by Autumn, Kyle
After a beat, I ask, “Then why didn’t the flower company deliver them to their final destination?”
“Because this is their final destination,” he explains, “and I asked your company to pick them up so you would deliver them to my office today. It was the only way I could think of to see you again that wouldn’t disrupt you at your workplace.”
“Deliveries are my workplace, so of course you’re disrupting,” I snark back.
But then I glide into the office with the flowers and put them on the corner of the desk where he’s not sitting. When I turn to leave, though, he catches my wrist and stops me. I spin around, daggers shooting out of my eyes.
“Please,” he pleads, his eyes earnest as they bore into mine. “I just wanted to see you again. To apologize again.”
“You attacked my dignity. Accused me of being a money-hungry brat. And you assumed I was one of your normal bimbos who enjoys being told what they’re going to be doing later that night.” I finally look away from my wrist where he’s touching me and meet his gaze. “And, now, you’ve put your hands on me when I haven’t asked you to.”
He drops my wrist from his grasp and recoils like I physically hit him.
But I keep going. “What makes you think I want anything to do with you?”
When he briefly closes his eyes and exhales through his nose, I know I’ve hurt him. And I want to feel good about that, because now, he knows how I really feel about everything. It’s all on the table. But I regret having made him feel bad about this. He’s trying to apologize and make up for it, and all I’m doing is whipping him around with my mood swings.
Seriously though, he did all of those things. I have a right to be mad at this, but he’s trying to make up for it. And the hurt in his eyes makes me want to let him.
***
Chaz
“The flowers are for you,” I blurt out like that’s going to make this all better. But then I keep talking so she won’t leave. “I could have sent them to your work, but I didn’t want to embarrass you. And I didn’t have your home address, so I couldn’t send them there. I admit I could have discovered it one way or another, but I wanted to see you in person. To tell you how completely sorry I am for having screwed this up so badly. But I’m just screwing it up more.” My shoulders slump forward, and I can barely look at her. I don’t want to see how near the end is.
When I do lift my gaze to hers, though, she’s staring at me in…awe? Her eyes are open and expressive in a way I haven’t seen them before—mostly because I’ve been pissing her off since I met her. And, well, I haven’t known her all that long. But I could get addicted to seeing her emotions painted across her face like this.
I think she’ll forgive me…
“What do you want from me?” she asks, her tone quiet and sad.
“I want to get to know you. You’ve intrigued me now, with the way you turn me down and tell me exactly how you feel. Women don’t do that around me, so I’m drawn to your honesty,” I answer. “Is that so bad?”
“It is if you’re a slutty jerk,” she says, but the hint of a smile plays on her lips.
“My days of being a slut, as you so eloquently keep putting it, have to be behind me. And I want them to be,” I insist. “But I’m afraid I don’t always know when I’m being a jerk. I’ve been trying to do the right thing, but my world seems to be different from yours, and my mouth gets me into trouble.”
Tentatively, I reach out to take her hand. When she allows it, I pull her hand to my mouth and kiss the top of it.
“But my mouth can get me into good trouble,” I say over her hand, my lips curled into a smirk. “I promise.”
As I lower her hand, she seems torn between wanting to give in and wanting to punch me. Her free hand is in a tight ball at her side and her nostrils are flared. But she isn’t letting my hand go, and she’s not running away or actually punching me. That’s a good sign, right?
“Give me another chance to make this right,” I tell her, staring into her eyes.
Then she drops my hand and backs up a step. “Maybe if you start asking and stop demanding I do things.”
I throw my hands up in surrender. “That’s lesson number one. I can do that.”
She gives me a single nod. “Then we’ll begin there.”
“Okay, then. Will you please give me another chance to make this right, Miss James?”
If I’m not mistaken, her knees wobble a bit before she says, “Yeah,” in a breathy voice. Then she clears her throat and stands up straighter. “I mean, yes. One more shot. And don’t fuck it up. I’m worth it.” With that, she marches over to my office door, her hips swaying in an unintentionally seductive way, her curly ponytail swishing back and forth through the hole in the back of her cap.
“Wait,” I call out to her.
She turns back toward me. “What now?” she asks, a hand on her hip.
God, I love how moody she is.
“How am I supposed to contact you without ordering yet another package?”
With a smirk, she says, “You’re powerful and wealthy, Mr. Masters. You’ll figure it out.”
Sooner than she can put her back to me again, I remember the flowers and snatch them off the desk. “Here. Don’t forget these.” I pluck the tag with my name on it off and replace it with the small card I had in my pocket. Then I hand them to her. “Beautiful roses for a beautiful woman.”
As she takes them from me, our fingers brush. I hope she feels the zap of electricity that’s running through my veins. Then her mouth opens like she wants to say something, but not a sound comes out. After closing it, she tries again, but still, she’s silent. The third time is the charm.
“Thank you,” is all she says before she walks out of my office for the second time in as many days.
When she’s gone, I call Blake into my office.
“I think my plan worked!” I tell him as I sit in my desk chair.
“Good,” he agrees, shutting the door behind him, but his face says that he has more to say.
