by Alexis James
She nods. “He did, but it wasn’t necessary. I wasn’t offended by his offer. I found it flattering actually.” Her eyes skitter away like usual, looking anywhere but at me and her cheeks flush bright red.
A surge of annoyance threads through my entire body. I’d bet good money she has no issue with looking directly at Marco. “You are aware of our office policy on dating?”
Her large, dark eyes dart to mine. “Yes, of course. I don’t intend on dating anyone here. Besides, like I told Marco … I mean, Mr. Moran … I have a boyfriend.”
Jealously flares hot and fast, catching me off guard. “Yes, so I heard.”
Surprisingly, she holds my gaze, staring intently at me like she’s trying to figure out what makes me tick. I wish I could tell her good luck and better people than her have tried and failed miserably.
I have no idea what she sees on my face, or if like most people she sees so little that it’s not worth her time, but I do admire the slow change I see in her: the subtle lift of her chin, the stubborn tick of her jaw. She purses her full, pink lips just enough to draw my attention there, but the moment they lift in a slow, easy smile, I shove aside the need that pools low in my gut and glare at her once again.
Shoving off the weird vibe floating around the room, I snap, “Bring me the Westoven file. And order me a Cobb salad.”
She slowly gets to her feet and nods once, all fire and fight gone from her eyes. She’s back to avoiding my glance, timidly slinking out of the office like I’ve gone after her with bat instead of the weapon that is my mouth.
Once the door is shut firmly in her wake, I let out an agitated sigh and grasp my neck in my hand, trying desperately to ease the tension that seems rooted there permanently. Especially whenever she’s around, I note.
Damn my brother. Just when things between me and my assistant were moving fluidly along, he has to come in here with his laughter and his charm and upend the whole damn thing.
But did he really? Or was it like it’s always been for me? Rude comments, high-handed behavior, and treating subordinates like the nothing they are.
Growling out a curse, I toss aside the papers in my hand and stomp toward the window, wishing for once I could react like normal people do, without all the excess baggage and heavy weight of regret and without all the anger that’s always simmering right at the surface.
I’m still standing in the spot, mulling over all my poor choices, when Mia strolls in and drops my salad on top of my desk. “Will there be anything else?”
I should apologize, make up some lame excuse for my less than professional behavior. But doing so would give her an in, would allow her to see that there really is a part of me that’s human, the part I try my damnedest to hide.
“No, that will be all.”
Her silent retreat is reason enough to keep my apology to myself. At least this way she’ll have no expectations about the man I could be. She knows all too well what a jerk I am, which I merely cemented by my comments this afternoon.
There are days like this when I’m reminded why I am the way I am. Days like this that are the loneliest, when I wish for a brief second I was anyone other than the person I was forced to become. I hate this man with every cell in my blood, with every breath I take, with every single thought that skates in and out of my head. This person I am is a monster, born and bred from tragedy, living this solitary life because it’s what I deserve. I don’t deserve to enjoy the money I make or the beautiful house I live in. I sure as hell don’t deserve to lust after someone or eventually fall in love. Men like me deserve only misery and pain. A debt owed for what was taken. After all, I think with a shudder and a sick roll of my stomach, I’m nothing more than a murderer, plain and simple.
I fully expected him to fire me, although in retrospect I know that’s a dumb conclusion. After all, I did nothing wrong, though you’d never know it from the treatment I received.
It takes a week of over-thinking and a few rounds of tears, before I’m able to put the entire scenario behind me. Chances are, with a man like Cruz Moran, this won’t be the last time I’m on the receiving end of his wrath.
I’m so distracted by all that happened and tired from not sleeping well, I’m short tempered with Darren, and we end up getting into a huge fight because I refuse to let him come up to my apartment after a night out with friends. Ugh … the last thing I want is to lie there, staring at the ceiling, listening to him grunt like a rooting pig. And so I might have told him that, and then he called me a frigid bitch. What did I do next? I laughed. I laughed and laughed and laughed until I cried and almost wet myself, and then I told him goodbye and stomped upstairs to my apartment.
