Bossy Nights

by Liv Morris

  “Yes, sir.” He gives me this huffed smirk, and small bumps rise across my skin.

  Overwhelmed by this entire interaction, I manage to exit the office suite and throw my hands up in the air. How is this my life? I have to call Maggie. She’s never going to believe what’s happening to me.

  9

  Tessa

  The baker assures me he has the city’s finest cherry tart hot out the oven, and while I wait for the treat to cool down, I find my phone at the bottom of my bag. A rundown on my current situation with Maggie will take more than a few texts, so I call her instead.

  When I give her the details of the entire morning, she hardly interrupts my flow or asks a single question, which shocks me. Finally, I have a story so exciting and crazy, Magnolia Talbot is speechless. I need to mark this day in my calendar and celebrate it annually.

  “So, the hot CEO wants you to be his cherry tart and take you for a little drive. Sounds like he has a food kink.” Maggie loves teasing me and making me uncomfortable, so I keep my feelings about how much our sexual tension filled his office to myself. If she finds out how attracted I am to him, she’ll overnight condoms to replace the ones I found in my suitcase.

  “Stop it. I was in his office with his assistant. There’s nothing going on like that.”

  Or is there?

  I remember how he let his eyes browse over my entire body. The intensity on his face was scorching hot. The memory gives me a rush, but we are leagues apart, not to mention years. He was likely learning how to drive at the same time I was starting to walk. Talk about a sobering slap in the face.

  “Bet he’d be okay if there was something up with you two. Did you at least ask him for a job?” I hear the anxiousness in her voice, and I understand why.

  We’re both depending on me making it happen. It’s a lot of pressure, to be honest, and makes me wonder if I should’ve declined Mr. Hammond’s offer and continued my job hunt today.

  “I can’t ask the CEO for a job. Anything I’m qualified to do at his company would be so far down on the totem pole from him. Think mailroom or copy girl. He’d have no clue if the position was even available. And if he did find me a job, I’d always be the girl he helped. You know how people talk. They’d think it was a trade-off between us.”

  “Oh, you mean like you blew him, and he wanted you working under him?” Maggie roars in laughter.

  I flush at her comment, then fan myself as I imagine really being beneath him. My short daydream comes to an end when his tie falls in my face as he hovers over me. Even my fantasies are lame.

  “Miss?” the man assisting me at the bakery draws my attention. “Your cherry tart is ready.”

  “Oh, Maggie. I need to let you go. I have to pay.” I place my trusty bag on the counter and dig for my wallet. “I’ll text you later.”

  “Have fun. And by fun, I mean steam up the windows in the backseat. I’m sure his driver has seen it all.” She laughs, and I roll my eyes. Then it hits me: I’ll be sitting in the backseat next to Mr. Hammond for miles.

  What will we talk about? Suddenly, it’s hard to breathe. Plus, he’s a giant-sized man and will take up most of the seat. I’ll have nowhere to escape from him. My skin itches under the starchy coat. I hope I don’t break out in hives.

  I toss the phone in my purse and hand the man Barclay’s credit card. For the first time in my life, I need a drink—preferably a couple. I glance over the bakery menu and see a familiar friend: mimosa. I want to blow it a kiss.

  “Can you add two mimosas to that charge?” I should ask Mr. Hammond before I voluntarily make him pay for liquid courage, but I’ll just rationalize it as my cost of labor for helping him. My father, the sheriff, would call it stealing. I hate moral dilemmas so early in the morning.

  “Two, miss?” I nod and peek out the window, wondering if Mr. Hammond’s car has arrived yet. There’s only a standard yellow cab dropping off a passenger, but I do see a familiar man walking into the bakery. It’s Trevor Spears, the résumé helper from the lobby. Once on the other side of the door, he spots me … or more like my legs with his tongue hanging out and eyes bugged. A smirk of approval slides across his face, but it has the opposite effect as Mr. Hammond’s.

  “What happened to your clothes—or should I ask?” Again, he tiptoes on the border of inappropriate. Mr. Spears leans against the glass case beside me. I hope he doesn’t leave prints on the glass or a layer of grease, because this is one slick guy.

