by Kim Karr
“You have to get this out before it stains,” he proclaims, looking up at me, his voice trembling with worry over the fabric.
“It’s fine,” I say, trying to remain calm. The fact that I’m not hissing through my teeth is testament to just how calm I am. Thank fuck I didn’t go commando. The extra layer might be retaining the liquid, but at least I’m certain the goods aren’t that badly scorched. Not that I’m aware of.
Shit. I’m not sure I can feel them. “Where’s the restroom?” I ask in a sudden panic.
Maggie is standing utterly still, like a mannequin at a department store, and I am almost certain her remorse for Jordan is gone, and now she’s really trying to hold it together and not laugh her ass off at me.
“Yes, yes, go to the restroom.” Jordan points through the frosted glass walls of the workroom. “It’s just a few feet from my office.”
Right, his office. Fuck me right now. Like I know where that is.
A tour would be nice.
I think I’ll wait to ask Maggie for that until later.
Standing up, Jordan rushes to the phone. Twisting around with the receiver on his shoulder, he says, “Maggie, be a dear and show Keen where the restroom is so he can get those dreadful pants off while I call down to the wardrobe closet to get some fresh clothes brought up,” and then twists right back.
The evil gleam in her eye matches the fake smile on her face.
Yet my smirk is completely genuine. “Yes, Maggie, be a dear and help me out of my pants.”
This is me keeping my edge, while trying to figure her out.
Hate.
Lust.
Disinterest.
I have no fucking clue what she is feeling right now.
In the meantime, I might as well get something out of this.
Maybe she’ll be a dear and pat me down, too.
Marching past me with narrowed eyes, she takes hold of my tie and yanks me out the door, muttering something under her breath.
Looks like asking for a handy is out.
15
BACK TO DECEMBER
Maggie
Keen Masters is the male version of Miranda Priestly from The Devil Wears Prada.
You know who she is—the control maniac who rules her empire with an iron fist. Okay, so how do I get that role?
Ha, just kidding.
But really, if it turns out Keen has a dog, and asks me to take it to the vet, I am so going to punch him right in the nuts. No, better yet, I’ll take his car. And the best part is, I don’t know how to drive stick.
Just as long as the little doggie doesn’t get hurt.
“When will the spring ads run?” Jordan asks me.
Since Simon Warren has been running on a skeleton budget since Cam took it over last summer, I am the sole fashion merchandiser right now. Before I started, the position was unfilled, the girl who held it having left before the takeover.
Addressing Jordan, and only him, because ever since the little coffee accident this morning Keen hasn’t looked at me once, I answer, “They are scheduled to go up in billboard form on March first and will start running in the fashion magazines on March fifteenth.”
Keen taps his pencil on the pad of paper in front of him. I can’t see it from where I’m sitting, but I bet he’s drawing pictures of girls’ boobs all over, or something like that. “In what markets are the billboards and which publications are the ads running?”
Jordan turns toward me.
I once again address only Jordan with my response.
You see, fashion merchandising involves developing campaigns, displays, and advertisements, all of which I have been preparing over the last two months for the fall collection.
Jordan’s head volleys back and forth between Keen and myself, both of us refusing to look at each other.
Apparently Jordan’s neck must be bothering him because he stands up and says, “What do you say we go to lunch?”
“Sounds great,” Keen and I answer at the same time.
“Super fantastic. You two decide where you’d like to go and meet me out front in five minutes—I have a few calls to return,” Jordan tells us as he hurries out of the room.
Realizing this little war between Keen and me isn’t helping the greater good, I slip gracefully from my chair and circle around the table, where I stop right beside Keen’s chair. “What do you like to eat?” I ask sweetly.
See, I know when to cut the shit. I’m professional like that.
Keen turns in his seat, and when he sees me standing there with my legs slightly parted and a smile on my face, he practically falls out of his chair.
Now, I also know how to attract a man.
Not just him, but all men.
One word—sex appeal, or is that two words?
Well, whichever. You know what I mean.
Anyway, regardless of what we decided this morning, I can see the heat in his eyes.
The attraction is still there.
He wants me.
I want him.
The difference between him and me is that I can easily dispel it. All I have to do is think back and remember those long days of unanswered messages.
So that’s what I do.
16
I WISH YOU WOULD
Maggie
My stomach rumbles, and the hunger I’ve been fending off since deciding to order only a salad at lunch roars to life.
A headache follows, poking at my temples like a dozen tiny devils dancing in my brain.
Needing to excuse myself to raid the kitchen for a cup of coffee and hopefully a granola bar or something, I stuff my swollen feet back into my shoes and stand up from the conference table. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”
Keen looks up and I swear there is concern in his eyes. “Yeah, it’s probably a good time to take a break.”
Jordan and his team all stand and stretch, and I scurry out of the workroom and down the hall to the kitchen.
Score!
Pouring some vanilla cream into a white mug, I select my coffee flavor, vanilla too, and place my cup under the Keurig.
