Saving Cruz (The Moran Family)

by Alexis James

  But the good girl in me knows if I’m going to call things off with him, I have to do it privately; he at least deserves that much from me, although at the moment I’m not sure why. I’m not a mean person, though, and as much as he’s ticking me off with his selfish behavior and one-sided conversation, I have no right to leave him hanging. If I’m going to end this, I need to do it soon.

  Once we finish eating and both decline dessert, he guides me by the hand out to his beige sedan. He’s thankfully quiet on the drive to my apartment, leaving me plenty of time to think up a good reason not to invite him up. The last thing I want after having to listen to him blather on all night is to end up less than satisfied in my own bed.

  He parks the car in his usual spot, gives me what I assume is his version of a come-hither look, then walks around the car to take my hand once again. I refrain from rolling my eyes and remind myself that I’m just tired after a busy week at my new job. I’m sure I’ll look at this whole relationship differently once I’ve rested up. Darren is a nice guy, and I suppose we’ve had fun this past year. It’s not his fault I want more, want something new, want to be by myself again instead of the dutiful woman who sits quietly listening to every word out of his mouth. The truth of the matter is that I’m a dud in relationships. I think my hopes are simply too high: my life should be lived with romance bursting at the seams, like my favorite movie starring Deborah Kerr and Cary Grant, or at the very least something resembling romance. Is that too much to ask?

  Darren pulls me into his arms once the elevator doors close and when our lips meet I force myself to react. He may not be the greatest love of my life, but he likes me and demands very little from me. For now, that’s enough.

  The following afternoon I pull my green Mini Cooper into the gym parking lot and cut the engine. The convertible top is up today, due to the on-again, off-again rain we’ve been having. I prefer to leave it down, taking full advantage of the warm air in my face when I drive. It’s the main reason I purchased the car a little over a year ago. It’s the perfect vehicle for the usual sunny weather we have here in Miami.

  Amita is hard at it when I enter the main workout room, blazing away on the elliptical machine when I stroll up to her and hop on the machine to her right. She purses her lips, air-kiss style, but not once does she change pace. My best friend is serious when she works out and gets easily irritated if she has to break stride for any reason.

  I pop in my earbuds, push play, get the machine going, and quickly hit a nice, fast pace. This is our usual Saturday afternoon date: two hours of intense working out, followed by margaritas on my balcony. It’s a great trade-off, with lots of time for girl talk that I need now more than ever. Thank goodness Darren had an early meeting with a client, otherwise I would have had to dream up some random excuse to get him to leave and not spend the night after our date. Not that I mind him sleeping over once in a while, because I don’t, but Darren has some weird … nuances that can be slightly unnerving. Like he insists that we both shower after having sex, almost as if he’s repulsed by all the bodily fluids floating around. And he insists on sleeping on my side of the bed, refuses to snuggle, and flat-out gets irked when I try to sleep without clothes on.

  At first I thought his quirks were charming but that quickly wore off, and now I just feel insulted. Last night was the kicker; I refused to shower after the ten minutes of less than satisfying sex. He stomped out of the bathroom like a child, dripping water all over my beautiful tile floor, and stormed out of the apartment. I may not need to worry about cutting him loose. Last night may have done it for me.

  When Amita and I eventually emerge from the gym, we’re both bathed in sweat and red-faced. My bundle of energy best friend practically skips to her car, throws me a wave and an “I’ll race ya!” before she jets off down the street in her ancient Dodge Dart. Too tired to partake in our usual craziness, I take my time driving home, only to find her sitting on the hood of her car like she’s been there for hours, tapping her foot and typing away on her phone.

  “What took you so long?” she asks, jumping to her feet and looping her large bag over her shoulder.

  I reply with some lame excuse and trudge into the building and up the stairs. No elevator for us, not if we want to nosh on some chips while we drink margaritas. We are both all about the trade-offs.

