by Lila Monroe
“Uh, I guess.” My mouth had suddenly gone dry. My lips too. I licked them.
“So glad you agree.” He smirked, and began to undo the buttons of his burgundy dress shirt, revealing a hint of sun-kissed brown chest hair and then some more and then oh God.
“What are you doing?” I squeaked.
“Being considerate,” he drawled, shrugging off the shirt to join the jacket. His bare chest was muscular, glistening slightly with the sweat of having walked up the stairs to the office, oh God I was staring at my boss’ chest—
“Oh I just suddenly remembered that I have to copy these things!” I blurted, grabbing at the closest stack of papers I could find, who knew what they even were, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except escaping before I embarrassed myself further. “Goodbye well I guess I’ll go do that in the copy room which is not here and you’re here so goodbye!”
I fled to the copy room, and assembled the papers on the adjacent counter with shaking hands. They were actually things that needed to be copied, thank God. Okay, a few minutes here to regroup and figure out what the hell was going on and stop imagining other things he could take off—
“Why are you doing that? That’s not your job.”
Grant was leaning—yes, sexily again, dammit, he was becoming a repeat offender—against the doorway, looking genuinely curious about the answer.
Also looking sexy.
He really needed to stop doing that.
“Because I haven’t hired an assistant yet,” I said curtly, turning away and trying to ignore that fact that when he crossed his arms like he was doing right now, his biceps looked like he could rip logs in half.
“Isn’t that why we have interns?”
I made the mistake of looking back at him to answer. He was stretching. Oh Jesus Christ on a cupcake, he was stretching, and oh hells yes this lady would like tickets to the gun show—
“These files are full of confidential information.”
I tried to say this in a tone of voice that I hoped conveyed professionalism and not, say, ‘get out of those pants right now.’ Judging by the way he began to saunter towards me, I failed.
“Phones!” I squeaked. “I just remembered some important calls to our charity opportunities which you really wouldn’t want to distract me with so—”
I tried to duck past him out the doorway, but he blocked my exit easily. How was he this bad at social cues?
“Lacey, you seem flustered.”
Well, no shit, Sherlock!
“Can’t you take a break for a bit?” He added. “You’ll feel much better after a bit of conversation and some food in your stomach. I’d bet all my stock options you haven’t even had lunch today.”
A granola bar, but he probably wouldn’t think that counted. “I’m busy!”
“Too busy to take care of yourself?”
“Why do you care?”
“Well, you’re the one who told me to take an interest.” He leaned forward, radiating concern, his face inches from mine, his bare chest close enough that I could have reached out and—
“In the company, not me!” I whirled back to the copier, slapping the records down as quickly and professionally as I could, and hoped he didn’t see my fingers shaking as I keyed in the number of copies. Oh god, his full, pouty lips, so close to mine, looking so soft and kissable, I could have—
His footsteps padded softly on the carpet behind me. His hands encircled my waist and I felt his breath on the back of my neck. “Tell me, Miss Newman—are all those rumors I hear true? About young and high-spirited ladies who take a little perch on this machine, and—”
I twisted around but not entirely out of his grip; he was pressing me up against the copier, he was far too close to be safe, the scent of him, suntan lotion and aftershave and clean sweet sweat, those sparse bronze hairs along his muscular chest and arms, strong powerful arms that could grab me harder and pull me to him and press his lips against mine—
“Do you realize how serious this is?!” I snapped, and if my voice was shaking with lust he must have interpreted as fear, because he let go.
“All these people’s jobs are on the line,” I continued, my fury mounting. How dare he toy with my emotions like that! He knew what he looked like, he knew what it would do to me. “You have a choice: either shape up, or lose the company. Your call, boss.”
He took a step back, gaping at me.
I whirled on my heel and stormed off.
“Some of us have work to do!” I shouted over my shoulder – and ran straight into an intern who was carrying a dry-cleaning bag with a fresh shirt.
