Beautiful Deep

by Jordyn White

  Before I can respond, she adds, “She can send whoever she wants.”

  As if what Alice wants makes a difference. Alice does what I tell her to, and is all about giving me and my siblings what we want anyway. Right now, what I want is for the woman standing in front of me to come back to my office before the day is over.

  “Then tell Alice,” I say slowly and deliberately, “that I request you.”

  Chapter 5

  Emma

  My heart is pounding and my blood is galloping through my veins. This can’t be happening. It’s like the universe is determined for me to fuck myself all over again.

  And oh, how I want to. I’ve been in his office all of five minutes, and I already want him more than I can stand. He’s nothing like that pansy ass Chad was either. He’s not someone who storms around demanding employees respect him. Mr. Rayce Rivers is the sort of man who earns respect on sight.

  Warmth licking down my center, my thighs clench at the thought of touching him. Feeling his arms come around my body. Allowing him to claim my mouth and anything else he wants.

  But, fuck it all, none of it matters because I absolutely cannot under any circumstances go down this road again.

  I’m not ignorant to the fact that he’s wise to me. He sees what I want. I could take the sexual tension between us, put it on a plate, and serve it to him steaming hot.

  Still holding my eyes, he nods ever so slightly. A reminder. He’s not the kind of man to repeat himself, I’d wager, but that little nod is all it takes for the command he just gave to repeat itself in my mind. Tell Alice that I request you.

  I step closer to his desk, squarely opposite him. I hold his eyes and grab an almond from the dish. He watches as I slowly bring it to my mouth, the salt shocking my tongue. I take my time chewing. Like I have all damn day. All the while, I’m looking him straight in the eye.

  I swallow, and when I finally speak, I somehow manage to keep my voice calm and steady. “I’ll do no such thing.”

  A slow smile emerges on his face. It happens so gradually, that I’m momentarily frozen by it. He’s smiling at me like I just threw down the gauntlet, and he’s picked that fucker up.

  Like an idiot ignoring her own peril, all I can think of is how stunning that smile looks on Rayce Rivers’ face.

  Chapter 6

  Rayce

  Sure enough, another employee brings the lime cheesecake.

  I didn’t even want it.

  I instruct him to leave the rest of my dishes, pretending I’m not done with them yet, in the hopes that when someone returns to retrieve them, that someone will be her.

  Of course, it isn’t.

  I don’t know what that would’ve accomplished anyway. What am I going to do? Ask her out? Invite her back to my place? Ask if she’ll be my date to Lizzy’s wedding?

  To top it off, this afternoon I received yet another email from Taylor Norrell. It’s just as concerning as the last one was. She hasn’t come out and said she intends to go after me for sexual harassment, but every time I read one of her emails, that’s where my brain goes.

  It wasn’t sexual harassment, of course. Sure, I was fucked up at the time, but not a monster. I’m always mindful of consent, but in those cases I made extra damn sure every encounter was consensual. But that doesn’t change what they were: torrid affairs with lower-level employees.

  The relationship with Taylor, if it could be called that, was as devoid of emotion as just about everything else in my life was back then. The sex was rough and dirty, the way we both wanted it. Sure, it was consensual, but I didn’t care about her, or any of them. Not really.

  It was the local gossip columnist, that damned Rita Becker, who somehow caught wind of things. She published a condemning article filled with speculations both true and false. At least she failed to name names. That’s when Connor asked me point blank about it, and I lied straight to his face.

  It was my new low point. Worse than anything I’d done yet.

  When Connor saw what was really happening and called me out on it, I tried to fight it, like I’d done for the eight long months since our parents drowned at sea. But Connor wouldn’t let me hide anymore. That little brother of mine saved me.

  That’s why I couldn’t bear to tell him that it wasn’t just one employee, but had been a string of them. Why hurt him further?

  Thank God Lizzy doesn’t know anything.