“What? What’s going on?” I ask him.
He hesitates as he takes a seat in the chair opposite my desk. “Well, I just got off a conference call with the board members.”
I jerk my head back. “A conference call? I wasn’t aware we had one. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Well,” he repeats, shifting in his chair, obviously uncomfortable, “I wasn’t supposed to. It was an impromptu meeting. About you.”
I’m quiet for a moment while I think this over. Was this a call to tell Blake that he should sharpen his skills so he can take over for me? It’s not like he’d be a better choice for the face of this company. If anything, he’s worse than I am, going through women like he goes through underwear.
I’m not that bad.
Right?
Fuck.
Maybe it was just another warning. Maybe they were telling him that he needs to keep a closer eye on me. But this all happened yesterday. It’s not like I’ve had a chance to try to make things different yet. So, what the hell did they need to speak with him about when I couldn’t hear it?
“What the hell did they need to speak to you about when I couldn’t hear it?” I finally ask.
“See, that’s the thing. I’m not sure why they didn’t just tell you, but I think it’s because you should hear it from a friend. From someone who more personally cares about you.”
I lean over my desk and clasp my hands. “What do I need to hear, Blake?”
He exhales a loud breath. “The board wants you to throw a big party to show off your new lifestyle change.”
That makes me relax a little. “That’s not so bad, right? I have every intention of turning my life around. This was exactly the wake-up call I needed, and with my plan working out, I think it might actually be happening.”
Scrubbing a hand over his mouth and his chin, he sighs. “It’s not just any party, man,” he says, hardly able to look me in the eye.
I cock my head and squi
nt at him. “Then what kind of party is it?”
After yet another deep exhalation, he shocks me thoroughly. “It’s your engagement party.”
Chapter 5
Shiree
I love Fridays because I usually have weekends off. I don’t mind working on the weekends, as I don’t have much else going on. But I’d never say that it’s not awesome to have two full days to do whatever I want. I’m thankful to have this weekend off, seeing as these last two days have been, well, odd.
While I thought about calling the girls to tell them what happened today, I also thought that maybe I should deal with it alone. There’s nothing major to report, because I honestly don’t think anything will actually come of it. He has no way to contact me that won’t require effort on his part, and I don’t think he really thinks I’m worth that effort. With the way he talks about his life, I’m sure he has plenty of women willing to throw themselves at him.
If he can get milk for free, why would he need to spend time buying a cow?
Did I really just call myself a cow? Yeesh.
Instead, I decided to take a soothing, hot bath and forget about it all. He’ll soon forget about me, so I might as well move on as quickly as I can. Get back to my simple life where people don’t order flowers for me to deliver to myself. Where I live in my quaint two-bedroom house I still owe a boatload on. Where I can go to work, hang out with my girls, rinse, wash, and repeat. Happily.
Mostly.
Whatever.
All I know is that, right now, the tub is deliciously hot as I slip into it. My muscles, tense from the last two days’ events, ease and relax as soon as the water hits them. The lavender scent of the bubbles finishes the job, and I’m thrust into a heavenly session of comfort and luxury.
This is my kind of rich and wealthy. Downtime able to be enjoyed because life is hectic and unpredictable. Savored moments when things aren’t all daily grind and more work than play. I can’t imagine that Mr. Masters knows much about that when his life is so kissed by charm and affluence. That man’s probably never known a day of hardship in his life.
Why, oh why, am I thinking about him when I’m supposed to be relaxing and forgetting?
Five minutes into my soak, my doorbell rings. I guess my predictable downtime is over. Maybe it’s just someone selling something. So I ignore it in order to enjoy my bath a little longer.
Then the bell rings again.
“I’m not here!” I shout, hoping the person on the other side will get the hint.
But the person doesn’t get the hint and bangs three times on my front door.
“I hear you in there, Miss James!” comes from outside.
It was faint, but I heard it. And only one person on this planet calls me that regularly.
Shit.
I reluctantly remove myself from the tub. Then I grab my towel off the rack and wrap it around me. If he wants to interrupt my life yet again, he gets to see all of it.
My life. Not me. Just so I’m clear.
When I make it to the door, he’s pounding on it still. I can’t imagine what could possibly be so urgent that he’d need to bang on my door at nine o’clock on a Friday night. Doesn’t he have way more important things to do? Like impress his board members with his new non-slutty lifestyle? It hardly seems like coming to my door while it’s dark outside is an appropriate way to look less like a manwhore, but whatever.
Though that ridiculous stutter in my heart hopes that his intentions on my doorstep are his way of becoming less of a manwhore. If he’s here, at my home, then he’s not with one of his interchangeable bimbos. Right?
Is that really what I should be focusing on? I guess we’ll see.
I swing the door open and find him looking disheveled. He has one hand right outside the doorframe, leaning against my house like he’s out of breath. His suit jacket is in his hands, and his tie is loose and crooked, which is a stark contrast to how put-together he was earlier.
That stutter in my heart becomes a full stop before it starts up again. Something is seriously wrong.
