by Opal Carew
Chapter 8
“I love you,” I admit, my face heating. “And you love me.”
My cockiness is feigned but necessary. I won’t allow him to have the upper hand, to claim I fell for him before he fell for me.
“How do you know that?” Rob cradles my face between his big hands. “I’ve never said I loved you.”
“Yet you do. You’re an intelligent man.” My voice is husky. “I’m the best and you know it.”
He chuckles. “I do.”
He does…what? Love me? Or know I’m the best?
“I merely had the guts to put it in writing first.” I spin my recklessness into a strategic advantage. “Someone has to take the lead in our relationship.”
Rob lifts his eyebrows. “And you think that someone is you?” He closes the gap between us, the heat from his body warming me. “I’m the boss, beautiful, at the office and in our bedroom.”
“We’re equals.”
“Someone has to take the lead,” the fiend quotes me.
“And you think that someone is you?” I feed him back his line, our conversation circular yet not at all repetitive, the meaning of the sentences changing, deepening.
“Yeah, that someone is me.” Rob traps me with his reply and with his body, bracing his arms on the wall to the left and to the right of my shoulders. “I might have said the words last but I loved you first.” He leans into me. “I loved you the moment I stared into your soulful brown eyes. A strand of your hair had come loose.” He slides his fingers into my chignon, releases one long dark lock. “It caressed your face and I remember being envious, wanting to touch you the same way.” He strokes my cheeks with my hair. “Then you opened your mouth.”
“And?”
“And you told me to approve your damn expense reports.” Laugh lines feather the skin around his eyes. “I’d been sitting on them for weeks.”
“You were being a bastard like usual.”
“I was enthralled by your paperwork. It smelled like you, like warm, willing woman.” He nuzzles against my neck. “Like Sunday morning sex, love and trust and forever. I couldn’t approve those expense reports, couldn’t let them go. I needed to meet the glue-gun buying employee who submitted them.”
“You wanted to know the color of the glue-gun, where I stored it, if I planned to use it for future projects.” I breathe deeply, inhaling the cedar scent of his cologne. “You interrogated me for over an hour.”
“You had a witty answer to every question, all delivered with that enigmatic Mona Lisa smile I adore.” His lips move against my skin. “And I wanted to interrogate you for longer but the next meeting was being held in my office. I couldn’t miss it.”
He missed meetings for me, because he didn’t desire our conversation to end. “After that, I had to justify to you every line item expensed.”
“It was one of the highlights of my month.” Rob nibbles on my earlobe. “I learned about your favorite restaurants, the toppings you liked on your burgers, the projects you were working on, the way you think, the things, the people you love.”
I learned as much about him. “I’d use that thoroughness as an excuse to talk to you between our meetings, telling myself I was being pre-emptive, that hearing your insights before I spent the money would eliminate the risk of the expense being denied.”
Weekly shifted to daily. Rob would call me on weekends, at night, early in the morning, and I’d carry my phone with me everywhere, in case he wanted to speak with me.
“It was a lie,” I admit. “I talked to you because I enjoyed our arguments, because I wanted to see you, to hear your voice.”
“You loved me.” Rob skims his lips over mine.
I chase his kiss, unable to catch it, suck on his chin instead, tasting salt and man.
He groans, swoops downward, fuses our mouths together. I open to him and he slides his tongue along mine.
God. I grip his shoulders. I want him. I—
His phone hums. He pauses, gazes at me, rebellion flashing in his eyes.
That rebellion will get both of us fired. If that worst case happens, we might get new jobs, both of us have skills employers hunger for, but Mrs. Bellows will have no one at Powers Corporation protecting her.
That is unacceptable. I pull away from him. “That’s Powers. You have to meet with him and I have to get back to work.”
“If I don’t see him, he’ll send Grant after me. We can’t have that.” Rob grins, unconcerned about irritating his boss. “We’ll continue this discussion at eight.”
He kisses me again, hard, opens the door and strides away, raising his phone to his ear as he moves. There’s a jaunty bounce in his walk. His shoulders are straight, his head held high.
That gorgeous man loves me. I touch my lips, my flesh humming with the memory of our too-brief embrace. Mrs. Bellows was right about that.
I return to her desk. She smiles, doesn’t say a word.
“He loves me,” I murmur.
“I know.” Mrs. Bellows types a memo I doubt she’ll ever finish. “Everyone knows.”
We settle into a routine. She starts things. I finish them, my attention split between my tasks and hers. We make a dent in today’s addition to the draft folder.
I contact an affiliated company to move the contents of my apartment into Rob’s penthouse. The earliest they can schedule me in is Wednesday. I should have clothes to last me until then.
At three o’clock, Rob brings us brownies he liberated from his previous meeting, squeezing my fingers during this transfer of baked goods.
“Are the checks ready for signing?” He has a half hour booked in his schedule for this important task.
“They’re on your desk, sir,” Mrs. Bellows answers.