“He’s in there,” I jabbed my finger. “Get him covered up before we get a damn harassment lawsuit!”
Or a riot.
8
I couldn’t sleep.
I’d tried everything to relax. I wore my comfiest pink silk pajamas festooned with yellow ducks (and Kate’s lingerie under them, which was surprisingly comfortable), and my childhood blanket was wrapped all comfy and toasty around me. Lavender aromatherapy candles were burning around me, suffusing the air with their calming scent. The TV flickered with the light of the DVD menu for my favorite cheesy spy show. A mug of hot chocolate with plenty of milk was in one hand, and a well-worn copy of my favorite romance novel—don’t even ask about the questionable art of a kilted Scotsman with an unexplained Maori tribal tattoo on the cover, please—in the other. I’d even put on the CD of ‘soothing nature sounds’ that my folks had gotten me for my last birthday, because it’s never too late to try to distract your daughter from her dream of running a successful business by turning her into a hippie. Birds chirped, leaves rustled, brooks burbled gently.
And I wasn’t even a little bit sleepy.
Maybe because I wasn’t used to getting to bed as early as eleven? I was trying to take it easy, though. I was still in a bit of a tizzy about all the attention Grant had been showing me. He…he couldn’t really be interested in me, right? Or was I being paranoid? Was this just the memory of too many high school assholes and college frat boys who thought it was funny to flirt with the big girl and then laugh with their friends when she took it seriously?
My phone rang, and I snatched it off the sideboard. Maybe it would be Kate and we could talk about—
The caller ID said Grant Devlin.
I flipped it open immediately. “What happened? What did you do? Do the papers know yet, or—”
“Nice to know how high your opinion of me is, Miss Newman,” Grant said dryly. “Can’t a man just be looking for some intelligent conversation with a lovely lady?”
“I’m sure you’ve got six dozen of them on speed-dial,” I shot back, my heart rate slowing down as I processed that the company wasn’t going to tank after my first day in the new job. “Seriously, what’s going on?”
“Nothing,” he stressed. “I’m just bored.” His voice took on a pouty tone that I’d bet serious money had brought out the maternal instinct in all his previous relationships. “It’s your fault, you’re the one who’s clipped my wings. I’m housebound now, and there is nothing to do here. You should entertain me.”
I rolled my eyes mightily, wishing he could see it. “Not in my job description.”
I heard a clicking sound, then the background noise shifted. “Did you know how terrible television has become in the last ten years?” Grant mused as if I hadn’t spoken. “It’s heartbreaking.”
“That’s why I only watch the classics.”
“Watching any of those classics tonight? You could come over and watch them in my private theatre.”
“I’ve had my John Steed ration for the night, thanks,” I said, glancing at my own TV screen—doubtless several orders of magnitude smaller than the one Grant was watching—where the spy in question sighted the episode titles along the line of his umbrella gun.
“You like a sharp-dressed man, eh?” I swore I could hear that smirk. How did that man have an audible smirk? Had he had it specially engineered? “Will
you come over and tuck me in if I promise to wear a suit and tie?”
Oh, now there was a mental image…Grant in a suit and tie, and me in my new lingerie—or nothing at all—sprawled out across his great big bed…wait a second. How many other women had fallen for that exact line before? And how many of those women had been left in the wake of his ravenous appetite?
“I’m not your babysitter,” I deflected, and hung up.
Twenty minutes later, I was still trying and failing to concentrate on the romance novel—the love interest is supposed to be this swarthy guy with dark green eyes, but guess who kept picturing him with gold-kissed brown hair and eyes like a stormy sky?—when the doorbell rang.
I took my hand out from between my thighs—hey, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do—and looked at the clock to check. Yup, it was dark-as-fuck-thirty.
So who the actual hell was at my door?
I padded to the door in my pajamas, mug of hot chocolate in one hand, covering my yawn with the other. I looked through the peephole and discovered Grant’s driver, cap off in his hands, face looking apologetic but also resigned.
