Bossy Nights

by Liv Morris

  “Me too. Well, I need to make some calls while we’re driving,” he says in a firm, deep voice, like he’s switching from casual conversation to business mode.

  “Of course.” As CEO, nonstop calls and meetings have to fill his day. I can’t expect him to entertain me the entire ride. Though I’d love to talk with him and get to know him better, I have to be realistic. He has a corporation to run.

  Mr. Hammond stares at me for a few silent seconds, then drops his eyes to my mouth and follows a straight line down to my chest.

  I squirm in my seat. He clears his throat and looks forward. This tension between us rises to a point where I might combust. I worry the windows will soon fog up, just like Maggie mentioned—and we haven’t touched each other.

  Dream on, Holly. The man is way out of my league.

  He extends one leg and digs his phone out from his front pocket. I can’t help but notice the fabric straining over his crotch, and there’s something rather large outlined by his wool trousers.

  Whoa.

  I can’t believe it. This hot, older man is turned on … by me.

  His insistence that I cover my exposed legs makes sense now. He wanted them out of his sight. It had nothing to do with me being cold. I gaze out the side window as the road flies by, a slow smile building across my face.

  11

  Barclay

  “Don’t you agree, Mr. Hammond?” Mrs. Ratner, my human resource manager asks, but I have no clue what she wants me to agree on. All my calls have been a blur.

  I run my fingers through my hair for the millionth time today. It has to be standing up on end by now. I blame my lack of concentration on the young woman sitting next to me with her shapely legs, long blond hair, and curves so dangerous, they should be illegal.

  In fairness, it’s not her fault she was born with everything that drives men wild. She actually comes across as more of an innocent, likely having no idea the effect she has on men—or me, for that matter.

  Maybe it’s her Alabama roots. My father often said southern women have a way of stealing a man’s heart without him even knowing it. I believe he was speaking on his own personal experience since he married one. But when Miss Holly smiles up at me while playing with the strands of her hair and blinks her gorgeous blue eyes, there’s a special magic she possesses aimed at me.

  I don’t remember ever being this distracted by a woman, even when my teenage hormones raged like wildfire. I’m a grown man and need to get my shit together. Too much is at stake for me to lose my bearings over a beautiful woman, especially one who’s way too young for me.

  I need to get laid.

  I should take Lucas up on his offer, but who am I kidding? Some random pussy won’t scratch this itch.

  “Mr. Hammond, are you there?” Mrs. Ratner asks, her voice laced in concern. I never zone out with my staff. Ever.

  “Could you repeat that last thing you were saying?”

  “Of course,” she says, graciously ignoring how out of it I am today. “We are still looking for a candidate to head millennial marketing. I feel we need to recruit someone who’s already reaching this crowd. Like a blogger or social influencer.”

  “Sounds smart to me.”

  “What about the junior executive apartment?” she asks. “You mentioned it last week.”

  “Sure, if you find the right person, offer them the apartment at the subsidized discount. If it’s a man, I sure hope he likes pink.”

  The apartment I bought for my former girlfriend is empty after our breakup, so I’ve turned it over for the company to use. No reason the place should gather dust. Besides, the housing costs in the city put many young people out of the market.

  “Well, I have a résumé in hand that could be promising. It’s a young woman whose blog appeals to twenty-somethings and beyond. Let’s see how it goes.”

  “Keep me posted.” We end the call just as the car pulls off the Merritt parkway in Connecticut. A quick glance out the window reveals the familiar winding, tree-lined streets of my hometown.

  I glance over at Miss Holly. She types away on her phone, covering her mouth as she giggles. I smile at the sound and laugh quietly too. When she looks up at me with surprised eyes, it feels like she’s been caught doing something wrong.

  Was she?

  I bet she’s texting her boyfriend back in Alabama. A beauty like her can’t be single. And if he had a brain in his head, he’d be here with her too. I wouldn’t trust any man around her, including me.

  “We’re getting close,” I say. She texts one more message, then turns off her phone, giving me her full attention. Take that, boyfriend.

