by Kendall Ryan
I roll my eyes at him. “I was twenty-two, not eighty-two, you ass.”
“Still,” he says. “This is an area I know a lot more about than you do. So, do you want my advice or not?”
I sigh in resignation. My little brother is right. “Okay. Yeah, I do. Sorry for overreacting. I need the advice, because honestly, everything I’ve tried has failed.”
Michael smiles. “Tell me what you’ve tried.”
“Well . . . I’ve tried being the casual friend with benefits he says he wants. I’ve tried putting myself out there more, pushing him a bit, connecting with his little girls to show him we could be more too. Neither of those worked.”
He nods, his expression turning happy. “Duh. Of course it didn’t work.”
I narrow my gaze. “Then why do you look so happy?”
Grinning, he drums his fingers on the table. “Because I know exactly what you need to do.”
My brows push together. “Well, are you going to fill me in or what?”
Michael pats the back of my hand. “Oh, I’m gonna do more than fill you in. I’m going to make sure you have that man eating out of the palm of your hand.”
I laugh for the first time all day. It feels damn good.
Then I listen aptly as Michael describes the best strategy, nodding at his sheer genius.
I only hope he’s right, because I don’t know how much longer I can take this back-and-forth with Dominic.
• • •
Jet lag is a major drag. I never really understood that until last night. I tossed and turned for hours before slipping into a fitful sleep.
After coming to the decision that I have to put my career first, I decide I can’t let these little setbacks affect me. I roust myself out of bed, power down two cups of scalding-hot coffee, and make my way to work like it’s my job.
It is your job, Presley. Wow, I must be tired.
The click-click of my heels on the office floor is a familiar sound. Yes, this is what I need—a consistent and predictable work environment in which I can be the best version of myself. Not an undefined relationship with a man whose mood changes so dramatically that I wonder if he’s really two people. The first, a charming, funny, considerate man. The other, a loathsome asshole with no consideration for the feelings of others.
No, I don’t have time to juggle my work and a man who can’t decide who he is. I’m still figuring out who I am.
My determined stride across the office falters as I spot Jordan, packing his personal items away into a box. Why?
“Jordan!”
“Oh, hey, Prez,” he says in his usual chipper way. But his dimpled smile doesn’t reach his big blue eyes.
“What’s going on?”
“The internship is over. The others already packed up. I guess no one got the job.”
I feel as though I’ve been dropped into the cold, dark ocean. Like the plane I disembarked just yesterday hadn’t landed safely at all, but rather had crashed right into the tumultuous sea.
“You’d better get packing too.” Jordan hands me an empty box, then turns back to his almost empty desk, once covered in his alma mater’s insignia, pictures of his dog, and an assortment of bobblehead dolls. “It’s reassuring to have Bill Gates and Elon Musk nodding at me in approval all day,” he said to me back in our first week.
Tears prick my eyes. “Jordan . . .”
“Oh, Prez, don’t worry. We’re going to be fine. You’re practically a genius, so you’ll get a paying job in no time. And who can resist this face?” He smiles with his eyes this time, showing off his full, brilliant grin.
I wish I could return the enthusiasm, but all I can manage is a sad half smile and a reluctant nod.
On my way back to my desk, the click-click of my heels sounds less like a battle cry and more like the cheap knock-off shoes that I bought in college. They’ve been glued back together so many times . . . if the heel snapped off one of them today, I wouldn’t even be surprised. A fitting end.
Back at my desk, I start collecting my own things. I don’t have much—a Brown insignia pin, a picture of Michael, a stained coffee mug, some miscellaneous business books, and a preserved sticky note my mother wrote for me back in middle school. I LOVE MY SMART GIRL! it reads in a splash of blue marker. She tucked it away in my lunch box the day of a dreaded geometry test that I’d been studying for all week.
I caress the worn paper, and for a moment consider throwing it in the trash. Smarts can only get me so far, Mom. But if I’m anything, it’s sentimental. I can’t throw this piece of my mother away.
One by one, the pieces of me go into the box, which gets heavier with every memory. Just like my heart.
“Oh, you’re here already?”
I squeeze my eyes closed. I’d recognize that voice underwater if I had to.
Dominic stands behind me, probably leaning against the empty desk kitty-corner to mine that once belonged to Jenny.
I refuse to turn around. He doesn’t deserve my attention, the bitter little girl in me insists. Even as angry as I am, I know how immature that is.
“I am,” I say over my shoulder.
“I see you’re already moving out.”
“I am.”
“Good.”
I want to scream in his face, but I restrain myself. For as much of a stress nightmare this internship was at times, I wouldn’t have changed the experience I gained for the world. I learned more here than I did in four years in college. I’m grateful for that.
“Thank you for—” I murmur, but Dominic is already walking away.
I take a deep breath and turn around quickly, not letting my gaze linger on the broadness of his shoulders, and head straight for the elevator. I maneuver the box against my hip so I can press the DOWN button. The elevator dings and Oliver steps out.
“Whoa, where are you going?”
“I’m going home. Thank you so much for helping me acclimate—”
“Wait, Presley. Why are you going home? Are you sick?”
