by Claire Adams
“No way.” I held up two fingers, as if taking an oath. “To the grave, darling. To. The. Grave.”
***
Later that night, after everyone had left, we sat up in our bed having leftover cake. My slice was three times bigger than his and it was so good, I moaned after each bite.
Gabriel frowned. “I don’t see how you can eat that much. I’m stuffed.” He placed his slice on the bedside table and he lay back with his arms behind his head.
“It’s good cake.”
“I think Harbor’s still out with that girl.” He glanced at the clock and frowned like a worried father.
“She’s a nice girl.” I shoveled in another bite.
He met my eyes. “That’s what I’m afraid of. He’s been doing better, and the last thing he needs is to knock up some girl and end up stuck with her for eighteen years.”
“What if they fall in love and it lasts forever, happily ever after?” My tone was a little too sharp. I let out a long breath and filled my face with another forkful.
“I guess. I hope he gloves up is all I’m saying. There are worse things than babies.” He closed his eyes, and I nudged him.
“You make it sound like a bad thing. Babies are wonderful. We’ll have wonderful babies. They’ll be beautiful and fat.” I chopped another bite of cake and stabbed it with my fork. Then I glared at him and took the piece into my mouth.
“I’ve no doubt. I only mean there’s a time for it. Harbor’s too young.” He turned on his side and stroked my hip. I felt the heat bloom at my core and angled myself toward him out of sheer instinct.
I cleaned my plate and reached across to place it on the bedside table, but he offered to take it. “I’m going to go check the house and make sure I locked up.”
I handed him the plate, and he stacked his on top of it and went downstairs to the kitchen. I crossed the room to our dresser and took the small box I’d hidden in the bottom drawer’s back corner. I hurried back to the bed and placed it on his pillow, but before he returned, I grabbed it and hid it under my pillow.
It was a special birthday surprise and I felt the cake rumbling in my gut as I thought about his reaction. What if he doesn’t like it? I pushed the thought from my mind and took a deep breath as he entered the room. He pulled the window blinds so the morning sun wouldn’t wake us too early before crossing to the bathroom, where, after a few minutes, I heard him gargling mouth wash.
I wanted to tell him to hurry up and get back to bed, but instead I joined him and brushed my teeth as he flossed.
Then we walked into the bedroom and climbed in bed. Gabriel turned over and kissed me goodnight, and as he backed away, I stopped him and held him close. “I have another gift for you.”
His eyebrow jutted upward and he grinned. “I know. I’m getting ready to unwrap it.” He trailed his hand down to the hem of my camisole and his cool fingertips trailed upward to my sensitive breasts.
I leaned forward and kissed him as he trailed his hand down my tummy and slipped it inside my panties, cupping my mound. I broke the kiss and put on the brakes.
“Wait. That’s not the gift I wanted to give.”
He frowned, but rubbed my sex with a delicious pressure that had me reconsidering. No. I had to tell him now, while I still had the courage. If I didn’t do it soon, I’d ruin the surprise.
“What is it?” He dipped his head to my stomach and kissed me there, and I wondered if he somehow instinctively knew.
I slipped my hand under my pillow and pulled out the little box that would change everything. We hadn’t talked about children. With all the other things we had in our lives, we’d both been content, and we certainly hadn’t felt we were missing anything. We hadn’t been too careful, either, or tried to prevent anything from happening, so if he didn’t like the idea, he should have said as much.
I placed the small box on my stomach and he sat up on his elbow and met my eyes. “You didn’t have to get me anything else.” I’d given him cologne along with his other gifts at the party.
“Open it,” I urged as my stomach twisted in knots.
He pulled the bow off the top and slipped his finger into the paper. When he got to the small white box, he gave me a glance and opened the lid. His mouth went slack and his eyes widened. “No way.”
It wasn’t exactly the reaction I’d hoped for, and his eyes darkened as he looked away. I thought he’d be happy. My heart dropped like a rock to the pit of my gut and I held my breath.
“I can’t believe this,” he whispered, taking the tiny pair of baby shoes from the box.
I wanted to react. I wanted to ask him what he expected would happen. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know how to make babies, and with all the raw sex his appetite craved, it was bound to happen sooner or later.
He turned to me, his eyes ringed red with tears and he fell onto my stomach, planting kisses there and pulling me into his arms. I breathed a sigh of relief as he met my eyes and smiled.
“This is the best gift ever.” He shifted himself closer so he could kiss my mouth and his hands held my face as he gazed into my soul. “I love you, Luna.”
“I love you, too.” I hid my face, grateful I’d been wrong, as tears of relief washed across my cheeks.
“What’s wrong?” His eyes were filled with concern.
I wouldn’t spoil our happiness by telling him I’d had doubts. My heart filled with joy thinking about the year to come. “Nothing, Gabriel. I’m so happy. You give me everything, you know. I’m happy to finally give you something for a change: something special.”
He smiled and placed his hand over my heart. “Every day you love me, Luna, you give me something special.”