  When I promised Connor that was the end of it, I meant it. It was a mistake I intended never to repeat.

  And now here’s Emma.

  There’s been no shortage of women in my life—employee or otherwise—but none of them have caught my attention like this one has. She’s the only one who’s stood out, and I’m supposed to sit in my office like a good boy and never find out why? Never find out, what if?

  If God is a vengeful god, he more or less excels at it.

  By the end of the day I’m so irritated by the situation, that when Connor comes into my office and deposits a folder on my desk, I only grunt in acknowledgment.

  He was turning to go, but this stops him. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing.”

  What am I going to say? Should I ask if he thinks I can make an exception and go after the stunning new employee who served my lunch today? No. Not an option.

  He scratches at the back of his neck. “You sure?”

  I pick up the folder, open it, and start flipping through the papers inside. I’ve made the mistake of taking things out on my little brother before, and don’t want to do it again. I make an effort to keep my voice calm and friendly. “Is the Harrison report in here?”

  “At the back.” Judging by the easy tone of his voice, he’s going to let things go. Because he’s a good guy like that.

  “Thank you.”

  Connor’s appearance is only a more forceful reminder of all the reasons behind my promise. I didn’t make that promise lightly, and I know he didn’t take it that way either. My siblings and I co-own this resort, and if someone brought a lawsuit against me, I’m not the only one who would be hurt by it. They’re invested in this, too.

  Not to mention the public shame I would bring to the family name. That actually means more than the potential financial losses. Maintaining the integrity of the Rivers name is critical. It’s even more important now that Mom and Dad are gone and we’re left to represent everything they stood for.

  Trying to remember all that’s at stake, I firmly tell myself to forget about Emma Swanson. There are other women to be had. I don’t need that one.

  I repeat those words to myself over and over, trying to make them sink in.

  Which they flat refuse to do.

  So when Alice comes to my office at a quarter to six, chastising me yet again about my plans to pick up Guido’s for dinner on my way home, telling me she’s found the perfect person to be my personal chef this time, a certain Emma Swanson, I do something I’ve never done before.

  I agree.

  It happens in a heartbeat. All my self-chastisement gone to waste.

  Alice looks too surprised to be happy, apparently thinking I’d never say yes to bringing a personal chef into my home. She was right to think that, of course, because that’s not what I’m really saying yes to.

  “Only for one week,” I add, remembering the advice Connor has been giving me for quite some time, and feeling guilty as hell about it. Nevertheless, that will be my alibi. If anybody asks, that’s my reason for finally going along with this.

  “Only one week?” In spite of her lack of joy at my initial ‘yes,’ she still manages to seem disappointed about this restriction.

  I turn to my computer, place my hand on the mouse, and act as if I’m able to concentrate on work and still have this conversation at the same time. My blood is racing with guilt, but eagerness too. This will give me a chance to figure out a solution to this problem. Because there has to be one.

  “I’ll try it,” I reply. “That’s all I’m agreeing to.”


  Though if Alice can get Emma on board with this, I doubt I’ll send her home after a week.

  “Thank you, Mr. Rivers. One week isn’t really enough time, though. Wouldn’t you say? Will you give it two?”

  “Fine.” I click open a new email, not really reading it.

  “Thank you. I don’t think you’ll regret it. She has prior experience and has proven herself here in the time that she’s been with us. I’ve talked to her about how this would work—”

  My gaze flies to her.

  “—and I’m certain she could accommodate you without getting in the way.”

  “You talked with her about doing this for me?”

  “No, sir, I would never do that without speaking with you first. I only asked about what she used to do and how it worked. They know how to make it as easy on their clients as possible. I have confidence that she’ll know how to treat you right. As for pay, I asked her about that as well, so I think I have a good understanding about a fair wage.”

  I straighten slightly and clench my jaw. “A fair wage” just hammers home the problem. Emma is an employee here, and now thanks to my agreeing to this when I know I shouldn’t, she’ll be my employee twice over.