I don’t understand. Is this some sort of trick? I’m so gullible . . . I can never tell.
“I was let go,” I say carefully. “All the interns were let go.”
“Not you,” he says with a smile. “You’ve been selected.”
“Selected?”
“Didn’t Dom tell you?”
“No,” I practically shout. Rein it in, Presley. “Dominic doesn’t tell me anything.”
“That doesn’t really change over time.” Oliver sighs, smirking. “But you’ll have plenty of opportunities to get to know him better as our new director of operations.”
My heart skips a beat. He can’t be serious. “Director . . .”
“You’ve been promoted. Congratulations.” Oliver turns and points down the hall to a small office. The door is ajar. If I squint, I can read DIRECTOR OF OPERATIONS in bold print on the placard. “That’s your shiny new office.”
I’m speechless. I must really be wearing a funny expression, because Oliver can’t keep it together. He laughs like I’ve told him the best joke he’s heard all year.
“Go put your stuff down. And then go see Dom. He’ll tell you about his decision. And your salary,” he says, poking me playfully in the arm.
I practically run to the little office. It is gorgeous—small but somehow feeling expansive with its tall window overlooking the cityscape. I slide my box of all-things-Presley onto the glass surface of the desk (my desk!) and wander around the room. It’s so pristine . . . so cozy.
I can imagine early mornings, sipping coffee at this desk while scrolling through emails. Bright afternoons, leaning against this window, making calls to clients. Late nights curled up on the love seat, jotting down important things to do the next day in my planner. Joy threatens to overwhelm me, but I have something to deal with first.
I stride purposefully across the office, ignoring the heads turning to watch me march toward my boss’s office. When I open the door without knocking, he’s staring out his own window, his hand on the
glass.
He turns, surprised. The light catches his eyelashes and casts dark shadows across his cheekbones. I’m almost dazzled by his beauty.
Almost.
“I thought I was being let go,” I say. It isn’t a question, but I need answers.
His eyes squint, an almost comical expression of confusion on his face. I would laugh, but I’m too . . . pissed? Surprised? In shock?
“Jordan was packing,” I say, quieter now.
“The interns were let go. You’re not an intern anymore.”
I flush as Dominic takes slow steps toward me. “But you saw me packing up my desk.”
“I thought you were moving into your new office. Do you like it?”
“Yes,” I say in a small voice. “But no one told me.”
“I’m sorry. I thought Oliver caught you when you walked in. I shouldn’t have assumed,” he says in a voice so tender, I almost look over my shoulder to see if his daughters are here.
“It’s okay. I just didn’t know what was going to happen to me.”
“You should have known,” he says with a teasing smile. “Your work as an intern excelled above all the others. You’re diligent, adaptable, bright.”
With every compliment, he takes a step closer to me. Leaning way too close, he reaches over my shoulder and pushes the door closed.
As soon as it clicks shut, his hand settles on my waist and his lips brush against mine. The kiss is so warm, so precious. I feel cherished and irreplaceable with every caress of his thumb against my cheek, even if I know that’s not the case. When he releases me, I’m breathless.
“How will this work?” I ask, looking into his dark eyes for reassurance. “Won’t the others find it unprofessional? I don’t think they’ll take me seriously if—”
I stop myself as Michael’s words of advice ring through my head. I can’t fall for his charms. I can’t keep sleeping with him. I need to be firm. It’s the only way. Too bad it’s nearly impossible because this man turns me into a pile of goo with one smoldering look.
“Let me worry about that,” Dominic murmurs, his lips still inches from mine and his palm on my hip. I don’t realize I’m shaking until I put my hands on his chest, not pushing him away, but not letting him come any closer either. “Don’t you want to know what your salary is?”
I pull back to look him in the eyes. “Well, duh.”
He chuckles, and my body shakes with his. I join in, until we’re both laughing a little too loudly. He kisses me once more on the lips before taking my hand and spinning me around like we’re dancing. Suddenly, I’m back at the door.
“Go talk to HR. They’re waiting for you.”
“Thank you, Dominic,” I whisper. I know he can feel my gratitude by the way he smiles and shoos me away. This man can’t handle too much emotion at once.
When I get to the human resources office and sit with my coworkers Daniel and Brienne (oh my God, coworkers!), the reality of the situation finally sinks in. I’m about to take over an entire department of Seattle’s Aspen Hotels, including a team of two assistants to do my bidding and a salary that makes me choke on my coffee.
“Seriously?” I ask, still coughing.
Daniel and Brienne laugh and confirm the number. I can see their mouths moving, but I can barely hear them over the pounding of my heart. They can’t be paying me that much!
“Congratulations, Presley,” Daniel says, clapping his hands together. Brienne joins in the applause, and I wipe a pesky tear from my cheek.
I can hardly process the rest of what they tell me—something about a medical plan, stock options, paid vacation time, and a retirement account. Taking one more deep breath, I nod to everything they say, knowing I’ll have to dig into the details later when I can think clearly.
“Thank you again,” I say, rising to my feet, and they both smile at me.
Out in the hall, I dial my brother’s number with shaking fingers. I get his voice mail. He’s most likely at class. It doesn’t matter—I can barely speak anyway. In a low voice, I leave him a quick and jumbled message to share the good news, punctuated with an “I love you!” at the end.
