He stepped closer again, and I braced myself for his touch. But instead of reaching for me, he walked straight past me. And closed the door.
“I was upset,” he replied as he faced me once more. “I needed to cool off.”
For some reason, his calm, reasonable statement set me off even more.
“You needed to cool off?” I repeated angrily. “Do you have any idea how self-centered that sounds? Don’t you think maybe I would’ve liked a heads up? That maybe I might be upset, too? What if I’d lost my shit out there instead of in here?”
He let my tirade of questions run their course. And when I was done, instead of telling me I was acting like a crazy person, he met my eyes and said, “I already said it was a cowardly.”
It made me even angrier that he seemed genuinely contrite. “So you think that makes up for it? You lied to me.”
“I know.”
“Why did you do it then? Aside from the fact that you needed to cool off.”
He ran a hand over his hair. Slowly. Like it pained him a little. “I didn’t want this to happen.”
“You had to know I’d be upset, too.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?” I asked, genuinely confused.
“I didn’t say anything because I don’t want to stop seeing you, honey. And I knew you’d insist that’s what had to happen.”
The honesty in his voice cut my breath away for a second. He wanted to keep seeing me. That giddy little bubble in my chest threatened to overtake all sense of reason. I forced it aside and gulped in a much-needed hit of oxygen.
“You were right. I do insist. We cannot keep seeing each other,” I told him.
“Why?”
“Because this is my job, Marc. My career. I worked my ass off to get here. I’m next in line for manager of human resources. And as unfair and stupid and sexist as it is, people tend to look down on girls who sleep their way to the top.”
“You’re stronger than that.”
I bristled. “I am stronger than that. I could rise above it. But I’m not willing to. I won’t let a single thing mar the path I’m on. So as strong as I am, I’m not willing to take the chance that this will get misconstrued.”
For the first time, his calm exterior slipped. “This?”
“Us.”
“Which is it, Ms. Banks? This? Or us?”
“This. It was a weekend, Marc. One weekend out of fifty-two in a year. So there isn’t really an ‘us’, is there?”
His face grew stormy. “Because all we did is fuck. For a weekend.”
“Yes.” It wasn’t much more than a whisper, and it felt like a lie.
He inched forward. “You’re sure about that, honey?”
I swallowed. I could smell him again. That musky, thick scent that made my mouth water. No one had a right to smell so damned good.
“Yes,” I managed to say again.
His hand came up to my arm. Just a whisper of a touch, his fingers moving up and down in the bend of my elbow so lightly that maybe I shouldn’t even have been able to feel it. Except it was all I could feel. Had it only been a day since he touched me last? Heat swept up under my sleeve. It fanned out everywhere at once, and I felt a sudden need to grab something to use to hold myself up.
This is a swoon, I realized. An actual, literal swoon. Oh, God. Any second my lady-in-waiting was going to have to come in and loosen my imaginary corset.
I had to tell him to let me go. Except I couldn’t do it. My body wasn’t interested in obeying my brain. My eyes closed, all on their own. It made things worse. My other senses filled with bits of Marc.
His scent, of course.
His inhales and exhales.
And his warmth. Oh, God, his warmth.
It was awful and wonderful at the same time. A shiver threatened, and I could feel myself growing wet.
Stupid, stupid, and stupider. So weak.
“Aysia.” Both his voice and his hot breath filled my ear, and I knew without looking that he’d leaned down to bring his mouth close to me.
I forced my eyes open and tilted my head up to meet his scorching gaze. I hated that I was fighting with myself to stop from giving in to the desire. I hated even more that I still wanted him at all.
“I can’t do this,” I whispered.
But I still took a step forward. My body was flush with his, his full erection pushing into the slight curve of my stomach. His hands landed on my arms and slid up to my shoulders. One stayed there, but the other slipped down to the small of my back where it turned in a circle.
He tipped his face down and pressed his cheek to mine. “Tell me you don’t want me, and I’ll leave you alone.”
“I’m not a liar.”
“So then. Tell me you do want me.”
I leaned into his rough stubble. “I do, Marc. As mad as I am, I definitely want you.”
His palm trailed down to my ass. “So take me.”
“No.” I shook my head. “Even if I forgive you right this second and put everything else aside, Eco-Go has a policy.”
“A policy?”
“Yes, a policy,” I made myself say. “An anti-fraternizing one.”
“Fuck the policy,” he said roughly.
I leaned away so I could look him straight in the face. “You don’t mean that. And it’s not what I want, either.”
“Is that what you told Carl?” he countered.
It was like a stab in the gut. It’d slipped my mind that the other man’s bad behavior was the reason Marc had approached me in the first place.
“That was different. It was a mistake. And it’s a damned good argument in favor of the policy anyway.”
He let me go and stepped back, his face an unreadable mask. In my chest, my heart squeezed painfully. Like it was kind of breaking. Which was ridiculous. Overdramatic. The wild infatuation I felt wasn’t something that warranted such a thick, terrible sensation everywhere inside of me. Even the might’ve-been-more feeling didn’t deserve that kind of attention.
