by Ella Brooke
I take another deep breath and then try not to think about Mr. Grumpy and Lickable downstairs. He’d certainly never been here before when I’d stopped in either. I would have remembered him, without a doubt.
As I wait, I look around the reception area, and what I can see of the office beyond. It’s large and airy, with wood paneling lining the walls wherever there aren’t bookcases. One wall contains a large bank of windows looking out over onto the busy street below and the skyscrapers beyond. The bookcases are packed with books—and by noteworthy authors too— and a few small sculptures that I know damn well aren’t knockoffs or imitations. There is a large abstract painting on one wall, with a serious looking dark-haired boy on another.
Other than that, there aren’t many personal items around that tell me much about my soon-to-be boss. A Google search about the gallery named the owner, whose name I already knew (of course), but there were no photos of him, which was odd. Nathaniel Stone, I guessed, was a distinguished-looking older gentleman, probably in his fifties, with graying temples and maybe a slight British accent. My father hadn’t said much about his boss, other than that he was a decent guy. I guess that’s all that really mattered in a boss—that they’re not a prick or otherwise awful.
I glance around again and take another deep breath. I wonder, fleetingly, if I’ll see tall, dark, and irritating again on my way out. For all his asshole vibe, my virginal boots are still quaking. Some people might think that not having your cherry popped by the time you’re twenty is rare, but I’ve never been one to give a damn about what others think. My self-respect is more important to me than a stranger’s judgment. Yet having an older man show me the tricks… well, I can’t deny it has appeal. I’ve always fantasized about having a seasoned lover—someone who would make love to me in all the right ways and show me the ropes, so to speak.
Maybe Mr. Alpha downstairs could come in handy, I think and then shake my head at the ridiculous idea. Come on, Poppy. Seriously? Do you really want a guy like that to be your first? He probably goes through women quicker than a Great White devours a seal.
Yes, I have much more important things to focus on just now. Losing my virginity should be the furthest thing from my mind.
Chapter Three
Nathaniel
Once I have things settled with Roberto, I straighten my tie and take the stairs up to my office. I’m more than ready to get further acquainted with Ms. McAdams. Her feistiness—the way she’d stood up to me—was impressive. Not many people do that.
Honestly, it was more than impressive. It had me imagining all of the dirty, nasty things I could do to a little thing like that after hours; just her and me and an empty gallery. I bet she’d be a spitfire in the sack. Loud. Wild. Dirty. Based on her age, which I know is twenty, she’s probably not very experienced, either.
The idea of teaching her a trick or two has my dick almost painfully hard.
I take a deep breath and continue up the stairs, forcing my body to calm the hell down. Whether I want her or not, bending Poppy McAdams over my desk and hearing her scream my name would be bad for business. Her father is a decent man, a hard worker, and even if he wasn’t, mixing business and pleasure is never a good idea. I know this for a fact because I’ve made that mistake once already.
Knowing this doesn’t make it any less tempting, though.
I reach the top of the stairs and turn toward my office. Poppy is sitting in one of the chairs near my desk. I can see from where I’m standing that her legs are crossed, and she’s bouncing her foot as she waits. Nerves or an excess of energy? She has nice posture, and while I’m usually into long hair on a woman, the pixie cut gives me a nice view of her long, graceful neck.
I can just imagine biting it as I—
No. Not going there again.
I approach my office, and she turns around, a smile on her face. The smile vanishes when she sees that it’s me, and I fight back a smirk.
“Oh. It’s you. Where is Mr. Stone?” she demands. Clearly, I’ve made a great first impression on her.
I hold my hand out to her and smile. “Nathaniel Stone, at your service.”
She stands, and the blush that colors her cheeks is so damn pretty I decide right that moment that I’ll make her blush often. When she puts her hand in mine, her skin is so soft, so smooth, my first thought is to wonder if she feels like that everywhere.
Focus, Stone.
