I tilt my head to look at him but Magnus tuts and tells me to keep looking out the window. “I’m a prisoner of my own desires, Shaleigh. Step into my shoes here for once, and understand why I have to behave the way I do. That does mean, yes, you’re looking straight out the window. But you’re not looking away from me. You’re joining me. In this moment, we’re united. Joined.”
The thought of being united and joined with him gives me a shiver that instantly runs down my spine. It takes everything out of me not to just tremble as I stand.
I have never experienced arousal of this restrained type before. In the washed-out reflection of the billionaire in the window, I try to read him… and I fail.
He’s too good at this. He’s done this before.
But what do I mean by ‘done this before’? Spoken in secret, held back his desires? Or seduced a secretary?
As much as he turns me on, I don’t see myself as someone who can be with someone who uses the beautiful secretaries he hires — and presumably disposes — to ease his way into someone’s bed.
That’s just not my style.
I don’t have the right words to telegraph that to him, so I stand in silence.
Waiting, aching. Needing him.
“I’ve got nothing booked for me after five, right?” Magnus says, still sounding wrought with lust.
“Yes, sir.”
“I love it when you call me that,” he notes.
“Of course, sir.”
“I asked about my evening plans because I don’t want any. I’d like to make plans with you instead. Would you like to go out with me? There you go: old-fashioned again. I’m not the kind of man who swipes right when he encounters someone who intrigues him. I’m the kind of man who asks. And I’m asking you,” Magnus murmurs.
“It would be a pleasure. But something… normal,” I caution.
“Normal?”
I shift in my position so I’m just a little bit closer to him again, rubbing my hip against his. “No helicopters. No business rivals being shunted from their seats. Just two people, intrigued by each other, trying to get to know one another. Normal.”
Magnus’s impassive face finally cracks, and he permits us both a gorgeous smile. “I haven’t done that before. Normal. Very well, Shaleigh. Let’s do normal.”
Chapter Eight
I don’t want Magnus meeting me at my place — it feels a little too… personal — so I give him directions to meet me at a bookstore instead.
A man like him is bound to love books, right? And if he’s not… well, let’s just say he and I are clearly not meant to be.
Magnus sends me a text and tells me he’s close by.
I feel like I’m already testing him now: things will not be starting out well if it’s a chauffeur telling me that Mr Boyd is waiting in the car.
Instead it’s Magnus himself, entering the bookstore. Standing at the step, trying to find me among the shelves of books, with that charming grin of his, and a bouquet of flowers in his hand.
“So old-fashioned,” I joke as I wave and join him. I can’t help but shake my head with amusement as I gracefully accept the flowers. “Lily of the valley. Hmm… thoughtful.”
“I don’t know what your favorite flowers are,” he confesses. “But I figure you might like my favorite.”
My heart beats the same way it did when we were standing together in the office. Or later, after meetings and calls, and Magnus passed me a handwritten note with his personal phone number.
“How is it I’m your inner office secretary and I didn’t even know you had this number?” I asked then.
“Because while I never switch off work, I do sometimes make time for play.”
He wants to play.
The thought gives me a sizzle of delight.
“This place is lovely,” Magnus notes as he walks straight for one shelf in particular. I half-expect it to be Business & How-To. Instead, he’s chosen Contemporary Literature.
“What sort of books do you like?” I ask. It sounds like such a low-heat question for two people on a date, but I really am curious. I want to know what he likes, and I want to know how well we mesh.
“In all honesty, I have this weird habit where I mostly read short stories during my day. I keep one in the car. It’s easy to read a story and stop for the day. A self-contained narrative. I start it, I read it, I finish it,” Magnus says. “I don’t have to worry about facing an unputdownable book if I consume it voraciously all in one go.”
I ponder on what he’s saying. “That’s interesting, although I feel like you’re missing out. I like the opposite of that. I love my long, sprawling books. Give me an Anna Karenina any day. I love my books thick.”