  “The coffee. Remember?”

  “Oh, yeah. I was distracted,” he says while gazing at me, or more like my boobs. Gross!

  “Miss, here’s your order.” The smiling bakery helper hands me a sturdy paper shopping bag with handles on each side. “I need you to sign this first.”

  A slip of paper and pen lay on the counter in front of me. How the heck do I sign this?

  “Just a second, Mr. Spears.” I grab the pen and scribble something down on the signature line. Actually, I write a big fat lie of a name.

  Mrs. Barclay Hammond.

  I pray Mr. Hammond doesn’t ask me for a receipt.

  “Miss, we can’t give you to-go cups for the mimosas. I’m afraid you’ll have to drink them inside,” says the crestfallen worker. They truly aim to please here.

  “That’s perfect.” I wave off any concern, and the bakery guy smiles in relief. “Do you like mimosas, Mr. Spears?”

  “Usually not this early, but I’m a man of exceptions.” And there goes that grin of his again. It doesn’t take a psychic to read his dirty mind.

  “Great,” I say, turning toward the bakery man and taking the mimosas from his hands. I hand one to Mr. Spears and lift the other. “Cheers.”

  I consume the drink like a champagne shot. Mr. Spears eyes me in amusement as I hand my glass back to the man behind the counter.

  Mr. Spears follows my lead, tossing back his, and then sets his glass down on top of the glass, likely leaving drippings all over the place. The man has no consideration for the workers who keep the displays spotless. Speaking from his experience as the town sheriff, my father always said one’s true character is revealed by how they treat those who work service jobs.

  Remembering what brought me to this spot, I glance out the window. Mr. Hammond owns the pavement while taking long strides toward a large black sedan—the one I need to meet him at now. Time to make my fast escape.

  “Sorry, Mr. Spears. I have to run.” I gather the bag containing the cherry tart and adjust my handbag. “Duty calls.”

  “Wait,” he calls from behind.

  I attempt to walk away without another word as my heels make staccato clicks on the tiled floor. I reach out to grab the door handle, but Mr. Spears beats me to it. I suck at quick getaways.

  “Here, at least let me get the door for you.” He pulls the handle, and I exit the store.

  Outside on the sidewalk, I stop dead in my tracks when my gaze meets Mr. Hammond standing tall next to the black car. His eyes go wide as Mr. Spears places his unwelcomed hand on my lower back.

  Before I can react, someone calls out from behind me, and I glance over my shoulder.

  “Mrs. Hammond,” the man shouts over the busy street noise, “you forgot your credit card.”

  Oh, shit.

  10

  Tessa

  Mr. Spears gasps as I take the black credit card from the bakery guy. How the hell am I going to explain this one?

  “Is that Barclay Hammond’s card?” I give him a quick nod and walk as fast as my legs will carry me on the sidewalk. From across the street, Mr. Hammond peers at me with narrowed eyes, then glances between Mr. Spears and me. His jaw tightens into a knot of disapproval.

  “That guy called you Mrs. Hammond. What the hell is going on?” Mr. Spears grabs hold of my arm. We’re stopped at the crosswalk, and the light tells me I can’t cross, so I’m stuck.

  “Nothing, okay.” He has some nerve touching me. I shake his hand off my arm and wait for the light to change. “I just ran an errand
for him.”

  “Wow. You went upstairs to his office, and now you’re fetching him food in a sexy coat. Are you already working for him as his special assistant?” He ends his question with a creepy laugh.

  “No.” There’s no easy or sane way to explain how I’ve found myself standing in this very spot, mainly because I don’t understand it myself. “Will you do me a big favor?”

  “Maybe.” Mr. Spears’ grin relays that any agreement from him will come at a price. “What are you hiding?”

  “Don’t tell Mr. Hammond I dropped off my résumé,” I beg him. I don’t want to get a job at Hammond Press because the CEO told someone to hire me. I want to earn a job on my own merit.

  “I’ll act like I’ve never met you before on one account.” Mr. Spears’ attempt to make his voice sound seductive has the opposite effect, but I need his cooperation. Plus, time’s running out to get him to agree with me.