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SLEEPING WITH MY BOSS
By Claire Adams
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Claire Adams
Chapter One
Asher
I glanced at myself in the mirror to see the image of a young man dressed in a subdued business suit reflecting back at me. He sat in silence on the sofa in the seating area, studying the artwork hanging on the wall next to the mirror.
It was a large piece, perhaps five feet across and four feet high. It consisted of a small red square in the top left hand corner against a white background. Countering the geometric, ordered simplicity were splashes of bold color sprayed across the entire right hand side in a chaos of strokes. It was as though all of the artist's pent-up rage and frustration had been poured out onto that canvas. It was a work of genius, really. In a way, that red square represented everyone trying to play their roles and keep the madness, and chaos, contained and controlled.
A young man approached and looked up at the artwork. He looked at the painting for a few seconds, shrugged, and then turned his attention to me.
“Hi,” he said, somewhat nervously. “Do you mind?” He motioned to the empty seat next to me on the sofa. “I have a meeting in this boardroom in a few minutes,” he added as he nodded toward the closed door to our left.
“Don’t mind at all,” I said, smiling warmly as I shifted to make more space for the newcomer. “Have a seat.”
“Thanks,” the young man replied, looking a bit flustered. His ill-fitting suit appeared to be uncomfortable, which only added to the somewhat flustered air he exuded. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at his forehead and the sides of his neck.
“I'm Jason, by the way,” he said to me as he put down his briefcase and took a seat.
“Nice to meet you, Jason,” I said, extending a hand to the man. “I'm A—, er, Andrew . . . Andrew,” I
replied as we shook hands. I caught myself before I could reveal too much. “I'm with the Sinclair Agency,” I added.
“Nice to meet ya, Andrew.”
“Are you with Winston?”
“No. I'm also with Sinclair. You been at the agency long?” Jason questioned.
I smiled strangely and nodded. “You could say that.”
“It's my first month here,” Jason said. “I was just assigned to the PR project for the Harry Winston Watch Company like three days ago. Now, here I am presenting at a brainstorming meeting. I’m a bit of a nervous wreck. Word is the CEO of the agency, Asher Sinclair, isn't too happy about the performance of the latest line of athletic watches in the first quarter of the year.”
I nodded. “I heard the same. Say, what's the word on Mr. Sinclair these days? What does the marketing department think about him?”
Jason raised an eyebrow. “Uh, don't you already know a bunch about Asher Sinclair? I mean, you did say you've been working here a while. What department did you say you were with again? I didn't catch it the first time.”
“I'm with finance. We don't chat too much about the boss. I think there are too many people who have to answer to him directly.”
“Oh. Well, this might help. Check this out,” Jason said as he opened his briefcase and took out the latest issue of Forbes magazine. “There's a feature piece on Asher Sinclair in here.”
“Is there, now?”
“Oh, yeah. I've read it like three times already. The guy's like, man, I dunno, Bruce Wayne or something. I can't help wondering if he's got a Bat Cave and a Bat suit up in some old family mansion in the hills.”
I chuckled. “Maybe he does have a Bat suit.”
“He's an odd dude. It’s a little strange that almost nobody knows what he looks like. There aren't even any photos of him on social media or anything like that. I don’t know how he keeps such a low profile. But, I guess I would, too, if I were in his shoes. It couldn’t have been easy for him, the way he grew up.”
“And, how was that?”
Jason raised an eyebrow. “You really don't know? Are you sure you've been at this firm for a while, man?”
“I just like to cross reference the stories I hear. It’s interesting how different they can be. So, what is it that you think you know about how Asher Sinclair grew up?”
“Well, rumor has it that his family situation was, you know, kind of troubled. I mean, being a millionaire by 18 cannot make for an average childhood or normal teenage years. And then the big kicker: when his grandfather, founder of the Sinclair Agency, passed away, he left the majority shares and control of the company to Asher instead of Asher's father. Now come on, how many 20-year-olds do you know who not only get to become sudden billionaires, but also the head of one of the most powerful PR firms in North America? That sort of stuff has got to mess with your head a little.”
“It might, I suppose. Although, for someone with the right resolve, the right constitution, with an insatiable urge to achieve and succeed, it could be the perfect trial by fire.”
Jason nodded. “Yeah, you could be right. And by all accounts, the kid pulled through that fiery trial like a beast. According to everything I’ve heard or read, everyone was expecting the corporation to crash and burn after being thrust like that into the hands of a kid. And, I’m sure you know, but shares did initially plummet.
“Man, I don’t know what's in Asher Sinclair's blood, but there must be something superhuman mixed in. After all, here it is 12 years after he became CEO and those shares are worth three times what they were before. Three freakin' times, man! The guy's a bona fide genius. Someone even told me he's got his own personal racetrack and Formula One car!”
I grinned. “I've heard he's a decent driver, but doesn't race formally because it would put him in the spotlight, and you already said he keeps a low profile. A genius, huh? Maybe he was just lucky and made a few really good decisions at just the right time.”
