by K. K. Allen
“Where’s yours?” she asks when I set the cake down in front of her.
I sit down and stab into the chocolate. Only inches from her, I hold the bite-size piece to her mouth. “What’s yours is mine.”
“I think you mean what’s mine is yours.” She eyes the forkful.
“Exactly.” I bite my lip, just as she opens her mouth to taste the first bite.
I wish I could have videotaped this. Her eyes droop closed as her entire body relaxes around the forkful of dessert. I can hear the tiniest moan from where I sit, which isn’t nearly close enough. And after she swallows, she sighs like she’s in some kind of euphoric spell.
It would be the smart thing to hand her the fork and walk away. To let her eat the damn dessert and call it a night. To pour out the rest of the wine and grab the bottled waters from the fridge. Take her home, then drive to my condo and take an ice-cold shower.
I don’t do any of those smart things.
My finger dips into the chocolate, pulling out a dollop of frosting. I taste it with a flick of my tongue before offering the rest to Monica. She leans in and covers the tip of my finger with her mouth—not one single ounce of hesitation. I’m a little surprised she doesn’t fight me on this one. I’m even more surprised when she gently bites into my skin before dragging her mouth away, skimming my finger with her teeth.
Yup. Bad move on my part, but now she’s guilty too.
Game over.
I slide one hand up her cheek and into her hair. The other moves up the fabric of her skirt until it’s resting at her waist, gripping it firmly. My mouth is on hers. Tasting every last bit of chocolate; groaning when I crave more. She’s a drug. And in no time at all she’s become my addiction. I feed off the first taste and tell myself I just need a little bit more. One more taste and then I’ll let her go. The thought is on repeat, battling my senses until my senses take over completely.
She reads me well. Her lips part, allowing my tongue to dive deep. Her touch mirrors my every move. Her appetite is just as greedy, proof that our connection is mutual and very real.
Monica grips my shirt, pulling it from my pants and slipping a hand up my back. It’s all her fault now. If she hadn’t done that, I probably wouldn’t be pulling her onto the table so that her legs can easily wrap around my waist.
But just as I’m pressing her back against the handcrafted wood table, she pushes against me so she’s sitting and I’m standing between her legs. My heart might fall out of my chest if this ends right now.
A panicked look takes over her face. “The cake!” Her concern is sincere and ridiculously endearing. I was careful enough to move her away from the cake before she sat on it. When she sees this, pink colors her skin.
I turn her face back to mine with just the tips of my fingers, running my eyes greedily down her body. “Leave it, Cakes. We have doggy bags.”
It takes a second before her expression relaxes. “Good. I’m not leaving here without my cake.”
“Neither am I,” I growl, burying my face in her neck and breathing her in.
One kiss can change everything. It can grip you, weaken you, resolve you, strengthen you. It’s beginning; it’s end.
His kiss saved me.
And then it destroyed me.
He thinks this is our beginning…
I know better.
Annoyed, unfamiliar faces glare back at me as I burst into the main lobby of BelleCurve Creative. The guests’ visible disappointment grates on the surface of my recently exfoliated skin. I’ve kept them waiting too long—five minutes too long to be exact. Their meeting was supposed to start promptly at one o’clock, but since most of my lunch hours are spent volunteering with photo and video shoots for the production department, I lost track of time.
“Lotter & Jones,” I say, putting on my brightest smile. “I’m so sorry if I’ve kept you waiting.” The group of attorneys eyes me, stony faces unchanging. “I’ll show you the way to your conference room.”
They follow me down the hallway to the all-glass main conference room toward BelleCurve’s top three executives, Sandra, Charles, and Barker, who are patiently waiting for their guests to arrive.
Letting the group walk in first, I peer around the room. “Can I get anyone anything to drink?”
Sandra beams at me as she always does. She is the kindest of the three, with Barker at a close second. Charles is all business, no small talk; always seeming to have a stick up his—
“Thank you, Monica. I’m okay. Anyone else?”