  “What do you want?” I roll my eyes as the crosswalk light changes and make my way across the street with Mr. Spears at my side. I purposefully keep my eyes turned away from Mr. Hammond’s glare.

  “Meet me for drinks tomorrow night.” Mr. Spears doesn’t ask, he demands.

  “Okay, but only drinks.” I’d rather have a tooth pulled, but I don’t see a way around it.

  “Name the time and place.” I breakout in the heebie-jeebies after Mr. Spears once again touches me, placing his hand on my lower back. Thankfully, we’re approaching the waiting town car. Mr. Hammond stands beside it, his arms crossed over his chest. His pursed lips worry me.

  “Eight thirty at the Hammond Hotel.” I finish just out of Mr. Hammond’s direct earshot. I hope.

  Mr. Spears leans closer to me, if that’s even possible. “See you tomorrow, Mrs. Hammond,” he whispers into my ear. His hot breath blows against my skin. How could he smell like garlic before noon? Yuck.

  I need to schedule a sudden migraine tomorrow night after our first drink—or earlier.

  “Hello, Barclay,” Mr. Spears addresses Mr. Hammond with an odd wave type salute and heads toward the entrance of the building without waiting for a reply, leaving me standing by Mr. Hammond holding a bag and my breath.

  I crane my neck to meet Mr. Hammond’s eyes. He towers over me in a wall of Armani. How can any man be this gorgeous? I had no idea it was humanly possible until meeting him. I bite my lip to keep from sighing.

  Regarding me from head to toe, Mr. Hammond opens the sedan’s door. “Be a good girl, Miss Holly, and get in,” he says in a commanding tone. So much for a warm hello.

  I wonder if his sour attitude has anything to do with Mr. Spears. There didn’t seem to be anything warm and fuzzy in their interaction. I hope that’s the reason for his ticked off attitude.

  “Yes, sir.” My southern manners kick in and I try to climb into the car, but wearing this short trench coat makes it nearly impossible to be ladylike. I tug down the hem and pray Mr. Hammond doesn’t get a view of anything private.

  Once seated in the car, I slide over toward the window, holding the edges of the coat in place. The soft leather of the seat caresses the backs of my legs, all the way up to my panties. Outside of wearing a swimsuit, I’ve never exposed so much skin in public. My mother would be livid, and my father would have Mr. Hammond cuffed and bent over the car, likely asking about his intentions with me.

  In one fluid motion, Mr. Hammond folds himself into the backseat as I gape at him in awe. His every move stirs a craving inside me I don’t recognize, making him lethal to my virtue.

  Once he’s sitting next to me, his long legs spread to give him more room, taking up the empty space between us. I have no idea where to place the bag with the cherry tart in it, so I set it on top of my naked legs. The tart feels warm against them.

  After Mr. Hammond shuts the door, his cologne fills the air, reminding me of the fresh pines in the forest near my home—clean, woodsy, and masculine. A couple more breaths later, and there’s a good chance I won’t survive the ride to Don Black’s house. He smells divine.

  “Lawrence,” Mr. Hammond addresses his driver, sitting in the front seat. “Please place this up front. Also, can you check the trunk for a blanket?” He takes the sack off my lap and passes it through the divider to his driver.

  “Certainly, sir.” His driver exits the car and walks to the trunk.

  I don’t understand why he’s asking for a blanket in May, especially since the car feels warm with his body heat radiating all around me.

  “Are you friends with Mr. Spears?” Mr. Hammond demands. He balls the fist resting on his strong thigh and releases it. His neck muscles strain as he awaits my answer.

  “We only just met today outside your building.” Thankfully, I don’t have to lie, though I do omit some of the truth—and the fact that I have a drink date with the man in question.

  “A word of warning. Stay clear of him,” he cautions with a sideward glance, and I nod.

  Mr. Spears comes across as a big creeper. Meeting him tomorrow night sounds like a big mistake. How did finding a job become so complicated? I never thought I’d have to maneuver between two men.

  The car shakes when the driver returns to the front seat and shuts his door. “Sorry, sir. There isn’t anything in the trunk.”