I have no idea if it’s really goodbye, though I assume it must be since he hasn’t called me in a week, and I haven’t attempted to contact him. Good riddance, I think as I slink into the office later than usual. The tyrant’s office door is closed—that’s my new nickname for him—and there’s a big note in the middle of the desk written in black Sharpie telling me in no uncertain terms “COFFEE. NOW.”
Rude bastard.
But since he’s paying me a disgusting amount of money to be at his beck and call, I scurry down to the break room, quickly put together the tray of coffee, and hustle back down the hall, calling out greetings to the few folks I’ve gotten to know.
I’m silent as I let myself into his office, as I have been since that weird exchange the week before. He’s been closed off and hostile, and if possible more distant than before. I hate myself for wondering what kind of man could be so miserable. He chooses to take it out on those who work for him. Has he ever laughed out loud and with his entire body? Does he ever smile broad enough that you can see it reflected in his eyes? Does he enjoy time with friends, with family, or maybe a special woman? Does he go home at night to the warmth of some woman’s arms, softly telling her he loves her, then makes love to her like all the men in those romance novels do? The slow, lingering kind that lasts well into the early hours of the morning.
“What?” he barks, pulling me out of my daydream.
He looks as frazzled on the outside as I feel on the inside, his too-long, wavy hair a complete contrast to the buttoned-up perfection of his immaculate suit. Papers are scattered all over his desk and a few have spilled out onto the floor, leading me to believe he’s more than buried and could use an extra hand.
Pouring him a cup of coffee and adding a splash of milk like he prefers, I set the cup down on the desk and force my eyes to his. “Let me help you.”
The hostile, stressed out expression quickly fades and in its place is a man who is so exhausted he can barely keep his eyes open. Whatever issue we once had between us quickly fades as I step around the desk and peer over his shoulder. At first glance, the mess on the desk appears unorganized, but as I look closer it’s clear to see he’s working on his finances and making zero headway.
“Give me the run down, and we’ll each take a few things to work on.” He’s silent at my statement, and for a brief moment I consider that he might not have heard me. But then I see the small nod, the exhaled shaky breath, his fingers that reach for the closest file. His eyes close, like he needs a moment to simply pull himself together, and suddenly he’s no longer the rude jerk I work for, he’s simply a man at his wit’s end.
Pulling one of the chairs around the desk and near him, I take a seat and gently turn the monitor slightly so we both can see it. He’s still silent, still sitting there like he’s sleeping sitting up, which I certainly can’t blame him for. I wish I could ask him when the last time was that he slept. I have a hunch it’s been days.
With another exhaustive sigh, he opens his eyes and looks directly at me, the hard, angry mask now completely fallen away. “Thank you, Mia.”
I nod once and offer up a smile. “No need to thank me.” I gesture toward the screen. “Okay, tell me where you are and how I can help.”
By seven o’clock that evening we’ve tackled the entire mess on his desk, organiz
ed a list of to-dos for the following day, and stopped only long enough to order in sandwiches mid-afternoon. We’re both cross-eyed and weary when he finally calls it a night and powers down the computer. Silently, we both reach for our suit coats, having shed them earlier in the day in the midst of the chaos. I can only be grateful that the phone was relatively silent and his calendar required only one appointment to be rescheduled. I can also be grateful he finally stopped seeing me as a threat and welcomed my help. He even spoke to me like a normal human being instead of all the barking and biting that he’s used to.
“Cruz?”
Our eyes shoot for the door—the door that’s been closed for the better part of the day. The female voice calls out his name again, and he sends me a quick apologetic glance. “My mother.”
When he pulls open the door, a tiny bundle of energy throws herself at him, and I can only stand there and marvel at the gentle way he hugs her in return. This tyrant of a man, who has mostly treated me and other employees with a firm hand and a less than kind voice, is practically melting in the arms of the woman who gave birth to him.
