As I turned to leave her office, I heard her splutter.
I stopped in my tracks and turned back around again.
“What the hell is this?” she snapped, thrusting her cup towards me, a look of pure disgust etched on her face.
“It’s … it’s…” I stammered, feeling that now-familiar sinking feeling.
Not another mistake.
“It’s disgusting, is what it is!” Marianne interrupted. “I asked for coffee! What in the hell is this crap?”
I bit my lip, forcing myself to remain silent, to not screw things up with another interruption. After a good eleven months of Marianne’s frequent temper tantrums, mood swings, and outbursts, I knew by now that there was absolutely no use in arguing with her about anything.
I know what you’re thinking. Any rational person would just take out their cell and show her her own message, the one asking me for ‘something healthy’. But I knew better than that. She’d simply shake her head and blame me and my stupid, out of date iPhone.
She was never, ever in the wrong.
“Well don’t just stand there, go get me my coffee,” she hissed, shaking her head as she threw the $12 smoothie in the trash, then turned impatiently back to her desk.
“I’m on it,” I mumbled.
I was about to leave her office when she looked up at me once more, piercing me with her most withering gaze yet.
“On second thoughts, don’t bother. You’ve probably got work to be catching up on, right?”
I nodded.
“And if Matthews Inc calls you’ll patch them straight through to me, got it?”
“Sure, Marianne,” I said, forcing my face into a polite smile (even though all I really wanted to do was cry), and then turning, finally heading with relief for the safety of the main office and my own little desk in the corner.
Remember Jessica, I told myself, trying to cling on to that positive thought from this morning, many people would kill to be in your position.
I sat down at my desk and turned on my computer, and as I waited for it to boot up my eyes strayed across to a framed picture of Greg and I, from our last winter in college, both of us smiling widely, madly in love.
Remember Jessica, many people would kill to be in your position.
§
“Hey, are you coming to my show 2nite :-)?” Fallon asked over Gchat, a little later in the morning. She was my best friend in this city, and our messages kept me sane whenever Marianne got too much.
Fallon worked in a painfully hip print studio in Bushwick during the daytime, and played drums in Circles, an all-girl indie rock band, at night. Sometimes, I wondered why she even liked someone as square and uncool as me.
“We’re playing Pianos at 10,” her latest message said, flashing up in its little box on the right-hand corner of my computer screen. “Should be fun. Put you on the list?”
“Maybe,” I replied, knowing deep down that I’d probably be long asleep by ten — this job and trying to see Greg while he worked nights didn’t exactly leave much time for a social life.
Also, on top of that, I still felt kind of out-of-kilter since my silly mistake in the meeting with Blake, and I knew I needed to just let myself unwind on my own and forget about it …
I was about to type my thoughts to Fallon, when something appeared on my screen that caused everything to just stop.
It was an email.
An email from Blake Matthews.
Only I wasn’t looking at my work emails. This was in my private Gmail account.
What the hell is going on?
I stared in disbelief at it, reading the title once more to check my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me. Someone moved behind me in the office, and I hastily shut Gmail down, my heart pounding.
My hand was shaking as I guided my mouse pointer and clicked open the general office inbox, scanning through all the recent emails — customer enquiries and company invoices and so forth — and there was nothing, nothing from Blake Matthews, from Matthews Inc, from his PA, absolutely nothing.
There’s got to be some kind of mistake.
He must have tried to email Marianne and found he didn’t have her address so he’s forwarded the email on to me.
But even as I thought this, another part of me knew, deep down, that the email was entirely intentional. Not only had I seen with my very own eyes that it was, indeed, addressed to me, but also Blake Matthews was not the kind of guy to make mistakes. He was shrewd and decisive; he knew just what he liked — just as I’d seen in our meeting.
And again I thought about the heat of his skin and the intensity of his gaze, and felt a blush rise to my cheeks as I remembered my little episode in the kitchen, my trembling fingers buried in my panties as I shivered and whimpered …
“Jessica?” Marianne’s voice came from behind me and I swivelled in my chair with a start. “Anything from Blake’s people yet?”
I looked up at her, then back to my screen, open on the company inbox, then took a deep breath, swallowing back my nerves.
“Nothing yet, I’m afraid.”
That wasn’t a lie, was it?
§
I worked hard all day, avoiding opening the email, even though it was playing on my mind almost constantly. And all through lunch, all through the afternoon, I thought about it, wondering just what in the world Blake wanted from me.
At six, people began leaving the office, but I remained seated at my desk. It wasn’t that unusual a sight for me to stay behind, finishing off any important last-minute admin. By seven, I was the only one left.
Well, almost ...
I thought she’d already gone, but just as I was working up the courage to finally open my personal emails, I heard the door to Marianne’s office creak open and then the familiar click of her heels, heading towards me.
“Still nothing?” she asked briskly.
“Not yet,” I said, feeling my heart drum hard against my chest, wondering if she could somehow sense that something was up.
