“Please, answer me one thing,” she presses and I close my eyes to respond with a short nod.
“What are you going to do with it?”
“With what?”
“The company?”
I remain silent. As if it were so simple to have a one-sentence answer, or to even know what would be best so early on.
“A split-up? Go public for shares? I looked into the other companies under your LLC, so I doubt you have a merger in mind.”
When I finally open my eyes and look back at her, fear lingers in every nuance.
I debate on confiding in her, knowing how quick office rumors are to spread and the chaos that little bits of information can create. But then she utters a single word, staring back at me like I could make every little worry she has vanish. “Please.”
“The plan is a split-up and the merger of the new entity and another company I have in mind … if possible.”
She doesn’t hesitate to question, “And what about the other? The original entity? The departments that aren’t useful for the merger?”
I’m silent, half wondering if she’s playing me. If all of this was a setup and she’s pumping me for information. “There are inefficiencies that cannot be overlooked.”
“Where does my department—”
My tone is harsher than I’d like as I interrupt her. “Not everything has been decided.” Gentling it, I add, “You don’t need to worry.”
“As your lover or as your employee?”
“When I tell you that you don’t need to worry, I need you to believe it. I need you to trust me.”
She’s silent, and every second that passes feels as if another weight has been added to my chest. It’s obvious I haven’t eased her concerns in the least. She wants a definitive answer and I can’t give her one. I can’t say anything with certainty.
“No more. It’s after six and I promise, I will make time for you at work. As your boss. Right now I only want to be your lover, as you put it.”
It seems for a moment that she’ll say something; her lips part and she inhales, but then her gaze falls and she merely nods. Not looking back at me.
“Thank you for respecting the boundary.”
“I don’t like it,” she whispers, at first looking out the window but then she meets my gaze.
“You look gorgeous squirming, though.” I pick up her hand and kiss the back of it, our fingers laced together. “It would please me if you wouldn’t worry.”
In a breath she laughs, as if it’s the most ridiculous thing she’s heard. “Is that all you need, for me to just not worry?”
Softly, I repeat the reassurance, “You will be all right.”
She’s quick to tell me, “It’s not just me.” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I’m done. I’m done for right now. I won’t bring it up again.”
“I want you to confide in me, I do. I wish I had the answers for you, but I don’t.”
“When you do, will you tell me?” There’s hesitancy in her tone, but also hope.
“The second I know, I will tell you everything.”
Her shoulders drop slightly and she sinks deeper into the seat, not responding other than a nod and a soft, “Thank you.”
A moment passes, and the tension lessens.
“I had a hard day today,” I confide in her, our fingers still intertwined.
“I did too,” she speaks softly. “Fridays are long days, but at least we have the weekend.” Just when I think that’s all she’ll say, she offers, “Can I do anything?”
“Do anything?”
“To make anything better.”
“Not with work—”
“No, with you. Can I …” she trails off and tosses her hand in the air, the one I was holding. “Can I yell at someone, or massage your shoulders? I could …” she pauses and rolls her eyes. “I don’t know, write an angry email or order us takeout for dinner.” In my silence, her tone is laced with exasperation when she says, “I could … I don’t know. What would make it better?”
“You could kiss me.”
“Would that make it better?” she questions, the hint of a smile on her lips.
“Yes. If you kissed me, it would.”
She doesn’t waste a moment, and when she kisses me, her hands wrapped around my face, I can feel her smile.
Suzette
The New York skyline is much different from the windows of Adrian’s penthouse. I’m used to feeling as if it’s towering over me, but in his living room we’re a part of it. In the heart of Tribeca surrounded by historic industrial buildings and new construction that’s all steel and glass.
It’s the epitome of New York.
It almost seems like a movie backdrop is wrapped around the entire room. Floor-to-ceiling windows that, with a touch of a button, darken for privacy surround us. Every other day, Adrian introduces me to more wealth than I’ve experienced in the years I’ve planted roots in this city.
Behind me, he busies himself in the foyer answering a call. The design is open concept but so far away, I feel lost in the view. Even his furniture seems to play a part in the city.
It’s the perfect layout for a home with so much luxury. Hardwood floors shine under my feet and the neutral color scheme is fresh and strong. He has high ceilings and windows that kiss those ceilings, and beneath is a living room with sumptuous leather furniture that looks like it cost a mint.
Nothing in his home is out of place. There’s not a single ounce of clutter, which adds to the masculine energy. It even smells like wealth, if ever there was a scent, one so clean it makes me a little jealous. I can imagine the people it would take to make a home look like this. A housekeeper at least, and others to make sure the walls and furniture stay perfect. The view alone is worth millions.
I can hardly keep my mouth closed as he gives me the tour, passing quickly by his bedroom and ending up back in the living room. “I didn’t realize just how wealthy you are.” I swallow thickly, my fingers playing at the hems of my silk sleeves.
The last time I felt awe like this was when I was flying into New York City for the first time. I couldn’t believe I was finally going to live here, in a place I’d dreamed about for so long.