I close my eyes while the coffee brews, and an unsolicited image of Keen kissing me all the while backing me up onto Jordan’s empty desk until he settles my ass against it pops into my mind.
My eyes fly open.
No!
That is so not happening.
Sure, I saw him looking all hot and sexy while he sat at Jordan’s desk going over numbers, but I cannot want him anymore.
And yes, he ended up being halfway civil at lunch when he offered to pass me the basket of bread.
Stubbornness made me refuse it.
Boy, I wish I had that loaf of bread now.
And then he did discuss quietly with me a little about his fall from Wall Street, in general terms, and I almost understood his need to forget his life.
Almost.
And yes, when our legs touched under the table, I felt that spark, and I know he did too.
Still, we are over.
We both said so.
Daydreams aren’t going to change that.
The dripping of the coffee is like a soothing lullaby and I close my eyes once again.
Unbidden, my mind wanders once again. His mouth never leaves mine as he moves between my legs to push me back. His hand cups my neck beneath my hair and he tugs, only just a little. His lean swimmer’s body clothed in his most tailored suit is a sight that makes me lick my lips.
Mmmm.
Wait—that noise was the coffeemaker alerting me my cup is ready, not me. I swear.
I think I should call Elliot and ask him to meet us out tonight. I could use a distraction from all things Keen Masters.
Opening the granola bar, I take a bite and then a sip of coffee.
Oh, so good.
Closing my eyes to chew, I can’t ignore the image of him in front of me with that hard body, tracing his fingertips along my hem and pushing it up. Of him finding my panties and tearing them off. O
f him pushing his fingers inside me and teasing me to the brink of orgasm until I scream out his name.
“Are you okay?”
My eyes fly open. “Keen!” I jump.
He smirks. “Thinking of me?”
Scowling, I throw my granola in the trash, and yes, you guessed it, I want to throw it at him. “No, I wasn’t,” I snap.
Well, yes I was, but I can’t actually admit that, now can I?
He leans against the doorframe in his Simon Warren clothes and I feel like a little drool has leaked from my mouth. “My mistake. I saw the dreamy look in your eyes and just assumed.”
I cross my arms over my chest to hide my straining nipples. “You know what they say about assuming.”
Pushing off the door with a smirk, he claps his hands together. “We only have about an hour before dinner, so let’s get to it.”
Grabbing my coffee cup, I sashay right by him, swaying my hips in an exaggerated motion.
The intake of his breath is the only thing I need to hear to know where his eyes are. And they are right where I want them—on my ass.
Which, mind you, would have been bare under his palms right now, had he not interrupted my daydream.
Such a party pooper.
17
YOU BELONG WITH ME
Keen
The four-letter word blinking in red above my head is like a huge warning bell from hell.
L. O. V. E.
Seriously, I’m afraid to look at a girl without giving her the wrong vibe.
The dance club is named Cupid, and the owners definitely believe in peace and love, because let me tell you, they aren’t shy about flaunting it.
It’s everywhere.
This isn’t the Hollywood super club I remember from Brooklyn’s MTV reality-show days, but aside from the hearts and flowers plastered on the walls, it is pretty damn close. Eight thousand square feet of play space with three rooms, a sunken dance floor, and an elevated DJ booth.
Green screens line the perimeter and burlesque dancers have a stage of their own in the next room. I think pole dancers are one room from there.
I’m content right where I am.
I take the glass of scotch from the cute bartender, who makes certain to make eye contact while she mixes another drink. “Thanks.”
“No problem. Anytime.” She smiles and gives me a nod.
I can read the gleam of interest in her eyes.
Cocktail waitresses, bartenders—they are always an easy score, but like the last six weeks I’m not into scoring, especially tonight.
Without another glance her way, I swirl the liquid in my glass and then take a sip, relishing the tang of the cool liquid on the back of my throat. It’s my second, although technically not really; I never finished my first. It’s been sitting here, untouched.
The club is crowded, the thump of top-forty music loud in my ears. I scan the open space, then the row of low benches against the railing that separates the bar from the dance floor. Not for any reason in particular, but I am curious where Maggie is. After dinner she hopped in another car, and Jordan rode along with me.
I have yet to see her.
Jordan’s body shakes with amusement, and for a moment I had almost forgotten I wasn’t alone. “Come on, Camden Waters, a Gen Ex’er?”
Handing him his freshly poured Cosmo, I take another sip of my scotch and let my eyes wander as I continue my conversation with the head designer at Simon Warren, who, if I take this job, will report directly to me. “No fucking joke. As a reformed Gen Ex’er myself, I probably should come clean that before my days on Wall Street, I lived in jeans and baseball hats worn backwards.”
“But you’d never know it,” he responds, glancing at my black dress shirt and gray dress slacks.
Considering he selected them for me earlier, I’m not so sure about that.