  By the time we’re seated on the balcony, I’m convinced that the workout did nothing for the craziness going on inside my head. My thoughts flit from Darren to my job to my scary boss and back, over and over again until I’m half-convinced I might need to seek professional help.

  Amita takes a healthy slurp of her drink and reaches across the table to grasp my hand. “What’s going on, sister? You seem upset.” She gives me a hard look. “Is it Darren?” She’s not exactly a fan, having not gotten along with him from day one. She thinks he’s a buttoned-up ass, he thinks she’s a streetwalker. Suffice it to say, I make it a point to avoid instances when they might have to spend time together.

  I shrug. “Yeah, I guess.” I give her a quick recap of the previous evening, and she spends a lot of time cursing under her breath and rolling her eyes at me like she can’t believe why I put up with his crap. I can’t either, and after last night I am looking forward to ending things with him. For good this time.

  “He’s such a dick, Mia. Why do you waste your time with that guy?”

  “I have no idea. Maybe because he was a good friend to me.”

  She rolls her eyes again and takes a handful of tortilla chips, dunking one in the large bowl of homemade guacamole. “Was being the operative word here. He’s not a friend to you now. He just uses you.”

  I shudder. “For what? Our amazing sex life?”

  This time she’s the one who shudders, as well as throws in a loud gagging sound. “Ugh, he makes my skin crawl. At least if he was amazing in bed, you could give him a pass in the conversation area. Obviously, he’s just a douche all the way around.” We both bust up in cackling laughter and clink our glasses together.

  “I think he’s mad because I found another job.”

  Amita swears again. “Whatever. He’s a troll. Now, I want to hear all about this amazing job. And give me the deets on your boss. Rumor has it he’s a real hunk.”

  I suppose that could properly describe the man I work for, although calling him a hunk is practically an insult. The man is stunning—one of those rare men who you look at once then look at again because you cannot believe someone that beautiful actually exists. With his wayward, untamed head of coal black hair and the confident way he carries himself, it’s no wonder he’s such a success story and a social enigma. One look into those thickly lashed eyes and I’d sign a contract with him too, no questions asked. Sadly, I’ve yet to see him smile and from the little I know about him, it’s not something he often does.

  I wonder why?

  Still, smiling or not, Cruz Moran is like a walking, talking version of every woman’s fantasy. Something I might find on the cover of one of the romance novels I keep tucked away in my bedside drawer. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he models for one of the high-end fashion houses. It’s almost sinful to be that good looking.

  “Uh, Mia, you’re drooling.”

  My eyes shoot to hers. “I am not. He’s just … well, he’s just … uh … nice looking is all.”

  She makes a loud raspberry sound with her lips and grins at me. “Nice looking? Uh-huh. I Googled him. The man is hot, hot, hot.”

  Well, she does have a point. That’s the word I’d use if I was allowed to drool after my boss, which I’m not. And the fact that he towers above me, all hunky and manly, is not something I need to be noticing either. In truth, I shouldn’t be noticing anything at all, but as I said before, he’s one of those men you look at then look again.

  “What are his hands like?” Amita has this weird obsession with men’s hands, stating repeatedly that if a man has nice-looking hands, everything else will follow suit.

  “Uh, they’
re nice I guess.” The truth is there’s not one place on his entire body that isn’t nice, not that I’ve noticed or anything. And who knows, maybe he’s like Darren and deep down has some off-putting quirks that women like me find annoying. Not that any of that matters, because it doesn’t. He’s my boss.

  My nosey friend rolls her eyes again and crosses her ankles on top of the railing. “I want details. Quit acting all embarrassed or pretending like you haven’t looked at him, because we both know you have.”