Adrian grins, slipping his arm around my waist. “I’m certainly not the richest man in New York.”
“How very modest of you,” I teasingly respond although my normal bite is lost.
There’s a deep rumble from his chest, a short hum. I’ve noticed him do it a few times now and with it, his hand drops lower, to the side of my hip and his thumb rubs soothing circles there.
It causes a tension, a nervousness inside of me. It’s more serious. Because I crave it. I want more of that masculine hum of satisfaction.
Being in his personal space and seeing his things and furniture is way beyond what I ever thought I’d do with him. I’m nervous to get it right and keep my cool, but I’m a strange mixture of giddy and hot. The more I learn about Adrian, the harder it will be when things end between us. I’m not sure I want things to end between us. Which only adds more to the feeling of not having the upper hand.
I certainly don’t want them to end here, in his beautiful penthouse with all his fancy furniture and Adrian in his suit from the office. Despite working all day it’s still crisp. I’d like for him to take it off, or to play the game we always play … but in his home, we don’t have to rush.
“Are you all right?” he asks, his voice low.
“I’m fine.”
“Do you want a drink?”
I nod. A drink would be good. Something to hold in my hands and busy myself with.
“Let’s step into the kitchen, then.” In Adrian’s kitchen, which is an elegant, masculine space with dark marble countertops and tall reclaimed wood shelves, he takes down two cut glass tumblers. Light bends through them, refracting as he cradles them in his large palms. Even his tumblers reek of wealth. “What would you like?” he asks.
“You choose,” I offer, not knowing
what’s in his kitchen.
“Whiskey?” he questions. “I have a favorite you may not have tried before.”
“I don’t mind whiskey.”
“Chocolate cream cold brew whiskey,” he speaks clearly, opening cabinets and leaving me alone by the kitchen island, standing quite alone in the expansive space.
Once he has what he needs, the bottles lined up and large spherical ice cubes taking up space in the tumblers, he strips off his jacket so he’s just in his shirt from the office. Like his suit, his dress shirt is still pristine after a day of sitting in meetings and restructuring the company. My mouth waters at the thought of what’s hidden under the belt around his waist and the white shirt above.
How did we come to be here? How did I find myself in this penthouse, with a man like him?
“If you don’t care for it, I’ll happily drink both and get you something else,” he offers and I nod a thanks, deciding I should take that seat at the island after all.
He’s capable in the kitchen, mixing this drink like he’s made it a thousand times before. I have another flash of jealousy. Maybe he has, for some other woman, though it’s none of my business who he brings here or who he makes drinks for. It comes and goes, leaving me questioning how much he’s gotten to me. We’ve both been with other partners. And this, whatever is between us, is mutual.
Evening light glows around him as he tells me, “Let me know what you think.”
“Thank you,” I tell him as he hands me the heavy glass. The first sip goes down smooth. “Wow.” I never would have guessed chocolate and whiskey would be a combination so easy and delectable. He’s made it better than any bartender could have. It overwhelms me, how good it is.
“You like?” he questions, standing and leaning against the island.
“I do.”
“Now that you’ve seen mine, I’m wondering about yours,” he says, sipping his whiskey.
“My place is nothing like this,” I comment, a bit worried, but also blunt. I’m sure he’s aware. I don’t come from this kind of money and my position certainly doesn’t pay a salary where I could afford anything close to this in my lifetime.
Adrian sips his own whiskey, which he takes straight.
“I imagine you bring work home?” he asks.
“I prefer to stay at the office, but yes. My apartment is small. When I split with my ex, I sold off everything and bought a place in the West Village that I’d wanted for so long.”
“Hell’s Kitchen is fitting for you.” I nearly tell him I’m barely there, but then I realize what he’s revealed.
“How did you know?” I question and then answer for myself. “Did you snoop in the company files?”
“Of course I did. When I saw you that first day staring at me across the conference table, I already had your number.”
“Well, that’s not fair,” I say with a pout, although it comes out a lust-filled whisper.
“I don’t play fair.”
“So you liked me while I hated the thought of you?”
He nods. “It’s easy to hate the devil. So no offense taken.”
I laugh, the nervousness dissipating. The drink Adrian made for me is helping. His expression intensifies, though, and he takes another sip of whiskey. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think you’re the devil anymore.” Without thinking much of it, I raise my drink and confide in him, “That name is solely reserved for my ex-husband now.”
His next question is casual: “What happened between you and your ex?”
Immediately I regret bringing Carl up in conversation at all. His name is the equivalent to an ice water bath.
I’m over that man, and I’ll never want him again, but it still causes an old pain in my heart to talk about it. Luckily, the pang of betrayal is over quickly, and I can answer Adrian honestly. “He cheated … with the company secretary.”
Anger darkens his features. “So he was a fucking idiot. Got it.”
“No. Not an idiot. He was a manipulative bastard and damn good at it.” My throat is tight as I correct him, once again feeling like a fool. “It wasn’t just once, either. He had an affair for over two years. He used her to get details he shouldn’t have been privy to.”