After all, dog-and-pony shows are a Wall Street tradition. And here in LA, I’m not quite sure it’s any different, just that the brass and balls have been replaced with fake hugs and air kisses. Yet, I have a gut feeling Jordan is genuine. “Trust me, Jordan,” I tell him, “any style I have comes from walking into Bergdorf’s men’s department and informing the salesclerk that I worked on Wall Street. Like magic, the suits, shirts, ties, and shoes were presented to me in a mix-and-match kind of way. It wasn’t quite like Garanimals, but it was pretty damn close.”
Practically recoiling, Jordan crushes his hand to his chest. “Never say that word in my presence again.”
Laughing, I have to push the envelope; it’s just my nature. “Garanimals? It’s a shame you don’t like the concept, because I was thinking about having you come up with some kind of mix-and-match coding system for the fall line.”
The little speech he gives me in return about the value of selection and individual style is enlightening. I’d like to think I learned a thing or two over the past five years about fashion, but spending the day in the workroom made me realize that I don’t know shit.
I have a lot of fucking studying to do.
Deep pockets, shallow pockets, cuffs, French cuffs, zippers, pleats, tucks, tapers, folds, plain seams, counter seams, slot seams, metal buttons, wooden buttons, plain buttons, shirt buttons, and that’s not all. The list of fashion terminology goes on and on.
Sure, running a company comes down to knowing your costs and your market, but I’m not stupid, I also know that I have to understand the product, which is why Cam arranged this little two-week lesson of his.
The issue—I am not a good student.
And there is no way Maggie can be my teacher.
Well, there is a way.
Yet, I can’t go there.
Okay, so I can.
Truth is, forcing me to spend time with Maggie wasn’t a bad business decision on Cam’s part. She certainly knows her shit. But I have to say, having her around me is distracting as hell. After the coffee incident, and the memory of her on her knees in front of me, I did my best to ignore her. To listen to what Jordan had to say and step away whenever Maggie and I were left alone.
Her little game was too much for me—and I really hate to admit that.
Besides, my thoughts were nothing but pure filth. Her under me, on top of me, on my lap, on my desk—shit, even behind me in the fucking stairwell.
If I thought the day was long with the hem of Maggie’s dress constantly lifting and those long legs of hers going on for miles and miles, unless she wears a burlap bag, the next two weeks are never going to end. Oh, and Cam can stick needing any further assistance after that right up his ass.
Nursing my scotch, I listen politely to the group of people that has gathered around Jordan and me. And they all want to know everything about me—who I am, where I came from, what I like and dislike, my hobbies—hell, I’m not sure how personal they are going to get.
Condom choices, perhaps?
Favorite fucking position, maybe?
Okay, so the last two are exaggerations, but no lie: earlier today I was asked my height and weight. To be fair, though, that was because the tiny backseat of my Porsche is now loaded with Simon Warren samples.
Feeling restless, I excuse myself from the mix and go in search of what I know I shouldn’t—Maggie.
I can’t stop myself.
After circling the club a couple of times, I finally spot her tucked in a corner booth with some guy with a close-shaved head, who’s dressed in denim from head to toe.
Is that a joke?
Watching them, it becomes very evident that Maggie exudes a certain sexuality that I’m not sure she’s aware of. Trust me, though, when I say this douchebag sitting with her is very aware. As if to prove my point, he tugs a strand of her hair and when she shakes her head no, he leans in and whispers something in her ear. She smiles and gives him a nod and then they both stand up.
Holy shit!
Maggie must have changed somewhere between dinner and arriving here. She’s wearing a very short skirt that I try not to notice hugs her hips just ri
ght and an extremely low-cut silk top that I know can’t possibly fit a bra beneath it because it is way too skimpy. She also let her hair down, literally. Her long blond locks hang straight down her back. And to top it off, she’s wearing the same pair of fuck-me shoes she wore all day.
Those really need to be banned from the workplace.
In the few steps she and that douchebag have taken, the strap of her top has fallen off her shoulder. When said douchebag reaches over and tugs it back into place, my body tenses with an odd sensation that feels like small bombs are erupting beneath my skin.
Fuck, I want to race over there and wrap my arms around her just to keep this guy’s eyes and hands off her.
But that would be ridiculous.
She already told me she is done with me.
That my fuck-up is unforgivable.
Yet, I have to admit, I’m not sure she really believes what she says. That spark between us is still there, and if she wants me half as much as I want her, this thing between us is not over, not even close to being over.
The two of them make their way through the crowded dance floor, and from my vantage point up here I’m able to see them perfectly.
As soon as they start to bounce to the rhythm, the dude dressed in denim starts to thrust his hips and I lose my shit.
Even though I know she isn’t what I need right now, and I sure as shit am not what she needs, that doesn’t stop my neurons from firing or my legs from moving.
This is not a good idea.
I have this insane need to defend what’s mine, yet she isn’t anywhere near mine. The thought is so absurd—I’ve never even fucking had a “mine.”
In fact, she’s the only one that ever came close, and I screwed that up when I couldn’t cope with the reality that was my life and just needed to escape it all.
At six feet three inches, I’m able to make my way through the crowd with ease and before I know it, I’m standing in front of these two—the girl I have to see every day for the next two weeks and the guy she must have picked because he’s not me.
