“I’m sorry, Marianne,” I said, quietly.
If I thought I was blushing in the boardroom, I was certainly blushing now.
Everyone in the office must have heard her say that about my panties.
But on top of my embarrassment, the gravity of my situation was finally sinking in, too.
I needed this job.
Greg and I were barely scraping by as it was; I just couldn’t go back to retail.
“I don’t know what came over me,” I murmured, knowing that there was simply no use in arguing with her. Besides, it was the truth.
All I could do now if I wanted to save my ass was agree that I’d messed up, even though I knew deep down that, if anything, my outburst might have made the difference between Blake completely dismissing us as an agency and perhaps taking us on after all.
“It’s just lucky I was there to talk him around,” Marianne continued, doing what she always did and completely re-imagining the scenario, placing herself at the center of it, skewing the facts until they fit whatever argument she wanted to make at that moment. “What did you think you were you doing? Trying to upstage me?”
I shook my head.
“Think you’re ready to run this company, is that it? Think your ideas are better than mine?”
I felt my cheeks begin to sizzle with heat; she was right, it had been deeply unprofessional of me to question her judgment in front of the client. And anyway, what the hell did I know? I wasn’t even sure I had what it took to be an interior designer, to build up an agency on my own, the way Marianne had done. I mean, sure, with her shoulder pads and obsession with leopard print she was a little out of touch these days, but she still had that necessary spark, that fiery don’t-give-a-damn core that, deep down, I wasn’t sure I possessed.
“I’m really sorry, Marianne,” I repeated, just hoping to God that she didn’t fire me. “I promise it won’t happen again.”
“You’re damn right it won’t happen again!” she snapped, little flecks of spittle frothing at the corners of her heavily-lipsticked mouth. “You want to know why?”
I shook my head, the cold dread settling on me now.
She’s definitely gonna fire me.
“It won’t happen again, Jessica, because it’ll be a cold day in hell before I take you out on a job with me again.”
At this I felt a flush of relief.
I can make rent after all!
“Now get out of here and leave me to think,” she hissed. “Since your little outburst, I’ve got a lot more work to do. Let’s just hope it hasn’t cost us Blake Matthews altogether.”
I turned and quickly left Marianne’s office, before she could change her mind. To be honest, I was relieved that I wouldn't be attending any client meetings for a while. Hiding away at my little desk in the far corner of the office, wading through emails and keeping my head down, was far more my style anyway. I actually gave a little sigh of relief when I dropped into my chair, never thinking I’d be so glad to be back here at my desk again, ready to once more spend the afternoon grappling with Photoshop.
I turned on my iMac, and as I was waiting for it to boot up, I felt a hand softly touch my shoulder.
I looked up.
It was Talia — a far more senior assistant at the agency. She’d been here for “decades” (or so she liked to joke), and had slowly built up a small client base of her own over the years. But of course, that still didn’t stop her having to report in to Marianne on every little choice or development she made along the way. I often looked at Talia and wondered if that was really what I wanted, if that was what I was aiming for, five or ten years down the line …
“Hey, I heard what went on in there,” she said softly, her pretty face breaking out into a friendly, considerate smile.
“I’m sure you did,” I replied, remembering again just how freaking loud Marianne had been while balling me out. “I bet the web design agency on the next floor heard most of it, too.”
“I just wanted to say that you shouldn’t let her get to you,” Talia said, letting her voice drop to a whisper and checking briefly that Marianne was still safely in her office before she continued. “You just need to keep your head down for a little while, let the wicked witch call the shots. Let her think you've learned your lesson. Don’t push too much, too quickly. Your time will come one day.”
“Thanks,” I replied.
But the thing was, I didn’t even know if I wanted my time to come. I mean, was I really cut out for this business? Did I really have what it took?
The truth was, I had no idea.
I set about my work. There was tons to do. I tried to focus, but my mind was elsewhere. And the funny thing was, it wasn’t Marianne’s humiliation of me that was occupying my thoughts. No. I just couldn’t get that final look Blake gave me out of my head.
§
“So, how'd it go, my little hotshot designer?” Greg called from the kitchen, almost the minute I stepped into our tiny studio apartment in Brooklyn. He knew that I’d been working myself up all weekend over my first client meeting with Marianne, and I understood that he was just trying to show an interest in my work, but what the hell was I supposed to say?
Oh, hi honey! Actually the meeting went kind of badly because I lost my head over some cute guy and I embarrassed Marianne and almost lost my job!
I slipped off my shoes, sighing as the aching arches of my feet touched against the cool wooden floorboards and, before I walked to the kitchen, I couldn’t help but cast a critical eye around the apartment. It had been my very first grown-up design project, and I felt my gaze assessing the room once more, taking in the 1950's fabrics, retro vases and furniture I’d managed to pick up cheap from Goodwill (or sometimes even free from dumpsters and giveaways on Craigslist), trying to train my eye to know what worked and what didn’t in such a small space.
I was particularly proud of an antique mirror I'd recently salvaged from a pile of trash, stripped back and repainted. Yet Greg was still to notice or remark on it, even though it hung prominently on the wall of the room that served as both our living room and our bedroom.