“Right this way,” I tell her, gesturing toward my office. She nods, and turns, walking ahead of me into the office. She’s damn pretty from the back, too, and I force my eyes away from her pert little ass and long legs.
Once we’re in my office, I close the door. She turns to me.
“I am so sorry about what happened downstairs,” she begins. “I didn't know that was you and—”
I hold my hand up, and she goes quiet. I smile. “It’s okay. You weren’t wrong. Let’s just do a restart on this whole thing, okay?”
She nods, relief evident in her eyes. “That sounds good.”
“Please, have a seat, and we can get started. If you want some coffee, please help yourself,” I tell her as I make my way around my desk. Instead of grabbing a coffee, she settles into one of the leather chairs on the other side of the desk. I spend a few moments getting situated, trying to get my libido under control. She smells just as good as she looks, a mix of citrus and vanilla, along with something a little sultry that I can’t quite identify. She waits, but her foot is bouncing again.
“So, you’ll be with us for two months, Ms. McAdams,” I begin.
“Please, call me Poppy.”
“Then please call me Nathaniel,” I tell her, and she nods.
“Over the next few weeks, you’ll learn about every facet of running a gallery. While most of your duties here will lean toward the administrative, you’ll also get some hands-on experience in actual art curation and museum management.”
“What types of administrative tasks?” Poppy asks.
“Answering phones, filing, running errands, coffee and lunch runs for myself and the staff. You’ll also assist with the installation of our upcoming exhibit and see more of the behind-the-scenes work that goes along with launching an exhibit like this one.”
“From what I read online, you have a fairly small staff,” she says, and I’m pleased. My last intern barely knew what we did here.
“Yes, it’s myself and my curator, Roberto. We have your father on staff, of course, two people on maintenance, and my administrative assistant, Jeanette, but she’s currently on maternity leave, so you probably won’t meet her.”
“Good timing for an intern, huh?” she asks with a quirk of her lips, and I laugh.
“It does seem to work out for me, doesn’t it?” She gives a small laugh, and the sound of it makes my gut twist. It’s a soft, almost breathy sound, but I have a feeling that if she were comfortable and relaxed, she’d have one of those great, loud, belly laughs. Another thing I want to make her do.
Why am I like this? I don’t even know this young woman, and I’ve already got a running list of experiences I want to have with her, and not all of them center around what I’d like to do with her in my bed. I need to get my head straight.
“Your father is a good man. I don’t know what I’d do without him,” I tell her. That should do it. Bring her dad into it.
She smiles, but it seems a little strained. “He’ll be happy to hear that. I know he likes working for you. He wouldn’t have even suggested me interning for you if he didn’t.”
“Protective dad, huh?” I ask, and she nods with a smile.
“Sometimes,” she says, and there’s that strained smile again. I wonder if she and Bruce get along as well as he’d led me to believe.
“Can you tell me a bit about your educational background and fields of interest?” I ask, glancing over the resume and transcripts she’s provided, and which I had waiting on my desk for this meeting with her.
She launches into a rundown of her focused
areas of study, which, I'm happy to find, match up with some of my own interests. She’s gotten exemplary grades, and she’s already spent some time volunteering in art museums here in NYC, which speaks to her drive and passion for this kind of work.
After she finishes, I nod. “This volunteer work at the Met… was that part of a school assignment?”
She shakes her head. “No. I started volunteering there my junior year of high school. At first, I worked in the museum gift shop and the coat check, but over time, they started trusting me to be a gallery docent, which was a lot of fun.”
“So, this was something you did on your own?” I affirm.
“Yes. All of my friends wondered why in the world I would choose to spend my weekends and school vacations in an art museum,” she says with a laugh, and I like her a little more.
“Well, I don’t see anything weird about that.”.
“Let me guess. You did the same thing,” she says.
“Obviously. They didn’t know what they were missing. Nothing quite like answering the same question about your least favorite piece of art in the gallery for the forty-third time in a day.”