That didn’t mean I could quite shake it. Now I was fighting a need to apologize. I steeled myself to not do it. I didn’t owe him a sorry. Not at all. So why did I feel so badly like I should?
I swallowed against the giant lump in my throat. “This past weekend… It didn’t happen. At all.”
“Saying it doesn’t make it true.”
“Believing it does.”
“Aysia.”
“Ms. Banks.”
“Ms. Banks.” I could hear the way his teeth were gritted. “You just told me you weren’t a liar.”
“I’m not.”
“This past weekend.” The three-word sentence was pointed.
“Didn’t happen,” I replied.
“Because you believe it.”
“We both have to believe it, Mr. Diaz.”
I could see a fight raging inside him, just under the surface. His strong jaw was tight, his eyes flashing so dark they were the color of coffee. Was he railing against me, or against something internal? I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. I almost closed my eyes again when he spoke, not wanting to hear what he had to say.
“And if I choose not to believe it?” His voice was still strained. “If I push you against those big windows over there and slide my hands up your skirt while I put my tongue in your mouth?”
I stifled a little moan. If he did those things, I’d be lost. Completely.
“Completely?”
I blinked, clueing in that I’d admitted that aloud. I made myself nod.
“Well.” He flicked his gaze past my shoulder—staring at something, anything other than me, I thought—and paused for a painfully long moment. “Then I guess it never happened.”
A heaviness hung in the air. Breathing it in made me feel
like I wanted to choke.
“Okay, Ms. Banks.” Marc was staring at me, waiting. “I’m sure I’ll see you around the office, Ms. Banks.”
Oh. He’s waiting for you to leave.
“Yes. Okay. Um.” I’d never felt so awkward. “See you.”
I turned and fled. I didn’t stop until I’d reached my own small office on the other side of the building. There, I closed the door and collapsed against it. I was relieved that he hadn’t followed through on his sexy threat. But only because I’d wanted so badly for him to actually do it.
I felt wrung out. Both in my body and my head.
“Get over it, Aysia,” I muttered.
But as I pushed off the wall, I realized something. Even though Marc had said he hadn’t confessed to knowing about our mutual employment because he wanted to keep seeing me…he hadn’t used it to his advantage. He hadn’t stayed in my condo and climbed into my bed. He hadn’t asked for more phone sex. And I would’ve been in favor of either.
Chapter 8
Marcelo
My week was terrible as all hell. Monday dragged to Tuesday. Tuesday led to a farewell dinner at Mike Roper’s house, where he felt the need to tell me about how he had a fantastic management candidate in human resources. Aysia Banks. Who he wanted me to get to know. The repeated mention of her name led me to a green face and a serious inquiry into my health. The only silver lining about that was that I got to cut out early and go home. Where I could wallow in some self-loathing.
Tuesday became Wednesday, and Wednesday was a blur of meetings. The meetings were also a blur. Of Aysia. Dressed in a sleeveless shirt made of something soft and airy, a skirt that touched her knees, and a pair of sheer stockings that begged to be torn off. The worst part of it wasn’t that she ignored me, but because she didn’t. She spoke to me whenever the occasion called for it. She was polite. Distant. Nowhere was there a hint that she regretted cutting me loose from the weekend that didn’t fucking happen. She treated me exactly the way she treated Carl. It made me sick in a different way than hearing her praises sung over and over. I wasn’t the same as that asshole. Mostly because I cared whether or not I made Aysia feel like shit. Christ, how I wanted to punch that fuckwad. I was very, very glad when Wednesday was over.
Thursday, though, didn’t turn out much better. I spent most of the morning trying to come up with a way to get rid of Carl. Unfortunately, he’d wiped his e-mail clean. There wasn’t anything nefarious on it at all anymore. Not even a cat in a bikini. His performance reviews were clean, his record exemplary. It was almost too perfect, and I was half-tempted to call in the kid from tech to verify that it was all real. And if it was real, I thought I might ask him to fabricate something. Which is about the point where I decided that I was going crazy and threw in the towel.
With no intention of going back to work, I packed up my stuff without a word and headed to The Well for a midday beer and a thick burger. The former was quick to come, and before the latter even arrived, I’d already started in on my third drink. I was well on my way to forgetting Aysia’s sexy legs and succulent lips. Until the text came in.
I yanked my phone from my pocket and glared down at the blurry screen.
There’s a girl here for you.
I blinked, confused. The name on the display was definitely Aysia’s, but the message made no sense.
Marc.
Slowly, I typed back. Ms. Banks?
There’s a girl here for u.
A girl for me WHERE?
At the office. Where else? Her text screamed of exasperation. She’s here for the office job.
Shit, I typed, recalling vaguely that I’d set up an interview.
Where are u?
The pub.
The Well?
I tried three times to type the word yes, but my fingers kept slipping, so I finally settled for a thumbs up. Several seconds went by, and I took a solid swig of my beer. Then my phone chimed again.
MARC.
What?
This isn’t a joke.
I’m not laughing, I told her.