“Hola, Mama.”
The tiny woman chatters something in another language—Spanish I presume—then immediately turns her blue-green eyes on me. “Well, hello, my dear. You must be Mia.”
I offer her a bright smile and my hand. “Hello, Mrs. Moran. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“You too.” She gives me the ‘mom up and down,’ which consists of fully checking me out from head to toe and making sure my hips are the proper size to bear children. “Cruz said you were pretty, but you are beautiful.”
I don’t dare look at my boss, especially with my face blazing red. I wish I could believe he said something like that about me, but the harsh gasp I hear coming from his direction tells me he didn’t. Chances are a certain someone is trying her hand at matchmaking. “Um, well, thank you, ma’am. You’re very beautiful as well.”
“Are you enjoying your work here, my dear?”
I nod. “Oh yes. Very much.” More so today than any other day, but I refrain from saying it aloud.
The tiny, dark-haired woman glances up at her son then back at me. “I know he can be difficult sometimes. You keep him in line, you hear?”
Risking a glance at my boss, I catch him smirking at my easy exchange with his whirlwind of a mother. My stomach jolts happily at yet another show of humanity he’s willing to allow me to see. “Yes, ma’am. He can be a tyrant, but I do my best.”
Cruz sends me a raised brow. “A tyrant huh?”
I nod and move toward the door. “Absolutely. I’ll leave you two to your visit. It was lovely meeting you.”
“You too, Mia.”
“Give me a minute, Mama, will you?” He follows me out into the front room and looms over me while I organize the desk and shut down the computer. “Thank you for your help today. I … I …” He mutters a curse and shoves one hand into his pocket, glancing at me with an uncomfortable expression.
I have to hide the urge to snicker at this larger than life man, so arrogant and confidant, reduced to stammering by his mom and one lowly assistant. Reaching out, I attempt to grasp his wrist, but somehow our hands end up drifting together. Even though our fingers barely touch, I can feel the spark of electricity surging from his hand to mine. It’s exactly like the first time we shook hands, only this time the electricity drifts quickly throughout my entire body. All thought of laughter immediately stops and this weird knot of tension and something else undefined settles low in my belly. And for some odd reason, it sounds like we both sigh.
His eyes widen suddenly, and I swear on all that I know that he takes a small step toward me. Before he realizes what’s happened and who we are, he pulls his hand away like he’s been bitten, barking out, “Goodnight, Miss Elliott.”
Blinking myself back to reality, I quickly look away and pick up my handbag. “Goodnight, Mr. Moran.”
I stand there silently, watching Mia scuttle out of the office like her ass has been lit on fire. Clearly, whatever just happened was a mistake. It’s been a long day, we’re both tired, and then Mama pops in here unexpectedly. It’s no wonder things got … strange … between us.
My mother appears at my side, a satisfied smile on her face. “Oh, did Mia leave?”
“Yes, Mama, she did.” I prop my tired body up against the wall. “So why are you here anyway?”
“Oh, well, I wanted to see if you were free for dinner.” She throws me a knowing grin. “And maybe I wanted to meet your pretty new assistant.”
I shoot her what I hope is a harsh look. “Yeah, thanks for that by the way. The comment you made, about what I supposedly said.”
She feigns innocence. “Oh, you didn’t say that? I’m sorry.” Her eyes dance as she settles into Mia’s chair. “She is very pretty though, isn’t she?”
Pretty doesn’t cut it. “Yes, Mama, she’s a very nice looking young lady. Now, how about dinner?” I’m so damn tired I’d prefer to go home and go straight to bed. I haven’t slept more than a handful of hours since my run-in with Mia last week, which thankfully she seems to have forgotten—at least if today is any indication. I’m certain she has no idea how close I was to losing it when she walked into my office this morning. With her soft voice and gentle encouragement, she somehow helped me find focus. I truly could not have gotten through today without her, which is why all that weirdness a few minutes ago makes me feel so sleazy, so regretful. I hope like hell she doesn’t think I was trying to come on to her.