She laughs, then, a real laugh, and I was right—it’s perfect. Loud, clear, and she has a dimple on one cheek when she smiles wide.
I glance down at her paperwork again. I need to get myself together here. This woman is distracting as hell, and I don’t have time to be distracted. Or the desire to be distracted, for that matter. I’d told myself after Danneel died that there would never be another woman who turned me on even half as much as she had. But now… now my carnal instincts are betraying me.
If I didn’t have such a nice view of Poppy’s legs, avoiding distraction might be easier. Her legs are crossed, and the skirt she’s wearing has ridden up her thighs, just a little. So what was a fairly proper, just above knee-length, skirt when she was standing, now gives me a nice view of a smooth, lush expanse of thigh, which only makes me think more about what’s between those thighs.
I take a deep breath, and we spend more time going over her coursework, and she asks a few questions about the gallery.
“Did you always know you wanted your own gallery, or did you want to go into preservation or curation?” she asks.
No one ever asks questions like that. My admiration for Poppy rises a little more every time she speaks, and her personality paired with her beauty is a lethal combination.
“I always knew I wanted a gallery. There’s a certain satisfaction in curating as well, and I did some of that early in my career, but owning a place like this, being able to offer a personal touch to both the artist and my clients… that’s a thrill. And you can’t get more intimate, in terms of art curation, than providing a space like this and getting to experience the art up close, getting to know the artists and help bring their visions to life.”
Why the hell am I talking so much? This is her interview, not mine.
She nods. “That’s kind of what I was thinking, too.”
“So, you want your own gallery someday?”
She shrugs. “Right now, I think I’d be very happy as a curator. But who knows? Maybe that will change eventually.”
I nod. It’s a reminder of how young she is, despite her confidence and feistiness. I had no idea what the hell I wanted at twenty.
I glance up at her, and she’s looking at me, her dark eyes seeming to see far too much.
For a spell, I wonder how much she knows about my history. If she’s as intelligent as she seems, then surely she would’ve done some research on her new boss? But how far back, and deep, would her curiosity have taken her?
I’m inclined to think that if she knew about Danneel or Micah, I would’ve seen pity in her eyes. So, it’s best that she doesn’t know anything beyond what she needs to. I don’t want anyone’s pity. I swam myself back up into life after my wife’s death, and I don’t plan on loving a woman again. Besides, Poppy’s only here for two months. What am I even having such thoughts? She’s just an intern, and I’m just her boss.
Remember that, Stone. Keep it professional, and you won’t have any problems.
Chapter Four
Poppy
I know three things now.
Number one: I am going to love it here. Nathaniel seems like he’s actually prepared to teach me more about art curation and gallery management than I’d hoped. He doesn’t expect me just to be a gopher, and I’m so grateful for that.
Number two: he’s going to be a demanding boss. I can tell from hearing him talk that he expects a lot from his staff, and he seems like a bit of a perfectionist. I’m not worried about this too much. It’ll keep me at the top of my game. But since my goal is to impress him so much that he writes a letter of recommendation when the time comes for me to get a job, I’ll need to keep this in mind.
And number three: I have never wanted to ride a man so badly in my entire life. Just sitting here talking to him is like some kind of magical aphrodisiac, like getting shot with Cupid’s arrow, and like a touch of insanity all rolled into one. His voice has continued to be deep, rich, and smooth, but when he’s talking about something he’s really interested in, like the Dutch masters, which seems to be his own little private area of interest, his voice takes on this energy that’s practically contagious.
He looks at me with those hazel eyes of his, and it feels like he can see straight through me. I know I’m staring at him, but I can’t seem to stop. His eyes go from almost green to almost gold with his moods and as the light in the room changes. Someone should paint him, catching the different moods of his eyes. They should probably sculpt him, too, because the more I look at him, the surer I am that that would be an absolutely stunning work of art.