What’s wrong? she wanted to know.
Nothing. U said it wasn’t a joke. Look. I’m on lunch. And I’m not coming back.
U have to interview this girl.
No.
Yes.
Send her home.
U have an obligation.
I thought about it, twirling my finger over the top of my pint glass. Fine. Send her here.
I’m not going to—u know what. Never mind.
I tried to lift my drink defiantly. Instead, my hand slipped. So did the phone. And just like that, they were one and the same. A cell phone flavored cocktail. It shouldn’t have been funny, but I laughed anyway, then signaled the server for another drink. She brought it—and my burger—just a few minutes later. As I lifted the burger to my mouth for a serious bite, my gaze happened to shift across the room. Where I happened to spot Ms. Aysia Banks about three seconds before she spotted me.
Shit.
She was wearing some kind of crazy, polka dotted dress that swished temptingly at her thighs, hugged her narrow waist perfectly, and scooped conservatively—just the barest hint of cleavage—at her chest. Hot enough that everything else in the room kinda disappeared. Helped along by the beer, of course.
Her blue eyes found me then, and widened in surprise as they took in my state. Suit jacket tossed across the back of my chair. Top button undone and tie loosened. Stupid grin on my face.
The she spotted the phone in the pint glass and her eyes narrowed. She took a few short, high-heeled steps, and she was at my table.
“Marc.” Her tone was hard to read—annoyed, maybe…or concerned?
I took an obnoxiously large bit of food. “What?”
“The interview.”
She stepped aside, and for the first time, I noticed that she wasn’t alone. A tall, slim woman in a white dress stood to her left. When she saw me, she smiled and smoothed back a lock of honey blond hair. I offered her a smile, too, then turned my gaze back to Aysia. Irritation flashed through her eyes, this time unmistakeable.
“This is Kitty Ulrich,” she said stiffly. “Here to interview for the office administrator position.”
“Okay.”
“Do you want to move this back up to the office?”
“Here is fine.” I nodded at the honey blond. “Have a seat, Ms. Ulrich.”
She slid into the chair closest to mine, adjusted her skirt, then smiled at me again. “Thanks.”
“No problem. Gotta make sure you’re comfortable in that position. There’s a lot of sitting involved in being an office assistant.”
She laughed a tinkling little laugh. “A lot of answering the phone, too. You want me to retrieve yours from inside that glass?”
“Thanks. But I think I’ll just get a new one.”
“No, really,” Kitty replied. “It can be salvaged.”
“You drop a lot of phones in beer?”
“Wine,” she corrected.
Then she slid her hand past my arm to drag the beer closer. She reached a manicured hand into the glass, dragged it out delicately, then plopped it down on a napkin and sucked a drop of beer off her index finger.
“Next, we need some rice,” she said.
“Rice?”
Aysia made a weird little noise, and I lifted my eyes from the drippy phone to her face. Her expression was neutral, but her blue eyes were dark.
“You don’t have to stay,” I told her.
“I think I should.”
“Why?”
“I’m acting manager of human resources.”
“That’s true. Actually…why didn’t you just do the interview yourself in the first place?”
Her eyes flicked to the blond. “Seriously?”
I nodded. “Yeah, serio
usly.”
“Because it’s in your contract that you get to approve your assistant.”
“You read my contract?”
“I’m acting—you know what? Can we speak alone for a second?”
“Sure.” I excused myself politely, giving Kitty my best apologetic smile, then followed Aysia across the bar and into the hall.
“What the hell’s going on, Marc?” she demanded immediately.
“I’m interviewing Kitty.”
“In the most unprofessional way possible! She’s going to get the wrong impression of you and of Eco-Go.”
“You insisted that I do this now. I told you I was taking the rest of the day off. She could’ve come back tomorrow or on Monday.”
“That would’ve been extremely inconsiderate.”
“Kind of like leaving her out there by herself?”
She glared at me. “You can’t go back until you agree to stop flirting with her.”
I blinked. “I’m not flirting with her.”
“Everyone knows about the rice trick!”
“So?”
“So…pretending it’s a new idea…that’s flirting.”
“That’s flirting?” I echoed.
“Oh, come on. ‘You’ve got to be comfortable in this position?’” she mimicked. “How is that not flirting?”
“That wasn’t intended to be innuendo,” I said honestly.
“Licking the beer off her fingers?” Aysia countered.
“She licked the beer off her own fingers.”
“Technicality.”
I fought a laugh. “Are you going to drag her back here, too, then? Let her know she shouldn’t be flirting with me?”
“No. You’re the potential boss. You need to let her know that flirting isn’t appropriate.”
“Aysia…grownups flirt. Sometimes not even on purpose.”
“It’s un—”
“Professional. Yeah, I get it. That’s important to you.”
“Just sort it out, Marc.”
“I will.”
She spun on her heel, and my hand shot out automatically to stop her. God, how I wanted her to stay. For a second, she let me hold her there. Her skin felt soft and right and warm under my fingers.
So damned good.
After Hours Page 11
