“I’ll let you borrow mine.”
I almost fire back with a quick retort, but I think better of it. Instead, I relax back into the overstuff leather cushion, and like I have all the time in the world, cross one leg over the other. His gaze snaps from my eyes to the little sliver of panties he may have caught if he was quick enough. With a swallow so hard his jaw clenches, he puts his hands under his desk.
“You okay?” I ask, laying one arm along the back of the sofa. “You seem a little … tense.”
“I’m just a little … stiff,” he grimaces.
“I bet. God, you never change.”
“Consistency is key. That’s what makes me the right choice for CEO.” He works at his tie—a long, silky black piece of fabric going from the hollow of his throat to below his belt when he’s sitting. Something about the way he works it, how he moves his head back and forth in frustration, is captivating. “What’s your plan, Gallum? How do you intend to persuade the board to name you CEO?”
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
“Fair enough.” The tie releases and he wraps it over his hand. “Did you read the instructions from the Board?”
“I did.” I watch him wind and then unwind the fabric like he’s a hypnotist. “I got the email from them a couple of days ago. We’re supposed to put together our proposals detailing our vision for the company and present them in two weeks.”
“That’s right.” The fabric is placed alongside his computer. “Can I make a suggestion?”
My brows pull together. “While my first instinct is to say no, why not? I’ll play.”
“Marcus Abrams. Do you remember him?”
“I think so. Wasn’t he the kid that locked me in the bathroom at your birthday party?”
Laughing, he nods his head. “That’s right. I can’t believe you remember that.”
“Of course I do. It was traumatic.”
My attempt at a blank face isn’t quite successful. Those memories are some of the best, and worst, of my life.
Carver watches me carefully and I can see the questions on the tip of his tongue. I’ve never discussed with him why I transferred schools my sophomore year, why I stopped coming around and hanging out when our parents played bridge. I never talked to him about any of it. Humiliation will do that to you. Besides, if he were truly curious, the answer wouldn’t be that hard to uncover. He’d just need to think back to his actions.
I’m grateful when he doesn’t derail the conversation.
“Marcus, who has married Priscilla Cowell, run Cowell and Abrams Enterprises. They’re one of the best marketing firms in the country right now. Salvo has suggested that because we are both so invested personally in Jones + Gallum, that whoever isn’t chosen as the CEO will most likely be offered another position. I’m guessing that’s this office.”
“So, you get to stay here and I’ll take over my father’s.”
He ignores me. “Our restaurants have so much potential, and Marcus understands that. We’ve talked about it from every possible angle. I know you haven’t been around as much, but if you’d like to talk about things, he’d be a good one to hit up.”
“Sure,” I say, a little taken aback by his sudden nicety. “I’ll hit up your good friend for information so I can beat you at the most important battle of our lives. Sounds like a solid plan, Carver.”
“It is a solid plan,” he insists. “We are stagnating. The Board isn’t wrong. We need to do something big.”
“We need to do something smart.”
“You sound just like your father,” he groans.
“And you sound like yours.”
A heated standoff takes place in the air over his desk. He falls back in his chair with a heavy sigh. “It’s absolutely inconceivable that we’ve been reduced to this.”
“To what?”
“To … this. Me and you, sitting in my office, arguing about the potential direction of this business when the Board should’ve done what was needed a week ago. We’d be that much further along.”
“I had travel time. Sorry about that,” I shrug.
“We’re going to have to work on your attitude problem.”
“I don’t have one. It’s just you that brings out the ugly side of me.”
His eyes darken, the corner of his lips upturn. “From where I sit, there’s nothing ugly about you.”
“Nice try,” I say, ignoring the way my thighs clench together. “I hope your management abilities are better than your interpersonal skills.”
“I’ve come a long way since those seven minutes in the closet.” He smiles at me so devilishly that even though I don’t want to react, I shiver. “If you’d like to be reintroduced to my abilities, the closet is over there, sweetheart.”
I get to my feet, plant my hands on the desk, and bend forward. “Fuck. You,” I whisper before pressing off and heading towards the door. The sound of my heels clacking against the tile mixes with the low rumble of his laugh behind me.
I might swing my hips a little, knowing he’s watching my ass.
I might enjoy knowing that he is.
I also might use it against him.
Four
Amity
* * *
“How did it go?” Hallie’s voice catches me as soon as I enter my office.
I stride passed my best friend and assistant and towards the large mahogany desk that’s mine until the Board makes their selection. She watches me, a day planner on her lap, waiting on my answer.
Manhattan sits at my feet. The hustle and bustle of what’s basically the center of the world is hanging just a few dozen floors below.
I’ve loved this view since I was a baby. I remember curling up on the mustard-yellow settee in the corner while my father worked on Saturday mornings. I could sit for hours, watching the people moving along about their day. It’s a sight I’ve missed, but not any more than I miss the view from my office in Los Angeles.