“Damn it,” I heard her mutter beneath her breath.
“I’m just gonna … finish up some stuff here,” I explained sheepishly.
“No dazzling social life to attend to?”
I blushed. “No, I’ve just got a few small things to finish off. I’ll be out soon enough,” I said.
“Well, I have a reservation.”
With a final click of her heels I was alone at last.
I’d already texted Greg (Working late, I’ll pick up takeout x), and now I had no more excuses. It was time to read Blake’s email. I don’t even know why I’d been working myself up so much over it, it was probably just a simple thing letting us know we hadn’t got the account ....
But I couldn’t help the way I felt.
There was just something about it, something about him, that felt like it was taking me over …
Here goes nothing.
I reopened my Gmail account, my eyes immediately darting to Blake’s unopened email right at the top of my inbox.
I clicked it.
A Proposition
Blake Matthews
To: Jessica
I liked your ideas in the presentation. Impressive.
I want to give you the job. But I don’t mean through Marianne. You’d be working for me. I’ll match whatever she’s paying you, plus expenses of course, and if you perform well, and I think you will, I’ve got hotels all around the world in need of cutting edge design ideas.
I’d like to get started on this project soon. I don’t wait around.
Blake
917-555-0169
CHAPTER FOUR
The next few days passed by in a haze. I threw myself into my job — making a surprisingly good headway on the masses of work Marianne had thrown at me ever since our little incident, simply because if I was busy, then at least I wasn’t thinking about Blake Matthews.
Can I really do it?
Can I really set up on my own
?
And of course, part of me wanted to find out.
But then at the same time, another nagging part of me told me this was wrong somehow; that it was too easy, too quick — that I hadn’t struggled enough to get this break.
Because when I pictured my own business, I imagined that it came after years of hard work and with a deep sense of satisfaction, because I’d really earned it.
How could my suggestions really have impressed him enough to offer me the job, flat out?
And what if ...
What if it’s not your skills as a designer that he’s after?
What if there’s something else about you that he’s taken a fancy to?
And I think it was this thought that had stopped me from calling him. I already felt more than a little guilty about the not-so-innocent thoughts I’d been having recently, even more since the email, not to mention the fact that I’d been keeping this latest development completely to myself, not telling Greg or Fallon or anyone …
I pushed myself out of my chair and headed for the small private bathroom, situated right next to Marianne’s office. I could hear her through the thin wall, laughing over some private phone call, as I assessed myself coldly in the mirror.
No, I thought.
I’m too plain.
He couldn’t want me like that.
But even if this offer was completely above board, I still just couldn’t bring myself to make the leap. To leave the security of a monthly paycheck. To strike out on my own.
And just then, as if she could hear my thoughts, Marianne let out a howl of laughter.
§
I’d made my decision. On a bright fresh Tuesday morning I emerged from the subway and prepared to start again as I strolled along Park Avenue, where Marianne’s office was based.
I’m gonna work hard and get there on my own, on my own terms, and you know what? I don’t need a guy like Blake Matthews to help me ...
I arrived at the office and sat down at my desk, still feeling a small thrill of satisfaction at the fact that, when I looked at my to-do list, it was now almost completely under control, my hard work over the last few days finally paying off.
I was just about to get on with finalizing the color palette for the new Cohen place, when I heard Marianne’s voice behind me. “Jessica, are you busy?”
I swiveled in my chair, feeling ready to face Marianne, eager to show her what I could do, and maybe even finally get to like her a little.
“Yes, I’m just about to start on …”
“Good,” she interrupted. “I was wondering if you’d run along to Whole Foods. I’m having some friends over for dinner and I’ve not had time to pick up the ingredients. Think you can manage such an important task?”
She thrust a shopping list in my face.
“Sure,” I said quietly, taking the slip of paper, feeling all my enthusiasm and good cheer quickly draining away, replaced in seconds with my old friends bitterness and frustration.
“After all,” she continued, her thin lips curling in a tight little smile, “I think we might need to keep you away from the clients for a little longer yet …”
§
As I headed across Central Park, I tried to focus on my breathing. Back in college, I’d often find myself getting worked up over stupid, tiny things and I’d been taught that breathing was a good way of gaining control over stress and anxiety. But no matter how slowly and steadily I took the air in and out of my lungs, I still felt so out of control.
Doing her freaking groceries?!
Who the hell does she think she is?
This was a new low, and deep down I knew that Marianne was only doing it just to punish me. For all I knew, she probably didn’t even have friends coming over for dinner — she just wanted to humiliate me with a particularly menial little task.
I mean, who would want to go to Marianne’s for dinner anyway?
I was halfway across the park when I found myself unable to take another step.
I could feel it happening again: that same out-of-body feeling, the one that had got me into this mess in the first place.
No, not again ...
But, sure enough, that strong decisive person inside me was taking control once again. She was reaching into my coat pocket, taking out my cell, and opening the email app, quickly tapping on the mobile phone number written beneath Blake’s email signature, before I could stop her.