“I need help from both of you with this.” Rob opens his office door. “Normally, it takes me an hour to sign the Monday check run. Today, we have half that time.”
“Tell us what you need us to do.” I stand, leaving my brownie on the desk.
“We’ll sit at the table, form an assembly line of sorts.” He ushers us into his office. “I’ll sit in the middle. Margaret, you’ll be on my right, Kirsten on my left.”
He closes the door, giving us privacy. We take our places, his minions, ready to be bossed around. I can’t say anything, can’t give him any pushback as this would upset Mrs. Bellows.
Rob knows this, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Kirsten, you’ll help with the verification.” He splits the stack of checks in half. “Ensure there’s a valid invoice for each line item. Initial it with RR.” He hands me one of his famed blue felt pens. “You know what to look for.”
I do know what to look for because I’ve spent hours with him, verifying my own expense reports. Did he realize then that he was training me for this, to be his future assistant, his future second-in-command?
“Margaret, you’ll sort the signed checks into those with amounts over fifty thousand dollars, requiring Powers’ signature, and those with amounts under fifty thousand dollars. Those can be returned to Jenella.”
“Yes, sir.” She beams.
Rob and I work, our heads bent over the papers, our shoulders touching. He slides one of his feet between mine, pressing his shin against my calf, connecting us.
He passes a signed check to Mrs. Bellows. “This one goes in the over fifty pile.”
Every check transferred to her care is accompanied by instructions. It would have been easier for Rob to place the checks in the piles himself. He doesn’t, giving her the illusion that she’s needed, adding value to the process.
He’s a good man, Robert Reyes.
I verify ten payments, find a problem with the eleventh. “The electricity consumption for this empty unit is double what it was last month and four times what it was last year.” I set the check aside. “I’ll ask Jenella for an explanation.”
“That’s what I would do.” His approval warms me.
I open my mouth to say something snarky, remember we have an audience, cl
ose it again. Rob, heartless bastard that he is, laughs.
We work. A peaceful quiet surrounds us, broken only by his instructions for Mrs. Bellows, the scratch of pens across papers, the rustling of invoices. I focus on my task yet am aware of Rob’s proximity, of the press of his leg against mine, the rhythm of his breathing, in and out, in and out.
“I should be doing something more.” Mrs. Bellows’ voice pierces the silence.
“You’re doing exactly what you should,” Rob replies with no hesitation.
“Are you certain?”
“I’m certain.”
She doesn’t appear convinced. “There are times when I’m aware that I know something—a fact, a name, a process—and I’ll look in my brain and there’s nothing. I can’t find it.”
“Everyone forgets things, Margaret.” Rob’s tone is calming, soothing. “When Kirsten touches my hand, I don’t remember my own name.”
His casual confession makes me smile.
“This is different,” she insists. “This isn’t normal forgetting.”
He sighs. “You had a stroke. It tampered with part of your brain. The doctors say it will heal, that soon you’ll remember everything.”
“But—”
“You’ll be well. Don’t worry about it.”
“If I don’t—”
“If? Are you questioning your CFO?” he demands, arrogance attached to his words.
“No, sir.” Her spine straightens.
“I don’t hold this position because I’m weak, because I’m ruled by sentiment and what might be.” Rob’s in full business bastard mode and it’s glorious to watch. “You will recover. That’s a fact, something you can count on. You’re not to waste my time and yours believing otherwise.”
“Yes, sir.” The lines between her eyebrows and around her mouth ease, her worry dissipating, her trust in Rob absolute. He doesn’t lie. Everyone knows this.
The quiet returns but it’s not as peaceful, a tremor of trepidation, of foreboding rippling under the silence.
“It scares me sometimes, the forgetting,” Mrs. Bellows whispers, the pain in those six words pulling my heart apart, shattering the illusion that everything is okay. It isn’t. My friend is suffering, remains broken. She might never be whole again.
Rob wraps his arm around her shoulder, draws her closer to him. “I know it’s scary but you’ll be fine.” His voice is gruff.
He holds her, an executive soothing his assistant, transferring her fears and worries onto his broad shoulders, offering assurances of health and wholeness, assurances she believes, he believes, yet the more realistic, cynical me doubts he’ll be able to uphold.
It’s been three months. I’m no doctor, have no medical knowledge at all, but surely her brain would have healed and her memory would have returned by now.
What happens if the gaps remain, if she’s never again the capable, competent Margaret he once knew? What will Rob do then? I place my hand on his thigh, feel the flex of his muscles under the fabric of his pants. She’ll express her fears. Those won’t go away. And he doesn’t lie. What will he say? How will he comfort her?
I can help him with this. We’ll craft a story, the two of us. I stroke his leg. I’ll find exceptions, medical miracles, stroke victims who inexplicably recovered years after being stricken. He’ll use this research to give all three of us hope, deliver it again and again in that this-is-the-absolute-gospel tone he’s perfected, leaving no doubt in our minds.
Because this could be the truth. Mrs. Bellows could be one of these miracles, one of these exceptions. She could become well again.