“How’d you get here?” I ask when I notice the lack of a car in my driveway. “And how did you get my address?”
He pushes off the side of my house and stands on his own two feet. “I told Jay to leave after he dropped me off,” he tells me. “And you probably don’t want to know the answer to that.”
I huff out an exhausted breath. “Jay?” I ask, choosing to take his advice about how he figured out where I live.
“My driver.”
I give a slow nod. “Ah. Right.” Then I gesture for him to come in.
As he slowly enters my home, he takes a curious look around. I assume it’s because he hasn’t had an opportunity to be a home that isn’t classified as a mansion for a long time. I’m glad I naturally keep things clean, but I also don’t have anything to hide. Not feeling like I have to impress someone is freeing. I am who and what I am. He can deal.
“What were you going to do if I hadn’t been home though?” I ask as I close the door behind him, breaking him from checking my house out.
“Sit on your porch until you came home,” he answers.
When he faces me, I know he’s telling me the truth. It might just be a feeling, but it’s strong. He was literally going to sit in front of my house until I walked through the door if I hadn’t been here, and that earlier thought that something is terribly wrong comes surging back.
Then he says, “You’re in a towel,” like I wasn’t aware.
Which, really, I wasn’t for a while there.
Now that I am, I cinch it tighter around me, but I still approach him. Whatever’s wrong with him is more important than my clothing choices. Or lack thereof. I may be independent and stubborn, but I can’t stand to see other people hurting. Even if it’s someone who’s been a jerk to me. At least he apologized the last time I saw him.
“What’s happened?” I ask him, touching his shoulder.
“You’re in a towel,” he repeats more slowly this time.
“I know, but you look shaken. Tell me what happened,” I insist.
He gazes at where I’m touching him, and then he points to the couch behind him. “May I sit here? You can get dressed, and I’ll stay right here.”
Instead of taking his suggestion, though, I go to the couch and sit down. Then I pat the seat next to me.
“Sit. Talk.”
Ultimately, he relents, his shoulders falling slightly as he walks toward me and sits next to me on the couch. His posture is guarded, tight, stiff. I wonder if something happened with his job. Maybe the board couldn’t wait for him to change and needed him gone right away. Maybe something happened with Blake.
I mean, what could be so bad that he came to me?
“Seriously. What happened?” I push. I’m trying to be kind, but maybe that’s throwing him off. He hasn’t known me that way, so I try a different tactic. “Tell me or you have to leave.”
His head slowly turns in my direction, and a hint of a smile plays on his lips. “That’s more like the Miss James I know,” he says, but then he releases a deep exhale and falls forward. His elbows go to his knees, and his head hits his hands. “The board threw me for a loop today. They’ve barely given me a chance to make my public life look different, and now, they already want me to throw an engagement party to prove how serious I am.”
Oh god. Was he lying to me about the flowers? Is he really seeing someone else? Someone else he’s so serious with that he’s engaged and he didn’t bother telling me? Even after he’d asked me out? Multiple times?
“There’s no one else,” he says, which makes it through the buzzing in my ears.
“Then who the fuck is the engagement party for?” I ask, cutting right to the point. There’s no use in beating around the bush here.
“Well,” he starts, his gaze on the ceiling. “I was hoping it could be for us.”
***
Chaz
Now that I’m here, in her house, saying these word
s in front of her, it sounds ridiculous. More ridiculous than it did when I thought it the first time back in my office after Blake had left. And her wide-eyed expression is screaming, What the fuck? in a bad way, so I’m realizing how much more ridiculous the thought really is. Shit. I’m screwing this all up again.
I hold a hand up. “Hold on. Sorry. Let me explain, okay?”
I’m going to spend more time apologizing to this beautiful creature more than I’m going to do anything else, and that’s unacceptable. Eventually, I want to take her out, share a meal with her, share a bed with her. Eventually. But that won’t happen if I’m constantly screwing things up. And if she doesn’t get out of her towel. I won’t let on how badly I want to rip it from her body, because seeing more of her skin than her delivery uniform shows is affecting me even if I’m not showing it.
I may be a caveman with my words, but I can control my sexual desires. Much to some people’s dismay, I’m sure.
However, I’m a male human. I don’t have endless patience, so I tell her, “But first, please, change into some real clothes?” I even formed it into a question, so she shouldn’t get mad at me for asking, right?
“Seems like, if we’re engaged,” she sneers as she rises from the couch, “my being in a towel shouldn’t bother you.”
“Hey,” I say to get her attention.
But she keeps walking away from me, so I catch her wrist in my hand for only a moment before dropping it. I only want her attention—I don’t want to hurt her or repeat this afternoon. So I raise my hands in surrender—another thing I keep doing in her presence.
“I’m not upset that you’re in a towel. And we’re obviously not engaged, but I want to explain to you what happened. And I don’t think I’ll be able to think clearly when you’re…” My gaze drops from hers to her chest. “Well, when you’re looking like that.”
With a hand propped on her cocked hip, she says, “When I’m looking like what?” Then she purses her lips in a challenge.