After graduating high school, I took a scholarship at USC. I needed a fresh start, a place to reinvent myself. The kids I grew up with—Carver, Marcus, and Priscilla—all saw me as a girl with her nose in a book. I wasn’t beautiful like them or exceptionally talented. I had my father’s nose -- not exactly flattering on a seventeen-year-old. That has since been fixed, but I was still a nerd to them, and still am deep down. And after the closet debacle with Carver, a laughingstock.
“So, it went well, I take it?” Hallie chortles.
Considering her question, a ghost of a smile graces my lips as I recall how often he seemed off his game. “It went better than I expected.”
“Just so we’re clear, I did happen to see him in the elevator on my way up.”
I look at her over my shoulder. “Don’t go there.”
“Do you mean that figuratively or literally?”
“Hallie …” I groan.
“Point of interest, would it be like sleeping with the boss or sleeping with the enemy?”
“It would be like sleeping with the son of Satan.”
“That would explain the heat level,” she says, fanning her face. “Good God, Amity. I was a bit unprepared for … that.”
Rolling my eyes, I collapse into my chair. Carver has always gotten this kind of reaction from females. He’s always had a certain look—a high society label with a bad boy cut. A “I’ll take you to visit your grandmother for brunch and then screw you in the sunroom while she waits” kind of thing.
I never had a thing for Carver Jones. Everyone else did, but not me. I was a late bloomer, not really interested in boys until I was sixteen or seventeen. They irritated me with their childish games and gross humor. So, when I was sitting on the window seat reading a book and found out the bottle they were spinning somehow landed on me, I thought it was a joke. When I realized it wasn’t, I was too self-conscious to say no. I mean, it was Carver. He would just take me in there and tell me a stupid story until the seven minutes were up.
Except he didn’t. Except he ki
ssed me. He wrapped his arms around my waist and gave me my very first kiss under the glow of the hall light that slipped around the doorsill.
I’d never given much thought to first kisses. They were great in the books I read, but I wasn’t prepared for one in real life, much less from Carver.
I stood in the middle of the closet, winter coats dangling around us, trying to catch my breath from what must’ve been a five-second kiss. I didn’t know what that meant. Did he like me? Was this normal closet behavior? Where were the jokes, the gossip I expected to hear when we walked in there?
Only later, as I exited the bathroom, did I hear him laughing with the other boys that he followed through with the dare. He’d kissed me. Then took Dara Pincher in the closet and made out like he wanted to. There was a joke in the closet. Me. I was the joke.
“What did you want me to say?” I ask. “I haven’t seen him in years. Besides, to see the real Carver, you have to get past his exterior.”
She laughs. “Well, I, for one, would love to be the judge of that. I’ll admit I’ve imagined him out of that suit already.”
The sound of my elbows hitting the desktop takes us both by surprise.
“I’m sorry.” She tries to cover her smile and fails miserably. “What can I do to help?”
“Focus, for one—and not on Carver fucking Jones.” My eyes snap to hers and I catch her right before she says it. “Do not go there with the innuendo,” I chuckle.
“Fine.”
Falling back again, the chair swamps me. “I hate this chair. It makes me feel so vulnerable.”
“Is it the chair making you feel that way or the man in the office down the hall?”
“Really, Hal?” I groan.
“Face it,” she says, standing up. “You have your hands full with Mr. Jones.”
“I graduated from USC at the top of my class. I’ve already been on the board of a Fortune 500 company and Brower’s nearly cried when I told them I was leaving. Carver Jones doesn’t have a fighting chance against me.”
“I said you had your hands full with him, but he definitely has his work cut out for him too. You have a work ethic stronger than any person I’ve ever met and you have ways of looking at things that most people can’t conceive. But those things are not what I was talking about.”
I flash her a look.
“You’re brilliant, Amity. You’re also a hot-blooded woman.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, swiveling side-to-side.
“It means that regardless of how much you say you hate Carver Jones …” She fans her face again. “You’re going to need my grandma to light some candles for you.”
“I will not,” I huff, getting to my feet. “He’s a conceited, deceitful, self-indulgent prick. My father worked with Carver for the last few years, and Carver almost killed the man with his cavalier approach to a business both our families poured themselves into for decades. He has no respect for anyone but himself.” Taking a second to catch my breath, I feel my cheeks heating as I think back to the look he gave me when I walked in the door. “While he may be, you know, kind of good looking …”
“Kind of good looking?” she grins. “Yeah. He’s kind of good looking like you’re kind of a floozy when you drink four margaritas.”
“Floozy? I can’t with you, Hallie.”
I pick up a piece of paper and pretend to be engrossed in the words, even though it’s a flier for office supplies.
“I can see this conversation is over,” she says. She stands and starts towards the door. “I’m going to get my temporary office set up. Anything else?”
Shaking my head, I don’t look at her. There’s no need for her to see the emotions flickering across my face. Hallie knows me better than anyone and can read me like a book. In this situation, that won’t help anything.
“Fine.” She pulls the door open but stops. “Have you signed on to the calendar portal?”
“Not yet.”
“Well …”
The way she says it makes me look at her. Her lips are twisted in amusement.