  She rises one hip off the seat a couple inches and stares out the car window at the manicured mansions and estates with their long driveways. My suit coat slides down the tops of her smooth thighs. Her skin looks so soft and creamy. My fingers itch to touch her.

  “Are those houses or lodges?” She peers over her shoulder, and tilts up one side of her mouth, catching me gazing at her thighs while I drown in my dirty thoughts.

  “Homes,” I rasp as the effect she has on me invades my voice.

  “Wow. They’re enormous.” My childhood home looks similar and isn’t too far from here. “When I see homes like this, I always wonder what the people do for a living.”

  “Most are top executives or business owners working in Manhattan. It’s a bedroom community of commuters.”

  “Except Mr. Black,” she mentions with a teasing smile.

  “True. There’s always the exception.” I shake my head.

  After a few more stops and turns, the car pulls up to Mr. Black’s estate. In classic Connecticut style, a stonewall lines the property. The house sits far off the road, hidden from our view. My driver hesitates, stopping at the stately entrance.

  “Go ahead, Lawrence,” I direct. The car enters the property through the open gate, moving along a black paved driveway.

  Mr. Black’s estate comes into view, exploding over the rolling hill, and Miss Holly gasps. It contains ten bedrooms, and who the hell knows how many baths. I’ve been here one other time for Black’s sixtieth surprise birthday party. He gave his wife hell about keeping the party a secret.

  I hope this surprise visit doesn’t tick him off too. Fortunately, I brought a gorgeous lucky charm with a cherry dessert. Her sweet southern accent and bright smile shouldn’t hurt my cause either.

  12

  Tessa

  I thought New York City was out of my element, but Mr. Black’s house looks like something out of a Hollywood movie. It’s larger than my entire high school back in Alabama.

  “I can’t believe that’s his house.” Mr. Hammond laughs, and I swat the air to hush him. “I pictured him living in a log cabin somewhere in the woods of New England, typing away on his laptop. Not this.”

  “It’s actually his wife’s family estate. But you didn’t hear that from me.” Mr. Hammond buttons his lips with a twist of his fingers.

  The driver eases the car up to the front circle drive. A large wood and iron front door sits in the middle of the monstrosity. It looks more like the entrance to a castle, where one would find Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy. I’m surprised a line of servants isn’t greeting us. Maybe it’s because we are in stealth mode.

  When the car stops, there’s a fluttering in the pit of my stomach. It’s not every day a person gets to meet their literary hero. I wring my hands and smooth my hair, resisting the urge to twirl it between my fingers. Old habits die hard.

  “Nervous?” Mr. Hammond asks, glancing at my hands.

  “Just a little bit.” The car stops, and I hold my stomach. I feel like throwing up. Maybe it’s the early morning mimosa. Bad decision. “What if I say something stupid? Like, I’ve read all your books and love them? I have to be more creative.”

  “He’s going to love you.”

  “I’m not so sure. Look at me.”

  “Believe me, I can’t stop.” The wicked tease in his eyes quickens my pulse and
lightens the mood. So what if I look like a midday stripper delivering a “special” message under my coat.

  I hand Mr. Hammond’s jacket back to him and try to pull the hem of my coat down. Nothing helps, so I give up.

  The driver opens the car door for me, and I take the bag containing the cherry tart from him. Mr. Hammond puts his jacket back on, and it falls in place without him having to straighten it. He walks around to my side of the car and places his hand on my lower back to guide me forward.

  He moves his thumb in small circles just above my waistline. Shivers follow. He stills his finger for a split second, then resumes his movements. I don’t look up at him fearing I’ll falter. It’s all too much.

  We walk side by side toward the front door, but I stop a few feet from it. Yesterday, I was walking the rich soils of Alabama, and now I stand in front of my favorite author’s mansion. What is this life? When my eyes meet Mr. Hammond’s, his handsome face twists in worry. I guess my fears are broadcast all over my face.

  “You ready?” He moves a hair from my cheek, and I savor his tenderness. The gentle touch works to calm my fears. I can do this. For him.