  In my house. Just her and I.

  Who am I kidding? Even if Alice doesn’t know what this is really about, Emma will. She’ll never agree.

  Alice continues. “I could get it set up so there’s nothing you have to do. Would you like me to write up the details and bring them to you?”

  I wave my hand and lean in closer to my computer. “Just email it.”

  “Yes, Mr. Rivers,” she says, gleeful at last. And this is a woman who tends to be short on glee. She hustles out of my office, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll take care of everything.”

  Still not seeing whatever’s on my screen, I’m a churning mix of guilt and exhilaration. Regret and anticipation. I’ve just tried to set us both up for potential disaster, but my heart beats thickly wanting it.

  If, that is, she agrees.

  Chapter 7

  Emma

  By the time I get off work, I’ve relived the incident in Mr. Rayce Rivers’ office about a hundred times. I’m dripping with the guilt of it. I should know better than to feel like this about the fucking boss.

  And not just my immediate supervisor. No, no. The. Boss.

  It doesn’t help that I stood up to him at the end, because every time I think about things, I may start off feeling guilty, and I may end up feeling guilty, but in the middle? In the middle my heart pounds, and my skin tingles, and I fantasize about all the other ways today could have gone.

  Him taking me on the desk. Me straddling him in his chair. Him fucking me upright, pressed against the glass of the large windows, for anyone out in the gardens to see.

  My fantasies are straight up hardcore.

  When I’m not fantasizing about what didn’t happen, I’m fantasizing about what did.

  His fingertips touching mine and the electric shock I feel just remembering it. The way he looked at me, heat simmering just beneath the surface of those intense eyes. And that smile.

  The energy of it all bounces around in my stomach, betraying me.

  That’s when the guilt starts up again. Because even though I stood up to him, I didn’t want to.

  This just proves yet again, that I can’t trust myself to be close to things that harm me. I have to keep a distance miles wide. I mean, why on earth am I attracted to a man who’s obviously the typical boss slime ball? His behavior was totally inappropriate, as I’ve firmly reminded myself over and over.

  It doesn’t matter that it didn’t feel inappropriate. It felt exciting and intriguing and almost... natural. As if we’ve been exchanging that kind of banter and those kind of looks for years. Which only proves how fucked up I am.

  Because no matter how it felt, it was inappropriate.

  It was.

  He was. Bosses shouldn’t say and do things like that. I don’t need to be someone’s plaything. Again.

  I get started on dinner as soon as Pierce and I get home. For now, home is their second-floor loft located on the edge of an industrial section in Swan Pointe. It’s an old warehouse, with a chop shop down below. Their loft takes up the entire second story, all 4500 square feet of it. At the far end is a small living area that includes a tiny, outdated kitchen, a closet of a bathroom, and a sleeping area partitioned off with wooden screens. The rest of the space is open, with exposed rafters and pipes twenty feet above us.

  Floor to ceiling windows cover the length of the north wall. Pierce says that’s the sole reason he chose this place. He installed remote-controlled shades—the fanciest thing in sight—so he could adjust the lighting at different times of the day. Almost the entire space acts as his studio. He has three different easels scattered about, a few work tables holding coffee cans filled with paint brushes, giant tubes of paint, and framing supplies, and a rickety metal drafters table he uses as a desk.

  Paintings in various stages of production are stacked against almost every wall. Other than the living area, the only truly clear space is one corner that’s nothing but glossy hardwood flooring, Aaron’s portable dance barre, and a fifteen-foot mirror that’s so old its reflection has turned antique matte.

  I take a wide berth of it every time I go by.

  Next to the dance floor—inconveniently—are a few stacks of my boxes I can’t unpack. I’m trying to keep my footprint here as small as possible, so I live out of the two suitcases I store behind the chair in the living area. A chair, a coffee table, and a couch. That’s the living area. There isn’t even a TV, not that either of them seem to miss having one.