Oh great. I should’ve known Grant Devlin wouldn’t give up that easy.
“Miss? I’m here to pick you up, miss.”
I contemplated going right back into bed, and turning my TV as loud as it would go, until the over-the-top fight music drowned out everything else in the world.
“I’m sorry, miss, but—well, he really would like to see you.”
“He can’t wait till morning?” I muttered, but I was already turning the lock. This wasn’t going away, it seemed. Hell, in a way this was just another part of my new job: hand-holding Grant through the process of getting the company back on its feet. I’d just bill him for overtime. “Fine,” I said to the driver. “Let’s go.”
“Uh, miss, if you want to take a few minutes to change—”
“Nope,” I said, feeling a rebellious smile steal across my face. “If Grant Devlin wants my company so badly, he can have it. But I’m keeping the pink ducky pajamas.”
Stepping into Grant’s penthouse took my breath away. It was so huge I felt like I might have started shrinking like Alice in Wonderland—if Wonderland were designed by a minimalist cousin of Frank Lloyd Wright from the future.
Everything was sleek, shiny—miles of black marble floor and white marble countertops, walls that stretched onward and upward like cliffs, giant windows that looked out over an infinity-edge rooftop pool, the city spread beyond it like some kind of giant painting in bold strokes of neon red, green, white, and yellow against navy blue and black.
“Lacey, is that you?”
“No, it’s Santa Claus,” I called back. “And you are getting all the coal in your stocking this year.”
“Oh, so you’d say I’ve been naughty?”
“Damn straight.” I followed Grant’s voice into the kitchen, where he was uncorking a bottle of wine in a v-neck t-shirt, loose pants, and bare feet.
He took in my attire and raised an eyebrow. “What a charming ensemble.”
I crossed my arms, suddenly awkwardly aware of how thin the fabric of my pajamas was, and how flimsy the lingerie underneath. “Exactly how fucking entitled do you have to be to call up your employee at eleven fucking o’clock and then complain about her goddamn—”
“One moment,” he interrupted, “and then feel free to continue yelling if you want—it’s very stimulating, I do have a weakness for a woman with a temper, and also for the record I would never dream of complaining about your outfit—but do keep in mind that the longer you yell about my inconsiderate nature, the colder the food will become.”
“The food?”
I glanced around at the pristine kitchen, which looked like it hadn’t seen a single crumb mar its existence since the moment it came out of the catalogue. You know how matter and antimatter can’t come into contact without some kind of explosion? That’s what looked like would happen if food ever came into contact with this immaculate countertop. It looked like it didn’t even know what dust was.
“I ordered takeout from Rama,” he said, finally managing to wrest the cork from the wine bottle. “You seemed to enjoy it at our last meal, and I know you didn’t have lunch today. It’s not healthy to skip meals.”
“You’re a nutritionist all of a sudden?”
“I’m simply concerned.” For a moment his eyes met mine, wide and earnest—and then they shuttered, that smirk quirking his lips. “After all, where would the company be if it lost its most tireless advocate?”
I eyed him skeptically. “So this is all for my own good.”
He shrugged. “You’re taking care of my company. Someone should take care of you.”
Okay, that was actually…sort of thoughtful?
I listened intently for the Twilight Zone theme.
Still, weirdness aside, I was mollified. What can I say, food does that to me. I followed him into the living room and joined him on the sofa—a plush leather monstrosity larger than some trailer homes, that probably cost more than I even had in my savings account—and dug into the food. Jackfruit curry, grilled chicken, spicy papaya salad—if the way to a woman’s heart was through her stomach, I was so screwed.
For a long time neither of us spoke, simply enjoying the cuisine. I was waiting for him to say something, but he seemed content to nibble on mango slices in my presence, leaning against the couch and smiling slightly at nothing in particular—at least nothing I could fathom.
Finally I licked the last bit of sauce off my fork—chili sauce that delicious should be illegal—and said, “Now what?”