The attorneys mumble their orders without meeting my eyes, and then Sandra’s eyes dart to the clock in the corner of the room. She turns on her business face and clears her throat. “We’re a little behind schedule, so let’s get started, shall we?”
Guilt seeps into my system as I bow out of the room. It’s not like me to be late or get so flustered, but ever since the Heroes and Legends event, things have felt different. Not just at work, but at home too. I’ve been stir-crazy, wanting to do something more. Something valuable.
One could argue that my position as office manager is valuable, and it is, but it’s not for me—not anymore. I love this company. I love the people. But something is just—wrong.
When I drop off the drinks in the conference room and Sandra catches my eye, my heart sinks. I know that look, but it’s never been directed at me before. She’s disappointed, upset, and maybe a little angry, and I don’t question the reason why. Those little snitches.
No doubt we’ll be having a conversation about this, and I’m already cringing. What am I going to say? If I tell her the truth—that I’m having more fun running errands for Richland, BelleCurve’s Creative Director, than doing my own job—she’ll fire me. Instantly. Sandra’s nice, but she’s a businesswoman first and foremost, and this company is her baby.
Distracted, I walk toward Chloe’s cubicle right outside the conference room. It’s my happy place. Usually when I need a break from the monotony, I infiltrate her space, plant myself on her desk, and talk her ear off. She always listens. Then she feeds me chocolate. Unfortunately, I remember too late, she’s with Gavin in California.
Because of his work at Heroes and Legends, Gavin’s been contracted to work for the main sponsor, Mastermind Comics, to enhance their bullying prevention program. It’s not his first trip to the Golden State, but this time Chloe took off work to accompany him, which means this is definitely going to be a pouty kind of day.
Only one thing can fix me: chocolate.
I reach into Chloe’s bottom drawer and dig through her bag of Halloween candy from last October. I know she doesn’t eat the stuff; she keeps it here for me. Because she’s an amazing friend, and she knows it’s the only way to calm me down. And shut me up.
The moment the chocolate touches my lips, I feel my entire body relax. Magic.
Just as I’m sinking into the comfort of my weakness, a fit of giggles on the other side of the cubicle interrupts my moment of relaxation. I recognize the voices as belonging to the gossip queens—an unofficial title, but an accurate one—Gracie and Trinity from public relations.
They’re nice enough, but because they share a cubicle and see a good amount of scandal daily, they can often be found whispering about some new development in the sports entertainment world. You’d think their boss and the top publicist at BelleCurve, Meredith Greene, would rein them in a bit, but with the gossip queens distracting the office from her own evil schemes, she won’t.
The queens jump when they see my head pop around the corner. “Hey, hotties,” I say, feigning nonchalance.
“Geez, Monica. You scared us.”
“Sorry. Just walking by,” I lie. My eyes dart to the screen.
Trinity rushes to hide the social media window. But it’s too late. It’s impossible to unsee what just vanished from her screen. I’ve already gotten a glimpse of the most beautiful set of Caribbean blue eyes on that face I find myself frequently wishing out of my
mind.
The time I spent dancing with Zach at Heroes and Legends didn’t go unnoticed. There were stories for weeks about my desperation for the unattainable QB. It was embarrassing, but I did my best to let it roll off my back. There are worse things they could have said about me, and the stories did die down … eventually.
“Was that a picture of Zach?” I smile, hoping they feel at ease enough to let me in on their private joke.
The girls exchange a look and then shrug. “Yeah.”
“Was he with someone?” A twinge of jealousy hammers on my nerves. As much as I don’t want to care that I saw a beautiful blonde on his arm in that photo, I can’t help it. Whoever it was looked awfully comfortable with him. I just hope it wasn’t—
Gracie smirks and brings up the photo again. She can’t keep a secret to save her life. Neither of them can. It’s a mystery how they ended up working in public relations.