  What they probably do miss is full access to the couch, considering how limited the seating accommodations are here to start with. That’s why I put away my linens as soon as I wake up in the morning.

  After I landed the job at the resort, I did a budget to calculate how much longer they’ll be stuck with me. It seems like an eternity. They’re being good sports about it, but I can’t wait to get out of their hair.

  To make up for my presence here, I prepare the meals as often as my schedule allows. Aside from giving me a way to make a contribution to the household, I feel better any time Aaron gets a decent meal.

  As I’m putting the casserole in the oven, he walks through the door. He’s wearing black dance pants, a snug gray tee, and worn tennis shoes. He keeps his blonde hair short, in an attempt to tame his thick, natural curls, but the wave of his locks come through anyway.

  He grins at us. “Hey.”

  Pierce and I both give him a hello in return.

  He heaves his duffle bag off his shoulder and drops it by the door. He kicks off his shoes. The socks follow. He leaves the entire pile of stuff by the door and crosses the room toward us, his bare feet padding across the cement floor.

  He stops to compliment the latest painting in progress—a gorgeous piece Pierce declares is “absolute shit”— then comes into the kitchen to see what I’m up to.

  “What’s cooking?” Ever with that suspicious tone in his voice.

  “Something that smells like heaven,” Pierce says, tapping his brush into some paint on his palette. He’s in jeans and an old paint-splatted T-shirt that pulls across the length of his massive chest. Even at the easel, he gives off the biker vibe.

  “Zucchini and eggplant Neapolitan,” I answer.

  “Hmmm,” is all Aaron says, which is good enough. He’s familiar with this dish so he knows just how much he can have and stay within his calorie range. It’s delicious, packed with nutrients, and pretty low-cal so it’s a win all the way around. I make it probably once a week.

  “How were rehearsals?” I grab the head of lettuce off the counter and start rinsing it at the sink.

  He eyes the multi-grain bread I picked up at the Co-op yesterday—something I know he won’t touch, no bread for him—and gets a glass out of the cupboard. “Fair. We should be ready in time, for the most part.”r />
  He’s waiting for me to finish at the sink. I step out of the way, hating that I’m so often underfoot here. He fills his glass as I dry the lettuce with paper towels.

  “Sergei is happy?” Pierce asks from the easel.

  Sergei is the choreographer and a drill sergeant in rehearsals.

  Aaron downs his glass right there at the sink, then turns on the water to fill it again. “Hard to tell, but I think so.”

  Pierce presses on. “How’s Natalia’s ankle?”

  I look over my shoulder to glare at him, but he just taps away on his canvas with the brush, oblivious to the opening he just gave his boyfriend.

  “She’s trying to dance on it, but it’s giving her problems.” Aaron eyes me carefully.

  I know that look.

  Thanks a lot, Pierce.

  I tear into the lettuce. “I’m sure she’ll be fine,” I say sternly. We’re not having this conversation again. This is another reason I need to get out of here. Living here puts me too close to the world Aaron still inhabits.

  “We could use a backup,” Aaron says.

  “Then Sergei should go get one.” He doesn’t need a backup. That’s not what any of this is about.

  “Emma...”

  “I’m not changing my mind. I like my job.” I ignore the tingling up my spine that comes from remembering today’s encounter with the damned boss. “Everything’s fine.”

  I blame fucking Sergei for this. Aaron has been willing, more or less, to support my decision and let me live my own life. But once Sergei Petrov heard I was his roommate, he’s been putting ideas into Aaron’s head. Pressuring him. Now Aaron’s pressuring me.

  But I’m not going back to that world. I’m not. It’s been too long anyway. I don’t know what good he thinks I’d be after over a year off. I’ve kept up a solid workout regimen, but I certainly don’t train anymore. Yeah, my first post-dance job blew up in my face, but that has nothing to do with anything else. My life might be a bit of a disaster now, but leaving dance isn’t the reason why.