But then, noticing things isn’t Greg’s strong suit, is it?
No point in buying sexy new lingerie to surprise him with, or getting a stylish new haircut, because they'd be invisible to him. Not that I could afford them, anyway.
But while Greg might not notice some of the little things, he had so many good qualities, too. He was so kind, not just to me but to strangers, animals, even my parents when they were driving me wild. And he seemed to have all the patience in the world, keeping calm and collected whenever I worked myself up into too much of a state over something, like I always seemed to do.
Not to mention his cooking! I thought, as a delicious smell wafted over from the tiny kitchen.
I paused in the doorway, watching him put the finishing touches to our meal, the sleeves of his crisp white barman’s shirt rolled up to the elbow, revealing his slim tanned arms beneath, his wild, dusky-blonde mop of hair tamed as much as he was able, his thick brow fixed in concentration as he added a little more spice to the sizzling contents of the large pan on the stove.
This little routine was something Greg had perfected — his shift at the bar started two hours after mine finished at Marianne’s office, which gave him just enough time to cook supper for us, before he headed out. Working in a bar wasn’t what Greg wanted to do long-term (he’d studied Business Management, but he just didn’t have the connections or savings to take one of those much-needed internships or MBAs just yet).
But still, he just made the best of it, happy to be picking up some managerial experience along the way and working himself ragged, both at the bar at night and at the library, poring over MBA textbooks, during the day.
In a lot of ways, Greg was very traditional, way more so than me. It had been his idea that we make the time to sit down and eat together each night before he left for work. He’d even asked my parents for permission for us to move in
together, seeing as we weren’t married! And, deep down, I knew that if it was up to Greg we wouldn’t even be here in Brooklyn, renting the only apartment we could afford between our two salaries, this tiny place with paper-thin walls in Ocean Hill.
No, we’d be back in Glenbrook Falls, settling down, ready to raise a family. He’d be working at my dad’s garage, while I set up a beautiful new home for us. Greg had never had much of a family of his own, you see: brought up by a working mom in Philadelphia, never really knowing much about his dad. And I knew for sure that my own family background — two parents who loved me dearly and who would do anything for me — was something Greg wanted to have so much, too.
But at the same time, despite all that, I reminded myself, he was here, willing to support me, to work night shifts in order to help me find out what I wanted to do first, to help me pursue my dream of becoming an interior designer, even if that was something I was secretly starting to doubt I’d ever achieve …
“So?” he asked again, turning to face me from his place by the oven, his face breaking out into a kind, warm smile. “How was the big meeting with Blake Matthews …”
If anyone knew how much extra work I’d put into that meeting, it was Greg.
Like last Sunday, for instance? It was his one night off, it was supposed to be our date night, but instead I'd spent it on his ancient laptop, researching Blake until 2 a.m., keeping Greg awake as I formed my picture of Blake Matthews, property developer and billionaire playboy, serial dater of Victoria's Secret models, a guy who'd never done a real day's work in his life.
But it was a picture I was beginning to doubt.
Maybe there was more to Blake than Business Insider made out.
I was desperate to change the subject, but I couldn't stop the flush of blood to my cheeks as I thought about the many times during the meeting when Blake’s eyes had met mine and the sheer electricity of our handshake.
“Oh, let's not talk about work for once,” I said, turning away so Greg couldn't see my blushes. “Tell me about your day.”
As Greg told me the minutia of his day, I felt guilt wash over me like a wave.
Admit it, you felt something when Blake touched you, didn’t you?
Marianne wasn’t quite so wrong, was she?
It did get your panties wet.
And I thought I wasn't that kind of girl.
§
“Okay, I’m leaving!” Greg called from the doorway, a little while later.
I’d been washing the dishes while he got ready for work, and I dropped what I was doing, quickly drying my hands then rushing through the apartment, overwhelmed by a strange urge.
“Wait a moment …” I called.
“What...” he began to ask, but I didn’t let him finish his sentence, pressing myself hard against him, kissing him on the lips, pushing my tongue urgently into his mouth, feeling a little shiver of excitement run through me as he responded, taking control, his hands cupping my ass eagerly through my skirt as I ground myself hard against him.
Still kissing him, I let my hand run down his chest, my fingers finding that hot firm bulge in the smart black pants he wore for his bar-tending job. I began to softly work him through the fabric, enjoying getting him all steamed up, feeling his cock grow harder and bigger. And then, just like that, I stopped, purposefully pulling myself away again, leaving him flushed and gasping, his brow knitted in playful confusion at what had just happened.
“What was that for?” he said, softly, his mouth curling into a smile.
“I just wanted you to make sure you thought about me tonight,” I replied, feeling a cheeky little smile of my own curl at the corners of my lips. “Have a good night!”
And with that, I turned around, feeling Greg’s hungry, lusty eyes on my ass as I sauntered sexily back to the kitchen, making sure to put a cute little swing in my step for good measure.