Grant seemed at a loss for a second. He looked all around the room as though he were realizing for the first time that for all its grandeur, it was remarkably empty: no photos, no books, no sign that anyone really lived there. Just a couch and a TV. “I don’t suppose you play video games—”
“Sure I do!” I rejoined. “I haven’t had the time lately, but I used to rack up some major hours on Call of Duty.”
“Well, I don’t know that one too well,” Grant said sheepishly. Then he grinned, and leapt up to pull open the drawer below the TV. “But I have an advance review copy of this—” he flourished Death Squad, the game that all the online chatter had been hyping for months—“if you’re interested.”
I didn’t have to think twice. “Hell yes. That is, if you don’t mind getting your ass handed to you.” I narrowed my eyes.
That grin got so much wider. I liked it much better than his smirk. Made him look…younger. More vulnerable. More open.
“Your wish is my command,” he said, and I settled down for something that definitely wasn’t in my job description.
“Boom! Victory.” I leaned back into the couch and laughed, tossing my controller onto a cushion. Grant had been a tougher player than I thought he’d be, but I’d still managed to best him with six out of ten wins.
Grant tossed down his controller too, then grabbed the wine bottle and emptied the last of its dregs. “I admire a competitive spirit.”
“Hope you don’t mind,” I snarked. “Hey! Save some of that for me!”
“Too late,” he said with a devilish grin. “And I’ve never believed in women toning down their skills to make themselves more palatable to men. When you pretend diamonds are glass, they end up in the hands of those who cannot appreciate them.”
“Well, I gotta say, I appreciate it,” I said. “And it’s no fun when guys let me win either, so thanks. You have a pretty competitive spirit too.”
He gave me a puzzled look. “You say that like it surprises you.”
“Well…” Maybe it was the warm glow of the wine, or maybe I was feeling magnanimous in victory, but I found myself oddly reluctant to hurt his feelings. “A little bit. Yeah. You already have so much. You don’t seem like you have anything left you want to pursue. Or would need to.”
He reached over and took my hand.
“I assure you,” he murmured, “that is hard
ly the case.”
I was suddenly very, very aware that we were sitting with our thighs almost touching. His hand in mine. The warmth of his hand, and his body so close, and the wine…
“I’m talking about the company, of course,” he added.
“Of course,” I echoed, pulling my hand back and feeling like an idiot. Yeah. Of course. Obviously. The company.
“I don’t want to lose it,” he said. “I want to make it greater than it’s ever been. My grandfather—God, he saved my life when I was a kid. My own parents were like ghosts, but he taught me everything I know. He was my world.” He choked slightly on the last words, and for a second I thought he was going to cry.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’d no idea.”
Then he swallowed, and with an effort, pulled his voice back under his control. “He left me something amazing when he died, and I want to honor that by making it even better. I want to break it out of all the tired old structures that don’t work anymore and really see it fly.” He gestured with his hand, as if he could fling the company into that bright future through sheer force of will. His eyes glowed with passion. “God, Lacey, we could do so much good. Not just directly, with the media content we bring, but with the charity projects that intersect with our goals. He would—” His gaze went far away for a moment. “He would have liked that.”
He looked away, embarrassed, maybe, about revealing something real. I cast around for something that would get us on lighter ground, let him save face. He deserved that much.
“So you don’t mind the kitten hair?” I asked, gently teasing.
“Hardly,” he said with a smile. “It’s a small price to pay for finally feeling like the company is moving in the right direction. It’s not that I don’t know where I want it to go, I just…” He shrugged. “People. They’re difficult. I don’t really understand how to make them see my vision. Incite them to action. But you do.”
“If you feel this way, then why do you…” I struggled to think of a diplomatic way to say ‘piss it down the drain.’ “Behave so, well, irresponsibly all—some of the time?” I watched his face, ready to cut off if I pushed too far. “I mean, gambling? How do you square that with your vision?”