“Ooh,” Magnus notes. I catch myself blushing, knowing that any guy would make use of my opening to insert a risqué joke.
But Magnus decides against this instead. He shares a smile with teeth, as if nonverbally telling me about his decision to give me a reprieve, and instead asks if we’d like to head on.
“Just a moment more,” I tell him. “I want to buy you a book. Something for you to read and savor. That you have to take time to get invested into. Remember, tonight’s all about normal. That means doing things that you might consider unusual.”
Magnus seems touched by my interest. “Lady’s choice.”
“Have you read Wuthering Heights?” I ask him, immediately getting a brisk shake of his head. “Oh my God. It’s one of my favorites. I can’t believe you haven’t. Give thyself culture, Mr Boyd.”
“Truly, I need to,” Magnus notes, and I suspect he’s only partially joking. “I appreciate you even making time for this brute of a businessman in what must be an immensely packed social calendar for you.”
At this, I have to burst out laughing, even as my fingers find a paperback copy of Wuthering Heights. A beautiful illustration makes the cover, with the negative space drawing out the font for the title. “My treat.”
“You know, most days, I don’t even have a wallet on me. There’s always someone paying for me,” Magnus tells me.
“That’s interesting,” I reply.
“You didn’t think so before? Did you think I walked around town with a wallet full of cash?”
I slip Jerry, the guy who manages the bookstore, the book along with two five dollar bills. I wave away the change. “Actually, I’ve never noticed you with an entourage. Presumably in this scenario you’ve got a bagman with your money. Or a bodyguard. Someone tough and seven foot tall.”
“I like to travel with minimal fuss… but you’re right to notice that. I don’t like being shadowed closely. Maybe there’s a Boyd employee in the background, attending to my expenses. My rule is simple: I don’t want to notice.”
“Will that be the case tonight?” I ask him. Setting the bouquet down on the cashier’s desk, I hand him my gift. Magnus has a wide smile on him as he clutches the book close to his chest. He valiantly offers to hold my bouquet for me, so I can have my hands free for my purse.
“No, for tonight, I’m… doing it the normal way. Plus, I doubt very much where I’m taking you I’ll be able to pay on American Express Black,” Magnus says.
“Speaking of which, where are we going?” I follow his lead as he ushers me out of the bookstore, holding the door open for me as he guides me out, hand gently on my waist.
Electricity sizzles through me. Every touch from this man makes me hyper aware of myself, of where I am, of who I’m with.
Of Magnus Boyd, an alpha male if there ever was one — a man of contradictions.
A man who will be a gentleman to everyone he encounters, but constantly plots to place himself above his rivals.
A man who announces he will resist his impulses, but casts those fears aside so he can take me out on a date.
A man who I can instantly sense wants nothing more than to take me to bed, but enjoys the pursuit as much as the pleasure.
The billionaire’s car — tonight, I assume, because I expect he has a rotating
garage of them — is an open-roofed vintage Italian sports car. I crane my head to read that it’s a Porsche. Of course it is.
“Cars are one of my passions,” he confesses, upon noticing my interest. “These vintage ones, I usually order the parts and assemble them myself. Takes a long time, and I often need assistants. For some reason, though, I can’t ever seem to find any peers for this sort of thing. And employees and colleagues? Well, there’s always this sense that I’m trying to make them do double-duty as some sort of unpaid mechanic. So I handle everything myself. Takes ten times as long… but it’s rewarding. I could tell you everything about this car.”
“As fascinating as it sounds, I don’t think I’d be able to understand,” I laugh. There’s something wonderfully silly about the image of Magnus dressed as those hotrod-driving boys from my small town. Wearing wife-beaters coated in engine oil and grease, bragging nonstop about horsepower. With names like Cletus, not Magnus. A worn wrench in hand, grinning as he talks about how he managed to save money by scamming some parts dealer.
No, the real Magnus probably does it differently. I envision an immaculate, temperature-controlled garage that resembles a studio. Diffuse, perfect lighting, so he looks just a good as the cars he lovingly takes apart.