  Next to the large door, an intercom panel glows from blue lights underneath numerous buttons. The largest one has writing over it, saying: Door bell, obviously.

  “I can guess who wrote that.” Mr. Hammond moves to push the bell, announcing our arrival. I shift from side to side, gripping the bakery bag in my hands.

  A long minute goes by, but no one comes to answer the door.

  “Do you think he’s not home?” I ask.

  “It’s a possibility. Do you like cherry tarts?” Mr. Hammond’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

  “Don’t tell Mr. Black this, but I’m not a fan of cherries. I’m wild about strawberries, though. My grandparents have a dairy farm back in Alabama and grew—”

  Before I finish, the iron handle clicks, silencing me on the spot. I glance up at Mr. Hammond as the door begins to creak open. He’s leaning forward. I’m holding my breath.

  As the hinges continue to moan, Mr. Black appears before us in a gray sweater, matching his thick hair, and black pressed trousers. He’s shoeless with bright white socks covering his feet. I swallow a giggle.

  His reading spectacles rest at the end of his nose as he narrows his eyes looking between Mr. Hammond and me. Deep lines scatter across his forehead. Mr. Black doesn’t seem amused. Quite the opposite, judging by his marked scowl.

  “Barclay,” Mr. Black says in an abrasive tone. It’s not a good sound, especially since we’re trying to break the ice and get on his good side.

  “Don. This is Tessa Holly.” Mr. Hammond gestures toward me. I crack a small grin at Mr. Black, but his face is frozen in a frown.

  When no one moves or speaks for a few seconds, the air thickens with tension. I feel words bubbling up inside me and try to contain them, but it’s no use. I hate awkward moments more than missing a sale on my favorite skinny jeans. Besides, Mr. Hammond brought me along for a purpose, so I might as well get to it.

  “We brought you a cherry tart,” I announce, walking forward a couple steps while extending the bag out in front of me. Mr. Black focuses on the bag, then drops down to my legs. One corner of his mouth tips up as he meets my eyes. His frown has disappeared. Bingo. I can work with this.

  I remove the tart from the bag and flip open the lid. The sweet aroma fills the space around us, drawing Mr. Black to the edge of the doorway like a magnet. He takes the box in his hands and brings it up to his nose. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath.

  “This smells divine,” Mr. Black says in blissful approval. I smile up at Mr. Hammond, and when he gleams back at me, I melt.

  “The bakery claims it’s the best in Manhattan, and I thought you’d like to give it a try.”

  Luckily, Mr. Hammond takes over the conversation. I’m still worried I’ll blurt out some fangirl nonsense. I feel the words, “I’m your biggest fan,” dancing on the tip of my tongue. God help me.

  “So, you just happened to be in the neighborhood, or were you on the way to your family home around the corner?” Mr. Black grips the boxed tart, pulling it closer to himself. At least we scored on the dessert.

  I stand wide-eyed realizing Mr. Hammond was raised in a home like this estate with servants and silver spoons. I shrink inside, feeling like the complete outsider between these two wealthy men.

  “Hell, Don, you know exactly why I’m here,” Mr. Hammond scoffs, pushing his hands into his pant pockets.

  “Yeah. Yeah,” Mr. Black mutters, backing away from the entrance. “Might as well come inside. I’ll give you fifteen minutes. After that, I’m eating my tart.”

  Mr. Black grins at me with a devilish flash in his eyes. I knew I’d love him.

  13

  Barclay

  Miss Holly and I cross the threshold, following Don inside. Classical tapestries hug the walls of the entryway, along with several large cats. My nose twitches. I try not to recoil when a fluffy gray one approaches me, weaving through my legs, pressing against my slacks. The guards at Buckingham Palace don’t stand as still as me. Thankfully, Miss Holly bends down, reaching out a hand toward the furry creature.

  “What a sweetie pie,” she purrs as the cat moves toward her. She tickles her fingers under the cat’s chin. “What’s its name?”

  “That’s Darcy,” Don says. Another cat saunters over to greet Miss Holly. I might end up needing an epi-pen before I leave this house. “Along with his companion, Elizabeth.”

