by JA Huss
Ming sighs, but then smiles a little. “Well, as long as you’re still leaving, I guess there’s no harm in a casual office romance before you go. Just don’t let him talk you into staying. This job is a dead end for you, Ellie. You’re going to spend the rest of your life walking celebrities around this campus if you don’t get out now.” She looks over to Adeline and says, “No offense, Addie.”
“None taken. I completely agree. Our Ellie has potential. Potential that will never manifest while working for this company.”
“OK.” I sigh. “Can we be done talking about me now? And just go get drunk?”
Chapter Fifteen - Mac
I wait the appropriate amount of time before calling. It’s Thursday night. They went out for a happy hour drink. And now it’s eleven PM. She should be home.
But she’s not.
At least, she’s not answering her phone.
I should’ve asked her where they were going. It’s got to be some place semi-discreet. You can’t just show up at Chili’s for Happy Hour Sliders with Adeline. There’d be a mob. It would make the nightly news.
I open my phone browser and do a search for Adeline. Nope. No reports of her getting drunk with the locals in the Denver Tech Center.
I open the message stream Ellie has been sending Heath instead. Goddamn. Why did I have to stumble onto this? She’s so fucking cute. The sheepdogs. I can’t even deal with how fucking cute that is.
And then there’s the dream house pictures. She’s got pictures of furniture she wants. She’s even got pictures of what their future kids would look like.
Heath and I don’t look very much alike, so I can’t even imagine that’s what our kids would look like too.
What the hell? Where did that thought come from?
I call Ellie again. Straight to voicemail.
I text her. I bet if it was Heath calling you’d pick up.
Heath’s phone rings. I tab the answer button. “How can I help you, Miss Hatcher?”
“How can you help me?” She sounds groggy. “What do you want?”
“You called me,” I say.
She ends the call.
I stare at the phone. Then call her back.
“What?” she says, severely annoyed. “I’m trying to sleep.”
“What time did you get home?”
“Hours ago, OK? I was asleep and now you’ve woken me up. I prefer to get my eight hours in before work, Stonewall. Stop calling me.”
She ends the call again.
Stonewall? What happened to Mac? And what the hell is her problem? We had a great time today at the office. I scroll up the message stream, find what I’m looking for, then download and add the picture of the sheepdogs, texting, You sent this to Heath’s phone at one AM two weeks ago. Eleven o’clock is early by your standards.
My phone rings and I smile as I tab answer. “Yes, Miss Hatcher.”
“I want that phone.”
“Company property, Eloise. I already told you that.”
“I want that phone so I can delete that message stream, and then I will give it straight back.”
“Now why would I let you do that? These messages are golden. I haven’t been this interested in someone’s life in years.”
“Mr. Stonewall—”
“Mac,” I remind her.
“Mac.” She sounds a little defeated now, her voice softer. Or maybe she’s just tired. “Please. Stop calling me tonight. Stop texting me tonight. And tomorrow, I need proof that those messages are deleted.”
“Date number three. I think not.”
“It’s two, Mac. Two. And I’m only playing along because you’re making me.”
“Date number two then. We need five dates before I delete the messages.”
She groans. “You do realize this is blackmail, right?”
“Yeah. So?” I almost can’t stop the laugh.
“It’s illegal!”
“It’s fun, Ellie. Admit it. It’s fun.”
“Just delete those messages, please.”
“After the fifth date.”
“After we have sex, you mean.”
“After we have sex again,” I correct her. “This five-date minimum is silly, Ellie. We’ve already experienced each other’s bodies—”
She ends the call again.
I have to chuckle at this. I’ll drop it tonight. But only because of the many, many surprises I have planned for her tomorrow.
Chapter Sixteen - Ellie
Did McAllister Stonewall really call me last night? Jesus, I should not be allowed to answer the phone when I’m asleep. I roll over in bed and grab my phone off the nightstand, then check my calls.
Yup. Several times.
Twelve days, Ellie. Twelve days and you are out of there.
I don’t have to be in to work until nine on Fridays. We have guests every day, but most of them over the weekend come in via satellite feed on the various shows. I only work half a day. Go in at nine, leave at two. I love Fridays. And since it’s only seven right now, I set my alarm and go back to sleep until eight thirty.
My phone rings just as I’m drifting back off.
Dammit. I roll over again and look at the caller ID.
Heath.
Which is not Heath, obviously. It’s Mac. I tab answer and say, “What?”
“Are you sleeping?” he asks.
“Good guess, Einstein. It’s seven o’clock on Friday.”
“Exactly. Why aren’t you here? Your personnel file says you work from seven to four.”
“Well, my personnel file probably hasn’t been updated since I was twenty-two.”
“You’re not twenty-two?”
“Mac, what do you want?”
“I want you here.”
I can’t stop myself from cracking a smile because he says it kind of sweet. “I don’t start until nine. I’ll be in then.”
“I’m coming over.”
My sleepy eyes fly open. “What?” But it’s too late, I get hang-up beeps. I call back on Heath’s phone.
“Ten seconds away.” And more hang-up beeps.