“That’s a very hands-on hobby of yours, I have to say,” I eventually say. Magnus is already driving, and this car feels like it’s gliding in the night. Smooth, like its owner.
“I’m a hands-on man,” he replies. “Intangible problems are what I deal with every day at work. So I like to disassemble and reassemble tangible problems at home. More fun that way. They feel like puzzles.”
“Am I a puzzle to you, then, Magnus? Mr Boyd?”
“I’d have to get my hands on you first to know,” he murmurs. His eyes are fixed on the road.
Wouldn’t I just love that? His strong, powerful hands. Hands that slam down on meeting tables when he asserts a point — hands that cherish rare car parts as he tries to clean fans, exhaust pipes, hands that polish cars ’til they gleam.
I lean back and allow myself to enjoy the night.
Magnus tells us we’re here, as the car comes to a smooth stop. I finally open my eyes, glad that he respected my space enough to not speak while I was enjoying this experience.
A man who knows how much space to give is a man to appreciate.
“Wow,” I say, immediately laughing. “I almost feel like you’re taking normal to an extreme. Now you’re definitely trying to impress me.”
“You won’t find freshly-caught lobster off the Brazilian coast here, I confess,” Magnus says, waving at our destination: a burrito van, with the name Ernesto’s painted on the side that opens up. “But I can tell you this: there isn’t a finer burrito in town than Ernesto’s.”
He says that with enough confidence that, reading him, I recognize that this is him speaking from experience, not from a last-minute Google search. “I like that you chose this place.”
Magnus nods. “I like that you’ve never been here.”
“I’m not from around here.”
“You act like you are, and I know that’s a conscious decision on your part. Why is that, Shaleigh? You’re so… untethered, somehow. Not to mean you’re free as a bird. But more like you allow yourself a certain neutrality. You’re from nowhere in particular, that’s what you’re trying to imbue. ‘Oh, here and there’, wasn’t that what you said?”
My mouth drops a little, but I compose myself. “Those sound like questions that need to be answered with a mouth full of burrito. I’d have thought you’d have better manners than that, Magnus,” I tease him.
“Fair enough. The lady has me standing corrected.”
We exit his car, parked a few yards away, and he strides up to the counter. “Rice and bean for me, and… well, what will the lady have?”
“The works. I want all of it,” I grin.
“Scratch that. I’ll have the same,” Magnus answers. “And two Cokes.”
“You sure, Mr Boyd?” the middle-aged Latino man on the other side of the counter says. “This is the first time I’ve seen you come with a guest. You sure you don’t want a margarita? Talia makes the best ones, promise.”
“After dinner,” I pipe in, smiling at him.
“Okay, okay, but I’m gonna hold you to it!”
Magnus and I wait for our burritos at the tables and stools set up. “He knows you, then?” I ask.
“This really is me trying to impress you — impress you that I can do normal too.”
I glance at him. He’s ditched the suit jacket, sure, but he’s still here in slacks and an immaculately pressed white shirt. “Gonna be a shame if you ruin a shirt like that when bits of beef and beans spill out of the burrito,” I suggest.
“My tailor’s just delivered this season’s batch of shirts,” he dismisses. “I lose this one, I’ll have another twenty.”
“Remember what I said about normal, Magnus? You just blurted out billionaire. Let’s try that again.”
Magnus frowns, trying to figure out what I mean. But it must have registered to him because his frown bleeds away into a frown. “Yes… yes, you’re right. Well, in that case, what, should I say I’ll be extra careful?”
“Maybe. Or you could think about wearing a t-shirt for the next normal date,” I suggest. “Unless you have tailored t-shirts. That’s not a thing, right? Not even billionaires have t-shirt tailors.”
“I actually do,” he answers. “I mean, if you can afford it, why wouldn’t you get all your clothes tailored? It’s not even that expensive. Take a few zeroes off my net worth and I’d still do the same.”
