Every part of my outfit is absolutely flawless. I wouldn’t change a thing.
When I leave my room and start walking down the hallway, a problem becomes immediately apparent.
There’s one thing I didn’t realize about silky underwear.
Veterans of the silky underwear experience will almost certainly be aware of this, but I’m a vi
rgin. Metaphorically speaking.
Ten steps into the hotel hallway, and I can feel them slipping. Oh, shit. Unlike the plain cotton variety I’m used to, these don’t really stay where they’re put.
But I’m fully committed. I brought nothing but silky underwear for this trip, and I’m going full speed ahead, damn it.
I breathe a silent prayer of thanks that I’m alone in the elevator, so I can discreetly adjust them. They’ve slipped so far down that they’re practically garters. Shimmying a little, I pull them up so they’re sitting more securely on my waist.
There. That’ll do.
Halfway to the main convention hall, I’ve transitioned into some kind of weird shuffle-step to keep them from falling around my ankles.
Well, this is just great. I slip into the ladies’ room and survey the situation a little better. They’re practically brand new, for God’s sake. The elastic is still…elastic-y. What am I doing wrong?
I know the answer, I just don’t want to admit it to myself. The softness of my belly and thighs doesn’t give them anything to grip onto. This is not a skinny girl’s problem.
Frustrated, I consider my options. I could ditch the underwear entirely, and pray that I don’t step near any air vents. I could keep trying to make them work. Or, I could try to find the nearest Walmart and grab a three dollar pack of cotton briefs.
Fuck no. You’re Natalie Fucking McBride. You make these panties your bitch.
Determined, I re-situate them on my hips and return to the main hall. Already, I can feel them working their way down, but I can deal with it. I’ll be sitting down for most of the day, anyway.
I know what quadrant of the room I’ll be in, so I start heading that direction, walking as carefully as I can.
Before I reach the tables, I have to pinch the waistband to hold them in place. I grab a handful of my skirt along with them, and pretend like I’m holding it down against some imaginary breeze.
His Secretary: Undone and Unveiled (The Complete Series Collection) Page 8