I just stare at the phone and then someone is ringing my doorbell. “What the fuck?” I jump out of bed and grab my short summer robe, cinching the belt tightly around my waist as I rush down the hallway. The doorbell is ringing repeatedly when I unlock it and swing it open.
Mac is leaning against the door, huge lopsided grin on his face. His eyes start in the right place but they drift down—all the way down—then slowly make their way back up to my face. “I like this look. It says fresh.”
“It says, ‘what the fuck are you doing here?’ You can’t just show up at my house. Or call me at night, for that matter.”
“Why not? You quit, right? Who cares if we get caught?”
“I’m not worried about getting caught.” Especially since Ming and Adeline already know and they are the only ones who count. They grilled me good last night. Which is why I came home so early. I couldn’t answer any more questions. Not that I didn’t want to. I literally know nothing about McAllister Stonewall and couldn’t answer a single thing about him when they started giving me the third degree. Then Ming was stalking him online and Adeline was calling “her people” to try to dig up dirt.
But McAllister Stonewall is suspiciously missing from the online search pages and no one Adeline called knew anything more than he’s the older son of Alexander Stonewall.
That just made them even more curious. Adeline even called her private investigator. Personally, I think the fact that she has a private investigator in her contacts is kind of creepy.
And so is the fact that Mac is missing from searches. Who has that power? I know when I search my name online I come up all over the place. I’m in a ton of celebrity photos for one. And I’ve been to all the awards shows that Stonewall Entertainment has been nominated for over the years.
Ming was immediately suspicious and even though I didn’t agree with them last night, I am too.
Some
thing about Mr. Perfect is not-so-perfect.
“So what’s the problem?” Mac asks.
“The problem is I was sleeping. Both times you’ve overstepped the boundaries between work and personal life. I enjoy my sleep, Mac. Stop ruining it for me.”
“You want me to leave?” he asks, showering me with another sideways smirk. “I’m fine with leaving. But I need you at work, Ellie. Now. So get yourself together and be in my office in thirty minutes.”
I open my mouth to tell him what I think about that, but he turns away and walks down the hall before I can think of a good comeback.
I settle for slamming my door instead.
Ninety minutes later—please, what kind of girl would I be if I could “pull myself together” in thirty minutes?—I make it up to the seventh floor of the Atrium. Stephanie’s desk is clean so obviously she has the whole day off. And no one else is here but Jennifer Sluts-around and her sidekick assistant, Ellen Interoffice-sexcapades.
I open the door to my office and find Mac sitting in the bubble window seat, one foot up on the cushion, one foot on the floor, back leaning against the right wall, pensive expression on his face as he continues to look out at the view.
Three seconds of ‘what the hell is going on?’ from me, and he finally turns in my direction. “What are you doing?” I ask, walking forward and slowly closing the door behind me.
“I was thinking…” Mac looks back to the view. I walk over and look too. What’s so interesting about it? This side of the building is actually kind of boring. Just rolling pine-forested hills and cows. Although I might have to look closer, but I think there are baby cows out there too. “That I really hate the city.”
“You do?” I ask, sitting down on the opposite side of the window seat. I rest my back against the glass and find it cool, even through my shirt.
“I like the view from this window. I like looking down at the cows.”
I find that strangely relatable. “It’s very country, right? And peaceful.”
“That’s not why.”
“Oh. Why then?” I ask.
He sighs a little. “Have you ever heard people say they want a view of this or that? The river, the lake, the beach, the mountains, the city. And if you ask them why—why do you want a view of the river?—they say things like… ‘I want to see the boats.’ Or the rowers. I don’t mind people who want to see the boats, or the sunset, or the snow, or any of the other natural things one might like in a view. But the rowers always bothered me.”
“I’m not following,” I say. He’s veered off onto some other road and it’s not going anywhere I’m familiar with.
“Because the rowers are people just living their lives. And to that person standing up in the penthouse condo looking down on the river, the rowers are scenery. I never liked the thought that people are scenery. So I prefer the cows to the cars. I don’t want to see the lights of the apartment across from me flicking on and off. I don’t want to know about what that means to the people inside. I don’t want to view them as scenery.”
“Where do you live?” I ask him.
“You know that Occulus Building over by the resort?”
“Oh,” I say. “Wow.”
“Yes, it’s just as pretentious as you think. Penthouse, roof garden, indoor pool, private gym, and a twenty-four seven concierge desk.”
“Yeah.” I laugh, trying to picture it. “I remember when the Occulus Building was built. Huge party. I was invited, of course. I know the builder. She’s been interviewed over here millions of times. I go to her every time I need to schedule someone for real estate, or building, or architecture.”
“Did you see the penthouse?”
“Yeah. It’s quite nice.”
“Yeah. Rich people problems, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” Mac says, tearing his gaze away from the view to look me in the eyes, “I hate it. But there’s probably a billion people who would kill to live there.”
“It’s… not to your liking? The decor? Who owns it?”
“We own it,” Mac says. “We own not only the whole building, but that whole resort.”
“Oh.” I chew on that for a second.