“There are more checks to sign.” She straightens, brushing away the dampness on her cheeks, her focus returning to work.
“Vendors can wait one more day for payment.” Rob releases Mrs. Bellows, reaches for the next check, his action belying his words.
There are no more slots blocked in his schedule for signing checks. We apply ourselves to our tasks but are unable to make up for the lost time. Rob’s phone hums, warning him of his next meeting.
“We’ll verify the rest of the payments.” I consolidate the unsigned checks. “You can sign them between your meetings.”
“Thank you, beautiful.” He skims his fingertips over the back of my neck and my body revives, coming alive under his touch. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” His gaze slides to Mrs. Bellows. “Without both of you.”
“You’d survive, sir.” She smiles.
“Barely,” I tease, warming with his appreciation.
“True.” He chuckles, looks at me one last time and hurries to his next appointment, leaving us in his office.
I match line items to invoices. Mrs. Bellows adds up the invoice amounts included in each check, confirming the totals. Time passes.
“He has meetings booked until eight o’clock tonight,” she mentions not-so-casually. “I promised my daughter I’d be home for dinner. Should I call her?”
“There’s no need. You’ll be home.” I strive for Rob’s level of certainty. “Rob has arranged for the limo to transport you at five.”
“Since the stroke, he doesn’t like for me to drive.”
“There’s no need for you to drive. Rob should take care of you. He’s your executive.” This is bullshit. No other executive would be this concerned about his assistant. Only Rob cares this much.
“I’m his assistant. I should take care of him.” Mrs. Bellows worries her bottom lip with her teeth. “And you’re new to this position. I shouldn’t leave you to deal with his after-hours guests alone.”
She doesn’t realize I dealt with them solo all weekend. “I won’t be alone. I’ll be with Rob.” I meet her gaze. “We’ll be fine.”
“You’ll be with Robert.” Her eyes widen. “Oh. I didn’t think about that.”
“About what?” Now I’m the person confused.
“You want your privacy.” She pats my arm. “I understand. Don’t worry. I’ll leave you two alone.”
I open my mouth to correct her, then decide to say nothing. Believing we’re having a pseudo date night every evening will allow her to leave work at five and feel no guilt about her shorter day.
Four of the checks require more information. We leave the rest of the checks on Rob’s desk for signing and exit the office, find Jenella, ask her for explanations. I gently take the lead and Mrs. Bellows seems content to supervise. No one questions this arrangement, not after I explain that she’s transitioning her role. We return to our desk, sort through the new emails and voicemails until it’s time for her to leave.
Mrs. Bellows departs. Rob returns to his office and we switch to our now familiar routine. I greet guests and bring them to his office. He sneaks a fervent touch of my arm or a stealth caress of my back, an unspoken promise of erotic delights to come.
While he holds his meeting, I answer the emails in the draft folder, rearrange his schedule, process the papers Mrs. Bellows and I have split into piles. Rob’s guests exit. I escort them out and greet the next group. Rob signs a couple of checks.
The Mexican food I ordered for dinner arrives. I separate my share, bring the rest into the office for Rob’s dinner meeting, return to my desk to eat alone.
I receive a message a couple of minutes later.
This isn’t the norm at Powers Corporation. Trella, John Powers’ assistant, doesn’t attend meetings with her executive. But Powers doesn’t have meetings booked until eight o’clock every evening, including weekends.
I’ll sit by his side, supply him with information, support him. When he doesn’t need my help, I’ll work on my own tasks.
No shit. I chuckle.
I have willpower, not a lot, but some, and I’ll cling to it if it allows us to attend meetings together.
He’s holding back, censoring his thoughts again.
My pussy moistens. Needing my hot-talking executive now, I reach under my skirt, pull my wet panties down, the silk slipping over my thighs, knees, ankles. These are placed in my tote.
God. He knows how to arouse me.
I watch the clock, my anticipation building with each passing minute. Meetings end and begin, end and begin. The last attendees are chatty, bubbling over with energy and enthusiasm. I hide my dismay as I bring them to Rob’s office. They’ll wish to linger, delaying the conclusion to my executive’s long workday, postponing our reward fuck.
I don’t factor in Rob’s determination. At exactly eight o’clock, his door opens, and he strides out, followed by his guests. The men continue to talk. Rob turns his head. Our gazes lock, his eyes dark with desire. Instructions aren’t needed. I know what he wants.
Rob walks toward the elevator, rushing the men without uttering one word. I enter his office and breathe in his woodsy scent. A warmth fills me, a sense of homecoming, which is strange as this is a place of business.
But Rob spends most of his day here. It’s a part of him. I wander around the space, discarding my jacket, camisole, bra, and skirt, kicking off my heels, sinking my toes into the thick carpet.
There’s room behind his big desk for another chair. I could set up my screen on a corner. We’d work together every evening, after Mrs. Bellows leaves, sneak more minutes, more talking, more touches into the day.