Adrian takes a step closer and puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice rumbling through me. “I’m sorry he hurt you and took advantage of you.” He seems to make a decision. “My last ex was somewhat similar when it came to dishonesty.”
Setting the glass down I admit to him, “I googled your name and love interest.”
“You tried to look up my dating history?” He grins at me as if it’s comical. “Did you find anything?”
“No,” I state and he chuckles at my pursed lips.
There’s almost no information online about Adrian’s love life, as if it’s been purposefully kept offline or scrubbed from the internet. There are companies that will do that for a person, and Adrian has enough money to hire them. Though most people don’t care so much about erasing their exes from history.
“What happened with your ex?”
He drains his glass and pours another, taking in a deep breath. Just then, the intercom at his door rings, stealing his attention.
“One moment,” he tells me and Adrian goes to answer.
“Food’s here, Mr. Bradford.”
“Bring it up.”
It’s quiet as he pours his whiskey, and I attempt a bit of small talk thanking him for dinner.
A doorman appears a minute later, in gray slacks with a shiny black name tag on his crisp white shirt, and two bags in hand. I cling to the tumbler, feeling out of place once again.
Adrian takes the bags out to the living room, where there’s a massive sofa and a coffee table large enough to dine on.
As I slip off the stool, he opens the bags and lays out the containers on the table.
“The view is better in here,” he tells me and when I reach the sofa, my hand on the soft leather, he peeks up at me to add, “and touching you will be far easier here.”
A blush creeps up into my cheeks and I take the seat next to him. The savory smells of basil and marinara waft toward me.
“Italian?”
“Have you had Scalini Fedeli before?”
I shake my head gently, glass still in hand. “I haven’t.”
There’s that hum again, that satisfied hum coming just before he balls up the paper bags. Rising from his seat, he tells me I’m going to love it.
As he plates the food, capellini with prosecco, porcini ravioli and arugula and buffalo mozzarella salad, my mouth waters. I do however notice that the conversation from the kitchen has stopped altogether.
Maybe he’s not going to tell me. It’s obviously a painful subject if he’s just going to move on from it. Curiosity flares again, but I don’t want to ask the question. I’d rather sit with him, enjoy this meal and wait for more of those deep rumbles from him.
“She never loved me,” Adrian says, breaking the silence after the food is plated. “She never even wanted to be with me. She was with someone else the entire time.”
“Oh my God.” My heart breaks for him. I know this feeling so well. I wish I didn’t, because it means my ex was a horrible person who wasted my time, but I know the betrayal that’s coursing through his veins. It makes you feel so sick and stupid. Like you should have known all along what was happening, but you didn’t.
“He told her to sleep with me because he wanted her to persuade me into certain deals.”
“That is …” Horrible. Worse than horrible. Devastating. It would make it hard to continue trusting people in business after that. Almost impossible. No wonder Adrian rearranges companies to such an extent. He doesn’t truly trust anyone to be what they say they are.
“We were together for nearly six months before I realized.”
“I’m sorry.” I set the tumbler into my lap, both hands cradled around it. His focus is on his plate. His fork twirls the pasta around but he doesn�
��t eat.
His eyes find mine and he offers me a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes when he says, “Maybe it’s not polite dinner conversation.”
“It’s fine. I want to know more about you.”
He gestures at the food on the coffee table. “You must be hungry,” he says, and I know this part of the conversation is over.
My appetite has vanished, though, apart from small bites, which are delicious. We eat in relative silence. I’m sick on his behalf, and on mine. I never thought Adrian Bradford and I would have something like this in common—such complete betrayal by an ex. I guess betrayal doesn’t care if you’re rich. It can find you anywhere.
“What do you think?” he questions.
“About what?”
He huffs a small laugh, taking another bite before glancing at my half-eaten plate.
“Oh, it’s delicious. I—You were right. It’s delicious.”
He’s barely touched his plate as well. “I’m not as hungry for dinner as I thought I’d be.”
“Me either.”
A moment passes as he leans back, the sofa groaning under his weight. The plates stay where they are on the table, the empty tumblers of whiskey next to them.
“I’ll never do that to you,” he murmurs, his gaze drifting to my lips.
I turn onto my side, lifting my knees up and letting my heels fall to the floor so I can rest my legs on the edge of the sofa. “I won’t either. Cheating and lying are—”
“For assholes who can live with their misery,” he says, finishing the statement for me.
I rest my cheek on the back of the sofa, and my hand slips into his. “Yeah.”
As if he senses my thoughts, he says, “I want to get lost in you.”
I don’t have a chance to respond, only to part my lips as he crashes against them.
As soon as he touches me it’s like we’re back in the office, frantic for each other. He strips off my clothes with brutal efficiency. A gasp leaves me as he lifts me, forcing my legs to wrap around his hips.
I think he might take the floor, but instead he takes me to the windows looking out over the city. He’s still fully clothed, save for the top buttons undone from my efforts a moment ago.
Tell Me You Want Me Page 9