“We own most of the land in the Tech Center. My father bought up the land thirty years ago before any of this was here. And we lease it out.”
Jesus. What kind of money is that? I can’t even begin to understand it.
“Anyway,” Mac says, standing. “I’m waiting in here for a reason.”
“Is that right?” I stand up too, but my heart beats a little faster when I take him in. He’s wearing a dark gray suit today, a blue shirt that is so light it’s barely a color, and another brilliant cerulean-blue tie that makes his matching eyes shine as they stare into mine.
I don’t know why, but I step backwards. His full attention on me suddenly feels more like a force than a look. He steps forward, hands reaching for me. I bump against the wall, no escape, and then he fists the front of my blouse and rips it open, revealing my silk cami.
My mouth opens in surprise.
He rips the cami apart too. And then, with one forceful whoosh, both garments are lying in a puddle of fabric on the floor.
“What are you doing?” I yell.
The intense stare turns to a boyish smile. “I’d like you topless for breakfast. And I get to call the shots for our dates.”
“Why do I even bother with you? Just why?” I refuse to cross my arms and cover my tits. Fuck him. Just fuck him. “Every time I start to think you’re not a pig, you go and do something like this.”
“It’s fun, right?” His smile never cracks.
“No,” I say. “It’s humiliating.”
“Your tits are nice, Ellie. You should not be ashamed of them.”
“I’m not ashamed of them—”
“Good. Because I’d like to stare at them while we have coffee and discuss our date tonight.”
A knock comes from Mac’s office and I might have a panic attack that someone will come in and find me bare like this.
“Hold that thought,” Mac says, leaning down to kiss my lips. “Breakfast is here. Sit,” he says, pushing on my shoulders until I slump into the window seat again. “I’ll be right back.”
And then he enters his office, pulling our connecting door closed.
I listen to the conversation in there as I look down at my clothes. What the hell was he thinking? The cami is dust. Ripped straight down the middle. At least the silk button-up shirt is only missing all the buttons. I can probably tie it around my waist to make it out to the parking lot, but—
There’s a jingle of a cart and plates. We have… room service? What kind of company has room service?
I guess I’m not all that surprised they have it up here. We have several restaurants on campus. The Atrium has a cafeteria. Maybe this came from the cafeteria?
Mac is laughing on the other side of the door, then I hear a polite thank you just before the sound of a closing door.
The connecting door swings open again and Mac is there, a wide grin on his face. “I hope you like pancakes.”
“This is not happening.”
“Oh, this is happening, Miss Hatcher. You are sitting here.” He points to the middle of the window seat as he pushes the cart towards me.
“I have no clothes, Mac. You ripped my cami. I’m going to have to tie that over-shirt on and go home to change. In fact,” I say, reaching down to get my blouse and pull myself together, “I’m not coming back. I’m done. Just when I think you’re a human, you act like an ape.”
“Would you just relax, Ellie?” He rips the shirt from my hands, balls it up, and then tosses it in the air, where it arcs perfectly and sails into the new trashcan that matches the desk. “Three points,” he says.
“It’s like you live in your own world or something. I think it’s funny that you accused me of living in some delusional fantasy, but you, Mr. Stonewall, you’re a raving lunatic who thinks the world i
s his asylum.”
“I’m going to take that as a compliment. Now sit. I’ve got it all under control.”
“My clothes!” I yell.
“Under control, Ellie.”
“How?”
“Trust me.” His tone loses the childlike fun and becomes very serious. “I’ve got it handled.” His blue eyes blaze into mine and hold the stare for several seconds.
I give up first, sighing and scowling at the same time. But I do as I’m told and take a seat in the center of the window as he pushes an elaborate dining cart up to me.
Because no matter how atrocious his behavior, I’m so damn curious about this man. What kind of life must he have to take everything for granted?
“Good,” he says, arranging things on the cart. “You’re starting to come to your senses.”
I roll my eyes, but save my indignation for later. It’s just no use. He’s a man who gets his way and this morning he wants me to sit in the window seat of my office topless as he serves me food.
“It’s fun, right?” Mac asks, winking at me as he unwraps the silverware, shakes out the white linen napkin, and places it on my lap.
I don’t answer. It is a little bit fun, but I don’t agree or even smile, because he doesn’t deserve to be rewarded for being a caveman.
There are two large silver-domed plates, a carafe of coffee, two smaller silver-domed plates, and a clear crystal bowl of water with pink and white roses floating on top.
Well. He certainly knows how to make things pretty. “Why?” I ask.
He lifts the silver domes on the plates and hides them on one of the shelves underneath the cart. “I hope you like pancakes. But if not, I got French toast. We can share.”
“Why are you like this?” I ask, my mouth watering as I look at the pile of fresh berries on top of my pancakes. And his French toast is an inch thick and has perfectly crispy edges.
“Like what?” he asks, opening up his silverware and flapping his napkin in his lap as he sits. “Fun? Creative? Romantic? Which of those things bothers you, Ellie?”
“It’s not that,” I say. “You know why I’m bothered.” I point to my perky tits.