  I gulp down a healthy portion of my drink and once I’ve managed to stave off the ice headache that follows, I stare off into the distance and just let the words flow. “He’s so … beautiful. Truly one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen.” She waves her hand back and forth while she drinks, encouraging me to talk more. “He’s tall. Really, really tall. Like at least a foot taller than I am.” I sigh and reach for a chip, breaking off small pieces while I speak and shoving them into my mouth. “He’s got these eyes, a weird mixture of blue and green and has thick, long lashes that any girl would die for.” I sigh again, break off another piece, and hold it between my thumb and finger. “His shoulders are wide and strong. And he’s in really good shape, like he must work out a lot.” I roll my eyes at myself this time. “Not sure when he’d have the time to work out though, since the man lives at the office.” I sigh again. Just because.

  Amita snickers and throws me a knowing look. “So have you talked with him at all? Gotten to know him?”

  I shake my head ferociously back and forth. “Good lord, of course not. He’s my boss. He barely speaks to me as it is—and only when the job requires it.”

  She huffs out an irritated breath. “Well, has he at least checked you out? You know, like you have him?”

  “No, not really.” I will admit there have been a few occasions when I felt the heat from his eyes on my backside when I walk away. Of course, I’m sure he’s like any other man, just checking out the goods and all. He is, after all, still a man … millionaire status aside. He seems … mostly tolerant of me. It’s only been a week, which is no time at all to truly judge how we’ll be in one another’s company in the long term.

  “Is he married?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I doubt it. He doesn’t wear a ring.” Not that a ring means anything, not these days, which I think is sad. I hope when I get married my husband will wear his ring as proudly as I wear mine. If that day ever comes, I reason with another heavy sigh. The way things are going in my life, I may never find the perfect man to marry.

  “The internet says he’s antisocial, and I couldn’t find any pictures of him with other women.” She slams down her glass, brown eyes wide. “Do you think he’s gay?”

  “How the heck would I know?” Whatever Spidey-sense I have, though, tells me he’s all male … and very much a ladies man.

  So far I know very little about the man I spend ten or more hours with five days a week. I know he only comes out of his office if he has to leave for a meeting. I know he’s constantly on the phone and that he generates a ton of business from his desk chair. I know that two of his brothers work for him, one of whom I met briefly on my first day and the other whom I’ve only spoken to on the phone. I know Cruz prefers salad with dressing on the side, sandwiches with mustard only, and never eats potato chips. He does have this weird obsession with dark chocolate, which he asks me to pick up for him every few days.

  He never goes home before I do and is always there when I arrive, leaving me to believe he lives and breathes his company—which I fully admire. He didn’t get where he was by sitting back in his big office chair, working banker’s hours. Unlike Darren, I think with a grimace, who constantly tells me that overtime is unnecessary and overrated.

  The thing about Cruz Moran is that he’s untouchable. He’s a mystery: one of those rare individuals that you’ll always wonder about but will never truly get to know. For me, that’s okay. Timid Mia Elliott could never hold a candle to someone like him, not that I’d even try. I can only attempt to be the best assistant I can be, try to anticipate his needs before he does and keep his work life in order. Doing so will free him up to do what he does best: run his company and make millions.

  Amita gives me a knowing look, as if she’s fully aware of the inner battle I’m raging in my own head. Then she leans across the table and whispers, “What does he smell like?”

  That’s easy, I think to myself as I grin wide, recalling the faint scent of spicy cologne I get the occasional whiff of. “Like sin.”

  Tossing the sheet aside, I get to my feet and attempt to locate my clothes, which are scattered about the dimly lit hotel room. My companion dozes off and on, which is a welcome relief. The last thing I need is to have to make small talk with a complete stranger. I don’t do this because I need companionship. I do it because I need to fuck. Plain and simple.

  I quickly drag on my boxer briefs and slacks, dig around under a chair for my socks and slide those on too. The revulsion I feel for what I’ve done—yet again, I acknowledge—is hard to ignore. It never is, which makes me wonder why I even do this. Sometimes even the sex isn’t worth it.

  “Why you taking off so quickly, sugar?” Her sleepy voice wreaks of desperation and possibly alcohol. I have no concerns if the women I spend time with need a little liquid courage to keep up with me. Not like they’re going to get sweet talk or kind words. I pay good money for them to comply, to meet my every physical need, and while I often walk away unsatisfied in a way I can’t begin to understand, the fact that I don’t have to waste time earning a place between their legs is well worth it.