When I see the blonde in a black cocktail dress who’s hooked nice and snug under Zach’s arm, my heart sinks to my stomach.
Trinity bites her lip. “Meredith took some photos of Zach a couple weeks ago when they went to a charity dinner. We’re supposed to grab a couple shots for his website, and we came across these.”
This day just went from shitty to extra shitty in less than ten minutes. Why does my heart hurt over this? It’s not like there was a future for us to begin with. It’s not like I agreed to a real date when he asked. The only person I can blame for letting Zachary Ryan slip through my chocolate-covered fingers is me. And now I’m just torturing myself.
“They look good together.” The words hurt, but these girls are used to my rock hard exterior and bubbly nature. If I let my guard down now, I’ll be opening myself up to an inquisition.
And they do look good together. Meredith is the type that looks expensive. Everything about her screams Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. She’s been grooming herself for someone like Zach her entire life. Short angled blonde bob, perfectly straightened. Always a fresh manicure on her massive claws. Her body, tall and slender, always walking high and slow with determination.
“Do you think they’re—?” I can’t even bring myself to ask the question.
Trinity and Gracie both nod emphatically.
“Oh, yeah,” Gracie says, in full gossip mode, voice hushed and talking fast. “Meredith tries to play it cool, but they’re always going to events together, and they do look extra cozy in these pictures. She’s been after him for a while now. It wouldn’t surprise me if they finally hooked up.”
“Meredith’s kind of a celebrity whore,” Trinity adds, scrunching her face.
“Can she do that? Zachary pays her to manage his publicity, for heaven’s sake. If that got out it wouldn’t look too good for BelleCurve.”
Gracie snorts. “It’s not like she’d need a job if she landed Zach.” She sighs and stares at the photo again. I want to unplug her computer and chuck it over the cubicle to make the image go away.
Geez, Monica. Aggressive much?
“Did you catch that last game?” Trinity’s eyes light up. “That boy is a miracle worker on the field.”
A miracle worker on the field and other places. “No, I worked a shoot with Richland, so I missed it.” I don’t mention that Richland had the television on, volume off, and I couldn’t help but stare at the QB god every chance I got. The last game was the playoff match that got the boys into the Super Bowl, so it would have been impossible to miss.
“What?” they both shriek.
“How could you have missed it?” Gracie demands. “We were down at halftime and Zach threw, like, four touchdowns straight into the end zone. It was crazy.”
I force a smile. “Wow. Sounds like an awesome game.”
Actually, Zach threw two passes into the end zone. One failed and resulted in a field goal instead, and the other touchdown he ran in himself. But I won’t clarify for their benefit.
Gracie laughs and turns back to her computer, unable to comprehend my lack of enthusiasm, I’m sure. “I have to get these photos edited and uploaded like, now, or Meredith will have our heads.” She looks at Trinity, suddenly in panic mode. “Did you write the copy?”
Trinity poises her pen over her notepad and grins. “No, but I’ll have it in a jiffy.”
I force a big smile and wave as I slip from their cubicle and head down the hall toward my desk, which sits just inside of the main entrance. I spend the next two hours responding to emails, importing business cards into the electronic directory, and setting up appointments. I’m bored out of my mind.
When a tall woman with dirty blonde hair walks through the main doors, I perk up. “You must be the firefighter.”
The girl nods and shoves her hands in her front jean pockets. She’s beautiful, and even with her long-sleeved shirt on, I can see how ripped she is. Damn. Girl must work out constantly.
“Nancy,” she introduces herself. “I think my shoot is with Richland?”
I smile, then hop out of my chair and circle the desk.
“Wow,” she says, looking me up and down. “I love your outfit.”
Beaming, I pause to run my hands down the front of my DIY romper. The black, silk short-shorts would totally be inappropriate for office wear if it weren’t for the floral printed tights underneath them. My top, black and bearing the words “Avec Toi Je Suis Moir”—with you, I am me—is slightly on the baggier side and sewn into the shorts. To top it off, I added a long zipper in the back to get the dang thing on and off. Not that you can see it beneath my long, beige trench coat—my favorite thrift store purchase to date.