Once I’m back in my office, I shut my door and call Bianca. She answers immediately.
“Hey, babe, what’s up? You okay?”
“Oh my God, Bianca.”
“Oh my God, what?”
“I got the job.”
Bianca screams so loudly, I have to pull the phone away from my ear.
“Yes, you did, bitch! Yes! You! Did!”
Bianca is so excited, my heart finally explodes. I jump up and down and squeal as quietly as I can. I’m still at the office, after all.
“It’s insane! Oh my God! I can’t believe it!”
“You better believe it! How much are they paying you?”
“Uh . . .” I laugh, almost drunkenly. “A lot.”
“Yes! I guess that means you’re buying tonight. We’re going out!”
When we hang up, I allow myself one more excited giggle before I put my game face back on. I’ve got to get through several more hours before the celebrating begins. How I’m going to stay focused is beyond me, but I’m excited to get to work. I haven’t been this happy in a long time. Maybe ever.
And there’s so much more to come.
Chapter Fourteen
Dominic
I’m working late, trying to get through the last of today’s urgent decisions so I can start with fresh business in the morning, when my phone buzzes.
“Yes, Francine, I know I shouldn’t live at the office,” I mutter as I grab my phone and look down at the screen.
But to my surprise, it’s a text from Presley. And even more surprising, it reads: heeyyyy sexxxy, followed by a smattering of eggplant and fire emojis. What the hell?
I do a double-take to confirm that the sender really is her. Maybe someone took her phone as a prank? Then I remember that she got her promotion today, and text back:
I take it you’re having a night out to celebrate?
The response is immediate:
im so drink haha
I snort, my lips twitching. I’ve seen her tipsy before, but drunk is new. Getting to glimpse this new, uninhibited side of a woman who’s normally always so disciplined is . . . charming.
I can tell. I’m glad you’re having a good time—you’ve earned it.
thank you soooo much I love you
My heart skips a beat. She doesn’t really mean that. It’s just the kind of thing people say when they’re drunk.
come celebrate with me
You should enjoy partying without your boss hanging around.
but you’re why im here
I was losing my shit and this promotion saved my whole entire life
I really owe you
No you don’t. You got the job because you were the best worker. It was all you.
what if I wanna owe you? ;)
I’m not sure how to answer that, and in the thirty seconds I spend deliberating, she adds something that makes me forget whatever I’d been planning to say.
I could let you do whatever you want with my body
Holy shit. What I’d like to say is “I’m on my way,” but instead I type:
I’ll ask if you still want that when you’re sober.
She replies:
boo :( at least dance with me.
I consider it. Francine is home with the girls, and I probably already missed my chance to kiss them good night anyway. I’m too burned out to make any more headway on work tonight . . . so, why the hell not? It would give me the chance to check up on Presley and make sure she has a safe way to get home. Plus, a drink might relax me a bit.
Sure, sounds like fun. Where should I meet you?
• • •
Ten minutes later, I’m taking a ticket from the valet at the address she texted me. It’s just around the corner from our office, and I can’t help but notice it’s the same bar where I first asked her to play my pretend girlfriend.
/> So much has changed since then, it’s strange to think about.
In barely any time at all, we’ve gone from acting out an illusion to being real lovers. Or I guess I should say fuck buddies, since neither of us can afford to fall in love, but applying that word to Presley makes me frown. It implies something crass and shallow, and she means more to me than that.
As I enter, I barely have a chance to scan the place for Presley before she’s flung herself out of her seat and into my arms.
“You came!” She’s still wearing her work outfit and smells slightly of alcohol.
I return her hug and reply with a fond smile. “I said I would, didn’t I?”
The woman who was sitting next to Presley walks around their table to me. “You must be the big boss man,” she says, extending a violet-nailed hand. “I’m Bianca, Presley’s roommate.”
I shake her hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Dominic.”
She grins, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “I’ve been dying to meet the famous Mr. Aspen. Presley has told me so much about you.” Her impish, knowing tone has me wondering exactly what Presley might have told her.
I look instead at the table cluttered with empty glasses. “You guys really didn’t waste any time. It’s only eight o’clock.”
“We met up right after work. Pres wanted to make sure she could leave early enough to get up on time tomorrow.” Bianca shrugs with an expression of fond amusement. “At least, that was what she said about three or four cocktails ago. Now she wants to live here.”
I chuckle, my gaze wandering back to Presley.
“Come dance!” Presley insists, tugging at my arm.
I let her drag me out onto the floor as a thumping beat starts playing. She loops her arms around my neck, I rest my hands on her hips, and that’s where anything recognizable as “dancing” ends. Her wild side steps, shimmies, and sashays don’t remotely match the rhythm of the song. Every time she lifts a foot, I can feel her wobble, and my hands on her hips steady her.
I guess it’s reasonable that Drunk Presley isn’t the world’s greatest dancer. Not that I mind at all; she more than makes up for her lack of coordination with exuberance, and it makes me smile just to have her close. I chuckle and do my best to sway along with her erratic moves.