I heard the door slam closed, and then I was alone in the apartment, feeling the breath shivering in my throat, feeling my heart still pounding, feeling my pussy softly throbbing, the blood rushing through my veins. It looked like I’d turned myself on just as much as Greg …
I glanced at the half-finished dishes in the sink, but now my mind was elsewhere.
I don’t know why, but growing up I’d never really considered myself a particularly ‘sexual’ person. I mean, sure, I enjoyed sex with Greg, but I’d never been particularly adventurous, and apart from some rather innocent fooling around with neighborhood boys when I was a teen, I’d never known anyone but Greg in that way.
Because of this, I hardly ever masturbated, just focusing my energy and desires into our lovemaking, but that night in the kitchen, I felt a strange new urge take over me.
Standing by the counter, I felt myself tugging my skirt upwards, the material sliding slowly up my thighs, until I was able to slip my hand beneath the waistband of my sensible cotton panties, registering with a shiver just how damn wet my pussy had become. I closed my eyes as I began to play with myself, toying softly with my swelling clit, my thoughts shifting from the memory of Greg’s hands cupping my buttocks, his eager tongue exploring my mouth, to something else entirely — to a fantasy of Blake, imagining that it was his hot hand between my legs, that it was his fingers working my clit slowly and steadily towards release.
I gasped, sucking on my lip, knowing I should stop, knowing just how guilty I would feel as soon as this was over.
But I didn’t stop.
There in the empty kitchen, I worked myself into a shivering state of pleasure, whimpering as I came, thoughts of Blake not Greg swirling around my head …
CHAPTER THREE
Ping ping!
It was still dark when I was woken by my iPhone text alert. I knew exactly who the message was from before I opened it. Groggy and half asleep, I reached out to lift my cell from the night table, bringing it towards my face and wiping my thumb across the touchscreen.
Sure enough, it was from Marianne:
Change of plan: before you come into the office this morning I need you to go back to Roche Bobois and pick up that Galice lamp that we looked at last Weds for the Fredrickson apartment. Also I’m sick of coffee. Can you pick me up something healthy to drink for a change?
I groaned and sat up in bed, rubbing at my sleepy, half-closed eyes.
Greg stirred next to me, turning onto his side.
“Everything okay?”
“Fine,” I said. “Just the wicked witch as usual.”
Greg smiled sympathetically, rubbed my back, then flopped over onto his other side and immediately fell back asleep.
At times like this, I felt like the only person in the world whose working day started so early. But at the same time, I did feel some relief at the thought that if Marianne was bossing me around with menial tasks like normal, then at least my neck wasn’t on the line anymore. I’d made my big mistake and now, hopefully, it was in the past.
This is a fresh start, Jessica.
And it was this positive thought that I tried my hardest to focus on, as I turned on the bedside light, then dragged myself out of bed and made my way sleepily towards the bathroom.
6 a.m.
Marianne would already be in Central Park by now with her personal trainer, desperately trying to cling onto what was left of her slim, youthful figure.
I yanked off my baggy old summer camp T-shirt and let my comfy faded pink PJ bottoms drop to the floor.
Ready for my fresh start – for a new, improved Jessica – I took a long, unflinching look at myself in the bathroom mirror.
My eyes travelled critically over my pale skin, over my slim, boyish hips, and over my breasts that, while pert and firm, were definitely a little on the small side, my long, slightly unruly, chestnut brown hair falling over my skinny shoulders.
It still seemed so strange to me sometimes that I’d actually grown into a woman. Because often, I still felt like a little girl: confused, bewildered, and completely out of place in the adult world. It fe
lt like there was some secret club that I was still waiting to be let in on. I’d often find myself looking at all the confident, stylish, successful young women I passed on the sidewalk and wonder if they too were just pretending, if they felt just as lost and helpless as me on the inside?
But most of all, I knew I should be happy and thankful: I mean, here I was, still only twenty-two years old, and I’d actually made it to the big city, despite my parents constant misgivings. And I was actually finally living with Greg, my college sweetheart, too. Wasn’t that what so many people dreamt of?
So why was it that a part of me still felt so unfulfilled?
§
“Here you go,” I said, placing the gaudy lamp down on Marianne’s desk alongside the ‘something healthy’ (a seaweed, bee pollen and goji berry smoothie) that I’d chosen for her from a nearby health food store.
“Thanks, Jessica,” she said without taking her eyes from her computer screen. She’d really mastered the art of saying ‘thank you’ without meaning it in the slightest.
I glanced across her large desk, at the many colorful swatches of fabrics, the copious photos and clippings from magazines, the myriad sketches and notes she had made every day in her meticulous elegant handwriting, and again wondered if I’d ever have what it took to get where she was, and how long it might take.
I reminded myself Marianne had started this business all by herself, from scratch, many many years ago, and I was only a lowly assistant — the latest in a long line of clueless young girls who desperately wanted to get into this industry.
You should feel thankful to have a job like this at all; usually they go to people with connections.
And at least she’s not annoyed with you any more ...
Taming Blake (A New Adult Romance): The Complete Trilogy Page 2