“Or maybe he really is a genius.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
Jason checked his watch and dabbed at his forehead again with his handkerchief, looking decidedly nervous. “Oh boy, the meeting's about to start. You know, they say Mr. Sinclair often drops in on these meetings incognito. Because so few people actually know what he looks like, he's able to do that. Man, I sure hope he's not gonna be there today.”
“Relax, Jason. I'm sure he'll be receptive to your ideas if he is.”
“I'm new here. This is one of the most prestigious agencies in the country. I do not want to mess this up. This is my dream job! And, if Asher Sinclair is in there and I mess up or something… Oh God, I don't even want to think about it. I think I'm gonna throw up.”
I placed a reassuring hand on Jason's shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
“Relax, kid, relax. I'm sure you've got some good ideas. Present them with conviction and passion. Chances are you'll impress the team, and maybe even the boss himself if he's in there.”
“I actually hope he isn't.”
“Just relax, Jason. Take a few breaths.”
“All right, I'm trying, I'm trying. I really shouldn't have had that third coffee before this.”
I laughed warmly. “No, you probably shouldn't have,” I agreed with a chuckle. “Come on, I think the meeting's about to get started. Let's go find a seat.”
***
I was sitting at the back of the boardroom keeping as low of a profile as I could. To that point, I'd been pretty unimpressed with anything that had been presented. The line of athletic outdoor watches from the Harry Winston Company had been performing, quite frankly, abysmally in the market. I needed to know why, and I needed to correct it.
Jason had presented a few pretty decent ideas considering they’d only given him a couple days of notice, but none of them struck me as being revolutionary or bold enough to tackle the issue of poor sales.
The problem was, as I saw it, everyone was continuing to run with the same theme we already had running—a theme I had originally conceived, but also one that had not performed as I’d hoped. I’m not immune to falling a little short sometimes. However, this particular shortcoming was proving to be costly—not just financially, but also to the reputation of my PR firm.
I was about to quietly leave through the door to my left, feeling frustrated with the lack of creative ideas, when the next presenter stood and made her way to the front of the boardroom. I couldn't help but stare. There was something about this woman that hit me like a punch to the gut.
She was beautiful—that much was obvious—but not in a traditional sense. I didn't particularly care for “conventional” women and this woman was anything but conventional. My eyes traced her petite frame, admiring the generous curves she had in all the right places.
When she turned and looked up, her striking blue eyes mesmerized me. They captivated from beneath finely-arched eyebrows and a mane of jet-black hair, which was tied up impeccably for this occasion—very businesslike, but still begging to be untied and let loose. Her sense of style was unquestionable. This was a woman who knew just what to wear to grab everyone's attention, but not in a revealing way. Everything about her was just the right mix of formal and bold with a splash of sexy. I was intrigued from the moment I laid eyes on her—very intrigued.
I leaned back in my chair and grinned, aiming the smile at her even though I was fully aware she wasn’t looking in my direction and probably couldn't even see me while the projector shone in her eyes—which, might I add, gave them an almost ethereal sparkle.
She brought up the main image of the poster and billboard campaign we'd been running for the Harry Winston watches—the campaign I had created. There was a photograph of a rugged male model, who looked like a cross between Indiana Jones and the Marlboro Man, driving a jeep through a desert with a beautiful woman under his arm and a hunting rifle situated just so on the backseat.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began as she pointed at the image on the projector screen with a
laser pointer, “I would like to present to you a great, revolutionary advertising campaign.”
I raised my eyebrows, as I'm sure everyone else in the room did. Then she delivered the punchline.
“Revolutionary and great if the year was 1982.”
A few uncomfortable chuckles rippled around the room.
“Allow me to be blunt,” she said flatly. “The watches aren't selling because this campaign sucks. It feels tired, it feels worn-out, it feels like it's been done a million times before. How many times have you seen images exactly like this one trying to sell products exactly like this one, only repackaged?
“And, that's what we're doing here, aren't we? There's nothing particularly revolutionary about the Harry Winston athletic watches, is there? Granted, they're beautiful and well-made, but the bottom line is that an athletic watch is an athletic watch. There's only so much variety one can have.
“And, as you all know, selling is all about marketing. It’s about the image that both the product and the company producing that product convey. That's what the customer is buying. They are not buying a watch; they are buying a lifestyle, a statement, an image. And to be perfectly upfront, right now the image and the lifestyle we're selling is the same old image that countless other advertising campaigns have tried to sell before.
“What sets this line of watches apart from those of the competitors? At the moment, not very much. That's why the Harry Winston Company pays us—the best damn PR firm in the United States—to handle this for them. And what have we done? We've let them down.”
She paused for effect, to let everything she'd just said sink in—and it did. After a few moments, she continued.
“Now that I've told you everything that's wrong with the current campaign, let me tell you what I think we can do to change it, and to make it actually work. First of all, we have to completely drop this Marlboro Muppet, Raiders of the Lost Dork shtick. It's lame, it's dated, and it's overdone.