  “Literary names. I love it.” Miss Holly stands up, and it’s a damn good thing too. I caught a glimpse of white lace peeking out from under the edge of her short hem. I’m facing death by dander and trench coat.

  “My wife, Gertrude, keeps adopting these four-footed animals. After all, Saint Gertrude is the patron saint of cats, though she does let me name them. Catsby’s over in the corner.” Don points to a sleek black feline sprawled near a marble statue of Venus. Figures he’s seated at the foot of a love goddess.

  I sneeze a couple times. Shit. My neck feels itchy too. Wonder if we can take the meeting outside …

  “You okay, Barclay?” Don asks.

  “Allergies,” I cough out between sneezes. Where were all the cats during his sixtieth birthday party?

  “You need some fresh air. Let’s talk out on the veranda,” Don says, then turns to Miss Holly. “Do you work for Hammond Press?”

  “I do not,” she says, looking at me to fill in the blanks.

  What are they really? Who is she? That’s the better question.

  The hot girl I saw last night shows up in my office, wears a trench coat while her clothes are cleaned, and I’m using her to get you to open the door. Yeah, that doesn’t sound professional, or believable given she looks like a strip-a-gram.

  “We’re friends. She’s visiting from Alabama.”

  “Oh.” Don darts his eyes between us. “Family friends then?”

  “Something like that,” I say before I can even think. What’s wrong with me? I never lie. I’ll blame it on my brain fog from the cats and virginal panties.

  Don squints one eye and shakes his head. One glance at Miss Holly’s shocked expression makes me wonder if he knows the truth.

  “Tessa. It’s all right if I call you that, since you’re Barclay’s friend?”

  “Of course. I’m not used to being this formal around friends.” She looks at me, eyes full of mischief.

  “Would you mind entertaining yourself in my library while Barclay and I talk business?”

  “Your library? Really?” she asks with eager surprise as Don nods. “I can’t believe it.”

  “It’s the second room on the right.” Don gives her a warm smile and leads us down a hallway with an arched entrance. He opens a large wooden door, and we enter into the library. “Help yourself with anything on the shelves. My library is yours.”

  Bookcases line the side walls, while the back one has floor-to-ceiling windows, letting light
pour into the library. The sun catches Miss Holly’s golden hair, making an angelic halo, and I can’t look away from her. Her beauty leaves me breathless—or it’s the felines.

  “It’s beautiful. Thanks,” she says in a dreamy voice.

  Holding her hands to her chest, she walks toward Don and stops in front of him. She reaches up on her tiptoes to give him a quick kiss on his cheek. Pleased with himself, and her, he smirks. I ball my fist.

  “You’re welcome,” he sputters. Southern women.

  He bends down to pick up a small kitten standing near his feet. The cat’s fur is a butterscotch color. Calico, I think, and a damn cute one too. “I’ve named this little guy Shakespurr after a new blog I found. Have you heard of it?”

  Don looks at me for an answer, but I have no clue. I shift on my feet when Miss Holly pipes up, hopefully saving the day again.

  “I know that blog,” she gushes with excitement.

  “My agent turned me on to it. It’s not every day a millennial crowd get books written by an old man like me.”

  “That’s not true. Believe me. I’m one of your biggest fans,” she exclaims, then proceeds to turn bright red and bows her head. “I swore I wouldn’t say that.”

  When her shoulders fall, I want to tell her not to worry, because he hears that all the time, but that’s likely the very reason she’s embarrassed. It’s what everyone says to him.

  “What was your favorite book?” Don asks, a big grin on his face, eating up this beautiful young woman’s attention. Where’s his wife anyway?

  “His Secret was your best thriller, in my opinion.” Miss Holly gives him a dazzling smile. “You’re the king of writing palpable tension. Never letting the reader know how you plan on peeling the onion.”

  “Wow.” Don whistles, and I stand amazed at Miss Holly’s assessment. She’s nailed his unique brand. It keeps the pages turning and the books selling. “You truly are familiar with the Shakespurr blog. It’s almost exactly what they said about the book.”