I need to stop these wild thoughts.
This man is at least fifteen years older than me. He’s rich as sin. He’s my dad's boss, for crying out loud, and for the next two months, he’s my boss, too. My future depends, at least a little bit, on earning his respect.
I glance at his hands, which are currently shuffling through my paperwork. No wedding ring. Good.
Oh, my God. Enough, Poppy!
I can’t get all lust stupid over this man. I can’t be distracted. Even if he weren’t my dad’s boss, which would add another level of weirdness to anything happening between us, I need Nathaniel Stone to respect me enough, to trust me enough, to let me learn as much about his business as possible. He won’t respect or trust me if it’s clear that I want to jump him. I’m not here to open my legs, even though I know a few women who made that particular method work to their advantage. I’m still a virgin too for goodness’ sake. I’m here to learn from him and hopefully earn his professional respect. I can’t mess this up.
I take a breath and answer a couple more questions. I’m just grateful at this point that he’s hit the refresh button on today. Not exactly a great first impression; telling him off and telling him he’s rude. Even if he did deserve it.
“All right. I think we’re good here,” he says, standing, and it’s clear that I’m being dismissed. “I’ll see you at ten tomorrow morning, then.”
I stand as well and reach out to shake his hand. “Yes. I’m looking forward to it. Thank you so much for this opportunity.” There. That sounded almost professional.
He nods and releases my hand, and I pick up my bag and turn to leave.
“Oh, and, Poppy…” he says. I like the way he says my name. A lot.
Damn it, there you go again.
I turn back to him. “Yes?” The large office feels somehow smaller now that he’s standing in it, and I force my eyes to stay on his face. That perfect, chiseled face that could rival even the most vivid description of Dorian Gray.
“If you wear anything shorter than that skirt during your time with me, we are going to have one hell of a problem.”
My jaw drops. What does that mean? I recover as quickly as I can and manage a weak, “Okay,” before hurrying out of the office. I can’t even begin to figure out what he meant b
y that, and he had this unreadable look on his face…
Was I being chastised for my clothing? I glance down at myself as I walk down the stairs. No. This suit skirt is totally work appropriate.
Maybe he’s a prude? I think as I nod to the other guy who had been in the gallery. Now that I’m really looking at him, I recognize his face. He’s been here in the past when I’ve visited. I guess he’s Roberto, Nathaniel’s curator.
As I step outside into the cool autumn air, my mind still races with that damn comment. Nah. He didn’t seem like a prude, either.
It could be the other end of the spectrum. Maybe he was being sleazy.
I walk toward the nearest subway station, mulling that over, and immediately discard it. He’s egotistical and arrogant, for sure, but I didn’t get the sleazy vibe from him. I know what that feels like, and this wasn’t that.
Another thought hits me, and it has me grinning. Maybe tall, dark, and grumpy was indicating that he finds my legs distracting. Maybe seeing my legs every day at work would leave him almost as hot and bothered as I was, just from being around him.
I laugh to myself. I like that idea. And either way, every business suit I own has the same length skirt, so he’ll just have to get over it.
The idea of him lusting over me, even a little bit, increases my good mood even more. I know that, once that original awkwardness had passed, I did a good job in my initial meeting with him. I know that he was impressed by the fact that I’d volunteered for so long, and he actually seemed interested in what I’d said when I was talking about some of the projects I’d undertaken. Smart, cultured, and sexy as hell? Sign me up.
Boss. He is my boss. And my dad’s boss. I grimace at that. Working with my dad is going to be… a little weird. We’re not exactly close, and I know him helping me get this internship is at least partially out of guilt. It’s been a long, long time since I’ve been daddy’s little girl and this will be the most time I’ve spent with him in years. It’s not that Dad’s a bad person—and a part of me will always love him regardless—it’s just… thinking about that situation has me reflecting a bit more on my own reactions and behavior, and how easy it is for powerful men to take advantage of women who work for them…