Wait, don’t do it ...
But it was too late.
I could hear the ring of Blake’s cellphone on the other end of the line as I just stood rooted to the spot, dog walkers, joggers and entwined couples all weaving their way past me.
“Hello?” he answered.
“Is that Blake?” I said, even though I was sure it was him. “It’s Jessica.”
“I’m glad you called,” he replied. “I was beginning to think that maybe you weren’t up to the job.”
Then suddenly it hit me.
You’ve just called Blake Matthews.
You’ve actually called him.
“So, are you?”
An awkward pause, as I puzzled over his question, my head spinning.
“Sorry. Am I what?”
“Are you up to the job, Jessica?”
And when he said my name, I felt this flash of heat run right the way through me.
“Yes,” I replied. “I really, really am.”
“Good. I’ll cancel my twelve o’ clock. We’ll discuss this over brunch. I’ll have my PA email you the details.”
I remained there for a moment, my heart pounding, the phone still pressed to my ear, even though he’d hung up.
What kind of mess have you got yourself into, this time?
My phone buzzed again: an email from Blake’s PA, summoning me to a meeting in half an hour’s time.
It seemed as if he’d made my mind up for me.
§
I’d walked back through the park in a daze, and soon found myself in the restaurant of Blake’s newest hotel, The 212. I’d read about this place in Wallpaper* during my initial research on Blake: all clean Japanese lines and polished wood, very masculine. And the food was supposed to be great as well, some chef Greg raved about. I’d actually thought about taking him here as a surprise for his twenty-third birthday, a couple of months from now.
No wonder then that it was so crowded; crammed full of smartly dressed men and elegant, sophisticated women.
I looked down at my own outfit and felt deeply ashamed.
Nobody else in here would be seen dead in a thrift-store skirt.
“Can I help you, madam?” the Maître d’ asked, looking me over with a slight sneer.
I felt him assessing me coldly: my cheap skirt, my faded blouse, his eyes seeming to linger for a moment on the shabby MOMA tote dangling from my shoulder, and I realized I was probably the only woman in here without a Chanel handbag.
“I’m here to see, um, Mr Matthews?” I said, timidly.
But to my surprise, it seemed as if I’d said the magic words.
All of a sudden his manner changed, his face breaking out in a beaming smile. It seemed as if it wasn’t just me for whom the name Blake Matthews held a certain kind of power.
“Of course, madam, right this way, madam,” he fawned, quickly leading me through the throng to a corner table, set a little apart from the rest of the restaurant. And as we approached it, I caught sight of those startlingly grey eyes, watching me intensely.
His mouth on mine, his hand grazing my cheek, his tongue slipping into my mouth ...
With a blush, I had to quickly remind myself that this wasn’t a date — that this was a business meeting and I needed to cut those thoughts dead, right now.
“Hello,” Blake said when I arrived at the table, lifting himself out of his seat to shake my hand. He was dressed in a casual, loose-fitting blue shirt and cream chinos, casual but also obviously expensive.
Once again I felt the warmth of his skin, his firm grip seeming to linger
a moment longer than necessary, my head filling with the intoxicating scent of his cologne.
“I’m glad you finally made up your mind,” he said.
We both sat down, and he fixed his steely gaze on me once again. It was too much. I kept looking away, around the restaurant, but every time I looked back there he was, staring at me, as if trying to read something deep inside me.
His mouth moving to my collarbone, his fingers tearing my blouse, exposing me ...
My thoughts were becoming deafening.
I had to say something, anything.
“So,” I began, hearing the nerves in my own voice, “what made you choose this place for lunch?”
“Well,” he replied. “Let’s just say it’s my job to ensure that all aspects of my business run smoothly ...”
Why did I say something so stupid?
I knew this was his hotel – I’d seen it in the portfolio!
“Of course,” I stammered.
I needed to change the subject, quick, to save my embarrassment. I felt the words forming on my tongue, and I worried that I was about to say something even stupider, but I just couldn’t seem to stop myself ...
“If I were to leave Marianne and come to you, I’d expect a pay rise, you know?” I blurted out.
“You don’t mess around, do you?” he replied with a wry smile.
I shook my head slowly, inwardly marveling at what I’d just said, and yet desperately trying to hold onto that confidence, too – to stay in character as the kind of sassy girl who could ask for a pay rise, negotiate her own terms, and hold her own against a guy like Blake.
“I’ll have a contract drawn up ... And if you have any reservations, don’t worry, all my employees are very well looked after.”
What does he mean by that?
Again, I could feel my mind straying, off topic.
His hands moving to my breasts, his fingers pinching my nipples, my thighs parting eagerly as I gasp at his touch ...
“I want you to work for me, Jessica, starting with my apartment and then seeing how things go from there … I’ve just bought a chain of hotels that need renovating.”
Taming Blake (A New Adult Romance): The Complete Trilogy Page 3