“American Apparel is a treat for me,” I counter. “One Percent Magnus has probably never once gone shopping.”
“Oh, I have.”
“Gifts for lady loves?” I ask.
“Once or twice before, certainly,” he accepts. “But also for myself. You make it sound like a billionaire just walks into a shop and points at things and they get delivered to his house.”
I think about it. “Well, if you wanted to… you absolutely could.”
“Fair enough,” Magnus says. “I definitely could.”
“I’m sorry if you’re feeling like you’re being put on the spot here. You’ve been nothing but sweet. And respectful. Two words I would never use to describe you if I only knew you from work,” I tell him, cooing. “This is a pretty special night.”
“Think so?” he asks. “Burritos aren’t even here yet.”
“Did someone say burritos?” the gruff guy who runs the van says, swinging in to our table with a tray with two burritos in makeshift aluminum foil plates.
“Oh my God,” I say, smelling the food. “That looks amazing.”
“It’s gonna be amazing,” Ernesto agrees, with visible pride.
Magnus unfolds some bills and places it in the man’s hand. “Thanks a lot, Ernie. This looks massive.”
“Gonna be the messiest date you’ve ever been on,” the man agrees.
I gesture at Magnus with my chin. “And this guy thinks he can take me out to a meal like this wearing his Armani best.”
“It’s bespoke,” Magnus corrects. “But I’ll take my chances.”
Ernesto looks over at the counter, handing Magnus back change that the billionaire immediately returns. “We got forks and knives if you want. Lil’ plastic cutlery to keep your hands clean.”
My date gives Ernesto his winning smile. “No, I fully expect to be as hands-on as possible tonight.”
There’s even a wink for me.
Goddamn, he’s smooth.
We sit in an enforced silence because Magnus immediately tells me he doesn’t want us talking while we eat. “Have to respect the food. Only sounds I want to hear are chewing, swallowing, and moaning in ecstasy.”
I definitely feel myself twinge in delight as I watch his lips form the word moaning. He has such a way with words.
The burrito is as amazing as he suggests, and washing it down with a Coke m
akes it even better. By the time I’m done I’m looking around for napkins to clean my mouth with, but I can’t find one.
Magnus, ever the gentleman, offers me his handkerchief, right out of his breast pocket. “For the lady.”
“Am I to believe you keep that solely for moments like this, Magnus?” I tease him.
“No, but it sure as hell helps.”
Instead, I pout my lips in his direction, letting him take charge — and he dabs my lips with expert pressure. I lick my lips and look at him.
“Oh,” I whisper.
“Yes,” Magnus whispers too.
My eyes watch him return the handkerchief to his pocket, but my body is locked to the way he leans closer to me, lips ready to collide with mine.
He proceeds nearly all the way, leaving an inch for me to have to meet him. And I do, instantly feeling the kiss enter me with an eruption of sheer pleasure.
I moan into his mouth with as much pleasure as I did from the food — if not more.
We kiss and kiss in a neon-lit carpark, with only Ernesto’s van and the other stools around us.
It feels like fireworks.
Chapter Nine
“I feel like we haven’t had much of a chance to get to know you, Shaleigh,” Frances, the outer office girl who’s always wearing those vintage dresses, tells me at the water cooler.
“Yeah, that’s true,” the other two girls add. I glance over in the direction of the inner office, where Magnus is alone, bent over his laptop screen.
“I’d like it a lot too,” I tell them. “I heard Cindy say something about Magnus — Mr Boyd, sorry — wanting each girl trying out the inner office secretary role for a week? I guess I’m the first one. When I get assigned to the outer office, I’ll be able to get to know you girls better.”
Frances smiles. “I have a sneaking suspicion you’ll be in the inner office longer than a week. Mr Boyd seems to really like you. He’s… not as tense around you as he is when he’s talking to anyone else.”
I’m trying my hardest not to blush, thinking about how tense Magnus can get — tense, thick… hard.
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