“You like it? Really? I’ve been playing around with some old clothes at home. It’s been ages since I’ve sewn anything.”
Her mouth drops open. “You made that?” Her eyes move to my desk and then back to me.
I shrug. “Yeah. It’s nothing, really. Trust me. I grew up in the fashion industry and have seen the best of the best. I was just messing around.”
Nancy lets out a laugh. “Well, you should do it more often.”
A buzz of adrenaline washes over me and I hook my arm in Nancy’s. I’m grinning like an idiot, but I don’t care. “Right this way. Richland’s all set up for you. I’m Monica, by the way.”
She gives me a thankful smile.
“I’ve never met a female firefighter before. It must be a dream getting to work with all those hot guys.” I wink. “And distracting too, I guess.”
“Most of the guys in my department are much older than me. Sorry to break it to you.” She’s smiling when we make eye contact again. “But they’re great guys. Let me know if you’re into the silver fox type and I can probably hook you up.”
I shrug. “Why not? Silver fox. Balding. Ski cap for hair. As long as he can keep up with me, I’m game.”
Nancy is laughing when we walk through the doors to the studio, and I grin at Richland, who’s already standing there fiddling with his camera. “I’ve got your model.” My singsong voice gets his attention. “I was just telling Nancy here she should hook me up with one of her silver fox firefighter friends. What do you think?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “I think you should stick to your own kind, Monica. Those boys couldn’t handle you.”
“See,” I tell Nancy.
“Monica here needs loads of attention. Having her man gone for days at a time wouldn’t sit well with her.”
My mouth snaps shut and I bunch my brows in shock. Wait a second. I had no clue Richland was going to make this personal. He’s smiling, so maybe he’s kidding. But what is it they say about jokes? There’s always partial truth to it?
“You serious, Rich? I can handle a few days of separation. Please.” I roll my eyes and reach for Nancy’s arm. “Come with me, doll. I’ll show you to your clothes and get you into hair and makeup while Richland over here works on his apology.”
Technically, I’m supposed to say goodbye here and go back to work. But Richland n
eeds me, and this is the only part of the day I actually enjoy. The dressing room is already set up for Nancy, thanks to me, and I know right where to go for her clothes. Handing her the hanger, I look her over once more. Fair complexion. Flawless skin, but a little on the dry side. Beautiful brown eyes. That’s as much information as I need to prepare her makeup while she changes.
“Monica.” Richland’s surprised voice carries relief too as he sees me setting up the makeup station. “You are the best.”
Giving him a wink, I concentrate on testing lipstick colors on my skin. “I’m not that busy today and the execs are in a meeting, so this should be fine.”
He looks as if he wants to argue with me but turns away instead, probably realizing he can’t afford to lose me right now. Why BelleCurve doesn’t give Richland a better production budget is beyond me. His business has quadrupled since I started with this company.
Richland is in his late twenties, on the stocky side with hard, square jaw, lightened somewhat by his full beard. His seafoam green eyes, small in proportion to his size, can shine with laughter and then zoom into focus at the snap of a finger.
Unfortunately, he works too hard to settle down. His girlfriend of seven years recently gave up on him. As focused as he is, even a stranger would have thought he didn’t care about her—but I knew different.
After she left him, he started working even longer hours and smiled a little less. I think it all came down to a choice, and he chose the job. He’s married to the damn place.
Maybe he’s right; I could never be with someone like that. Passion is great, but not when it’s entirely focused in one direction. A woman should always come before a man’s career. Sure, you should love your job, but one day that career is going to end and all you’ll have left are washed up memories.
Obsession with his career aside, no one will argue with the fact that Richland is a brilliant visionary—especially me. He’s my rock in this place, and he was the first one to pick up on the fact that I needed this department as much as it needed me.