  “Thanks for checking.” Mr. Hammond mutters something else under his breath. I love watching his full lips move, though I can’t make out what he’s saying. “Mrs. Mackenzie gave you the address, correct?”

  “Yes, Mr. Hammond. It’s plugged into the GPS,” the driver responds, pulling the car into busy Manhattan traffic.

  Hardly a minute passes before Mr. Hammond twists and turns in his seat, attempting to remove his suit coat. His wrestling act takes up even more space in the backseat, so I move closer to the window to give him more room.

  Once he’s out of his jacket, he turns toward me for the first time since we entered the car. His eyes blaze and his jaw is hard set, but the intensity he displays doesn’t feel like anger, more an internal struggle of some kind.

  “In case you’re cold.” He lays the suit coat over my exposed legs. When his fingers caress the skin on my upper thighs, I gasp, and he jumps like he touched a hot flame. “Pardon me.”

  “No worries.” With shaky hands, I smooth his jacket over my legs. The soft wool feels warm from being wrapped around the larger-than-life man.

  “The bakery owner assured me I bought the best cherry tart in Manhattan.” I decide to try some small talk.

  “Thanks for helping me out.” Mr. Hammond looks at me with his intense dark eyes. My heart flutters as this beautiful man gives me his full attention. “We are on a mission to ensure he makes the Warwick Awards dinner this Saturday night. He’s up for book of the year, and his attendance is uncertain.”

  “Why wouldn’t he come?” I ask.

  “That’s the multi-million-dollar question. Literally.” Mr. Hammond rakes his hands through his inky black hair, releasing a breath of frustration. “Since he’s not answering our emails or calls, we’re going to him. I’m banking on your fresh face versus my old mug getting us past the front door.”

  “I’ll do my best not to fangirl too much. Where does he live?” I remember Mr. Black’s bio mentioning New England and figure it can’t be too far if we’re driving there.

  “In Greenwich, Connecticut. About an hour away.” He shifts a bit closer to me, and our legs touch. He doesn’t pull away, and our connection lingers, making my pulse race.

  No man has ever had such an effect on me. I cross my legs and look out the front window for a few seconds, worried over what he’ll see reflected in my eyes if I stay turned his way.

  “Not far at all then.” My voice trembles. Does he notice?

  “I was raised in Greenwich too.” He’s sharing something personal with me, and I can’t help feeling closer to this powerful man.

  “I was raised in Alabama. Though, I’m sure that’s not a surprise, considering how I talk.”

  “So was my mother. Your a
ccent matches hers.” My mouth flies open while the corners of his lips rise, turning into a full smile that makes me forget how to breathe. “Surprised, right?”

  “Totally,” I say in a weak voice.

  I imagined his mother to be a refined socialite from the Upper East Side, educated at the finest prep schools where girls are polished to perfection. I wonder how she ended up in New York City and married to one of the most influential publishers in the city.

  “She worked for the company after graduating from Brown University.” He either read my mind, or I asked my question out loud. The latter is likely.

  “An office romance then,” I say with a sneaky smile.

  “Something like that.” He straightens his already perfect tie. I do love watching his long fingers, though I wish he didn’t skip over the juicy details.

  Still, today, girls from Alabama rarely get accepted into Ivy League colleges. I can’t imagine what it was like years ago when his mother went to school there.

  “Your mother’s smart,” I blurt out.

  “So are you.” I wonder how he can say this about me based on our limited interaction. At least I’m not coming across as a country girl from the sticks.

  “Thanks.” My face blushes at his compliment, and he smiles back at me, only making my condition worse. I’m not used to having a man’s attention aimed at me like this. It’s all so overwhelming.

  “Do you live in the city?” He finally asks me a personal question, but it still floats on the surface of small talk.

  “Just visiting for a few days. By myself.” I have no idea why I included my lone wolf status.

  “I’m still unclear how you ended up in our lobby.” He tilts his head and pauses. “But I appreciate your help today.”

  “I hope it works.” Mr. Black’s lack of cooperation is etched on Mr. Hammond’s face, so I truly hope we can change his mind about this awards dinner. It sounds super important, especially if his book wins.