“Mr. Jones has scheduled a three o’clock meeting with you in his office.”
“What?” Dropping the flier, I grab my phone. In a few quick moments, the calendar is pulled up.
* * *
Meeting:Mr. Jones, President, and Ms. Gallum
Time:3:00 PM EST
Location:Corner Office 1
Re:
* * *
“What could we possibly have left to discuss?” I ask, tossing my phone on my desk. “He’s trying to catch me when he thinks I’m a little frazzled.”
“Well, you are. Kind of.”
I flash her a pointed look. “I’m not. I have everything under control.”
“So, should I cancel this?”
“No,” I say, smiling. “You shouldn’t. It’s time some battle lines were drawn.”
Five
Carver
* * *
Clicking the trackpad, my computer screen refreshes. It’s quarter after three. I mouse over to the calendar portal and refresh there too. The meeting notification was sent and delivered.
“What the fuck?” I murmur.
Either she’s more unprofessional than her father or her secretary doesn’t know how to work our system. It’s a lose-lose either way, and quite frankly, I’m surprised.
Kicking back in my seat, I think back to our eighth-grade algebra class. She sat front and center, the first one finished with the assignments, the one to blow all the curves.
Oh, how I’d like to blow those curves now.
I have no idea when she got hot, but she did. Hell, I’m not even sure I would’ve recognized her if I’d have seen her on the street. I am absolutely sure, though, I would’ve tried to take her home, because that ass—
The door swings open without a knock and I perk upright, like I’ve been caught red-handed.
“Did I interrupt something? You look a little like you are all … worked up,” she insinuates, the start of a grin on her lips.
“Nah, you had another two, maybe three minutes,” I wink. “Anyway, I would’ve locked the door first because I’m a gentleman.”
She lets out an exasperated sigh as she comes fully into my office, swinging the door shut behind her.
Her curls have been piled on top of her head, a few strands hanging loose around her face. The blues of her eyes pop, and it would be impossible to look away from them except the fact that her body is a tight, wet dream. I almost choke.
The jacket she wore earlier is gone, showcasing a set of toned arms and shoulders. Her mile-long legs nearly shine as she makes her way across my office, and I’m almost certain she’s applied some kind of oil or lotion to them. My fingertips flex, wanting to dig into her skin, slide across her body, and feel her move beneath me.
She’s watching me with rapt attention. I paste on a practiced smile and slide my hands beneath my desk as discreetly as possible to adjust myself. My dick is pressing against my pants so hard I have to let out a sharp breath.
Amity grins. “You okay?”
She sits all the way back in the seat, her legs crossed in front of her. I recall the strip of cherry-red fabric nestled between her legs earlier and bite down on my tongue to keep from saying something stupid.
“I’m great. A little … strained,” I cringe, moving my cock a little to the right. “How are you?”
“Cut the shit, Carver. You don’t give a damn how I am.”
“That’s not completely true.”
“Really?” she deadpans.
She rolls her head around her shoulders, her eyelashes lying on her cheeks. For the life of me, I can’t remember why I called this meeting. All I can think of is imagining what she smells like in the crook of her neck, what her skin would feel like against mine … how hot her pussy would be if I buried myself inside her.
“We need to get a few things straight,” she informs me.
My first thought is to fire back, to wre
stle the direction of the conversation away from her. But being that I’m still at a loss as to why I wanted her here, she may as well fill in the gaps. It’ll buy me time, if nothing else.
“The first thing is that I will not be answering to you,” she informs me. “There will be no more abrupt meetings with little notice sent via the company calendar. If you need to see me, although I can’t fathom why you would, you can schedule that with my secretary and I’ll hook up with you at my convenience.”
“Promise?” I say, lifting the corner of my mouth.
Her lips press together. “I shouldn’t have to say this, but apparently I do: we will not be ‘hooking up.’”
Smirking is only going to make this worse, but I’ve found a well-timed crooked grin to be the most effective way to throw women off their game. I have no idea why it works, but I don’t make the rules. So … I smirk. “You don’t like that terminology?”
She leans forward, her chest nearly resting on her knees. “I don’t like that terminology, and I don’t like your attitude.”
“I’m not fond of yours right now either.” Resting back in my chair, I kick my feet up on the corner of my desk. “If we’re going to be working around each other, at least for the time being, I think it would be best if we figured out how to do it with less … contempt.”
“I concur.”
There’s a slight, almost negligible, shift in her façade. The tightness of her features slips for a quick moment and I see the girl I once knew.
I’m taken back to winters sipping cocoa by the fire in her living room while our parents played card games, summers splashing in the pool behind our house. I remember this little oven she had in her bedroom and she’d make me all these little cakes and brownies. They were disgusting, but I’d eat them like they were from New York’s finest bakery.
Looking at her now, you’d never know she had a goldfish named Leap that leapt to his death and made her cry for a week straight. She could never eat the little crackers by the same name because of that damn fish. I teased her mercilessly for that even though I found it kind of cute.
Battle of the Sexes Page 2