Dinner with my parents is a nice distraction from the stress of the past week. The good food and plentiful wine relax me just enough to forget about the odd exchange with Mia, for a short while at least. But when I’m lying in the dark, staring at the ceiling, I ask myself why I reacted like I did. Was it the spark of electricity that shot from her hand to mine? Was it the weird vibe she was giving me that made me step toward her, made me consider for like half a second taking things in a different direction? Or was it purely a physical thing and nothing more?
Whatever it was I need to get rid of it. I have no business touching her at all, let alone with intention. I sure as hell have no business thinking about her and myself in any way other than business. I am who I am because of what I’ve done. Someone like Mia, someone good and kind and generous, has no business being a part of my life. Hell, someone like her really shouldn’t even work for someone like me. She’s right. I am a tyrant. I’m not kind, I think only of myself, and I have no problem treating my employees with hate and disdain. If she knows what’s best for her, she’ll realize this too.
I glance over at Mia seated next to me in first class and can tell right off that she’s not an expert flyer. Her face is white, her small hands tightly grip the seat arms, and if I had to guess, I’d say she’s whispering a prayer under her breath.
“You okay?”
She nods once and goes right back to praying, eyes now closed tightly as the plane picks up speed and starts down the runway. Unlike most people, I find takeoffs and landings exhilarating; the flight itself, a snore-fest.
One more glance at my uneasy employee and I briefly consider holding her hand until we land in Atlanta. Not that I believe the mere touch of my hand will cure all her fears, but ever since that weird evening at the office a few weeks ago I can’t quit wondering what it was about that brief touch that sent us both running for cover.
Since I’ve also spent the past few weeks reminding myself she is my employee, I force the concern aside and turn my attention to the mound of paperwork in front of me. This last minute business trip could be a windfall for the company: contracts to build numerous high-rises in and around the Atlanta area. We did the number crunching and worked out most of the details via teleconferencing and emails, so this trip is merely a meet and greet and to sign on the dotted lines. Most likely I didn’t need to bring Mia on this trip, but since there’s a cocktail party being thrown to celebrate the merger, I felt it necessary to have someone famil
iar on my arm so to speak. There’s nothing worse than being surrounded by a bunch of strangers and forcing conversation. Casual conversation isn’t my strong suit on a good day, let alone when I’m floundering in a sea of unknowns.
She finally starts to breathe normally once we level out in the air, glancing over at me, grumbling, “Flying doesn’t bother you, does it?”
“No, it does not.”
A few moments later, she says softly, “I really enjoyed meeting your mom.”
My eyes dart to hers. “Thank you. She enjoyed meeting you as well.”
The flight attendant greets us, offers us something to drink, and once I’ve got a beer in hand, and Mia’s sipping on a glass of white wine, she asks, “What time is our meeting tomorrow?”
“Nine. We can meet at eight to review everything ahead of time.”
She nods. “Yes, of course.”
Thankfully, she’s silent for the remaining time of the short flight, saving us both from any more stilted and uncomfortable conversation. Since our flight didn’t leave Miami until late in the afternoon, we land in Atlanta well after seven, when the sun is just beginning to set over the city. The driver whisks us off to the hotel, which is located downtown, and I’m instantly amused at her wide-eyed, awe-struck expression as we wind through the city and pull up to the swanky hotel.
“Wow,” she exclaims when we walk into the lobby. She glances at me and grins. “This place is amazing.” Her childlike exuberance makes me want to do all sorts of inappropriate things—thoughts I immediately shove aside as I move toward the reception desk.
She’s still standing in the middle of the lobby, gawking, when I finish checking in, and with a gesture to gain her attention, she diligently follows along as the porter leads us up the elevator to our rooms.
I shove a generous tip in the porter’s hand and allow him to hand over our bags then shove Mia’s card key toward her. “I’ll meet you in the morning right here at eight o’clock.”