  “Your money is on the table,” I remark, pulling on what was once a neatly pressed white shirt. While I tie my shoes, I watch her out of the corner of my eye. She props herself against the headboard, allowing the sheet to fall down around her waist. Perfect-sized double D’s greet me and for a split second I consider another go-round. But the neediness in her eyes is the deciding factor, which I find ironic since she’s paid to do this with me. You’d think after doing this time and time again, the only thing any of these women would need afterward would be a hot shower.

  “You gonna call me again?” She flicks her nipple and shoots me what is supposed to be a taunting smile.

  “No.” I make a quick check of my pockets, find the empty wallet I use just for these occasions and the one lone car key right where I left them. I learned years ago to never take anything with me to one of these encounters but a wad of cash. Sure as hell not a cell phone that could record us or take incriminating photos. Part of my agreement with the particular agency I use is their guarantee that the escorts will leave all electronic devices at home or in their cars or anywhere other than the hotel room where we meet. I’m so damn paranoid I even use a pre-paid cell phone to make the appointment, reserve the room with a fake name, and only ever pay in cash.

  She starts to rise to her knees, baring her firm body. She’s a beauty, I’ll give her that, but the desperation in her eyes is off-putting. Like she believes for one single minute I’m going to fall immediately in love with her and whisk her away from this lifestyle she’s chosen to live. Little does she know that we’re both sentenced to a life of cold, hard, hookups; her, for reasons I can only assume are monetary. For my part, I don’t deserve anything more than an overpaid screw with a complete stranger once in a while.

  Rising once again, I reply, “Thanks,” and quickly take my leave, not looking back. I hurry down the stairs to the lower level, wind my way to the parking garage, and locate my Mercedes s550. The sleek, black sedan is tucked into a dimly lit corner away from any cameras or lights, the tinted windows shielding the interior from view. I finally start to breathe normally once I’m behind the wheel, sitting all alone in the dark silence.

  I wish I knew why I did this to myself. All the sneaking around and subterfuge is probably unnecessary, especially when most women eventually recognize me in the end anyway. Luckily, I’ve only had to remind a few that they signed a b
inding non-disclosure agreement prior to our meeting, and I outright refuse to sleep with those women who pretend over-familiarity with me. It would be easier for me to just go to some bar and pick up women like my brothers do, but I simply can’t bring myself to muddle through all the crap required. I don’t want a relationship. Hell, I don’t deserve one regardless of how hard I have to work to make it happen. My choices are limited: drop a few bills on a stranger and hope she satisfies that burning need inside of me or spend an evening throwing around bullshit just to have the chick turn me down in the end. Then there’s the worse alternative: she’ll turn into a clingy, needy mess when I walk away. Not worth it. Not worth it at all.

  By the time I make it home, it’s almost three o’clock in the morning and for once I’m thankful I don’t have to go into the office on a Sunday. Granted, there’s plenty for me to do there if I did go in, but it sure as hell is not the chaotic mess it was a week ago. Somehow, someway, Hurricane Mia has stormed in and organized everything. My calendar has never been more spot-on, and she’s really good about always keeping it up to date and perfectly color coded. The office has never run more smoothly, and now I’m finally able to sit back and do the job I’m supposed to do without all the mundane tasks weighing me down.

  She’s a quiet little thing that’s for sure, communicating mostly via the intercom and the occasional email instead of bugging me constantly to answer questions. When she does need to speak to me, its brief and to the point, and she hardly ever looks at me, which I find incredibly puzzling. She’s professional, polite, and courteous to a fault, but obviously I unnerve her for some reason. I suppose that’s a good thing. At least I won’t ever have to worry about any unnecessary closeness between us. Hell, at this rate, I have a hunch it’s going to take months just to get her to look at me directly.