Fourteen
I 've been on pins and needles the entire day. As I try to occupy my time with research into Nix Malone, I find myself taking unnecessary breaks to step into the doorway of my office just to steal glances at Rome as he works in his. He sits at his desk in black slacks with a matching tailored button-up fastened by silver buttons. His hair is neatly styled as usual, as is his beard that he keeps fairly short.
I wonder if he knows how god-like he is. He moves about his business as if it's the most important and least important thing in the world to him, reviewing documents with Sierra with a face that looks both intrigued and impartial simultaneously. When she asks questions, he doesn't respond with suggestions. He's direct and straight to the point, like his way is the only way—she doesn't have an option unless he tells her she does. Fuck. He's mesmerizing … and all I can think about since I left Jaz and Michael’s house last night. Thanks to them, my heart pounds and rattles my internal organs every time I look at him, wondering when I’ll get the chance to make my move.
What even is my move? How will I know when it’s time to make it? Damn it. I should've never listened to them. Now I’m stuck until I know for sure that he’s not interested in me.
Between the ridiculous and unnecessary trips to my door to look at Rome, I do manage to get work done. I spend some time with Jeremiah, going over ads from previous years that Sandcastle has done for other businesses, but finding that none of them were related to gambling—probably because Mr. Thomas was already involved with it behind closed doors and didn't want to be seen aligning himself with it publicly in any way. So, there’s not much to go on as far as related campaigns are concerned, but at least I know I’ll get to create something fresh. Four other teams are prepping pitches, and while I don't like anything about Nix Malone, I want to win the pitch wars. I decide that in order for me to pitch this properly, I have to let go of my preconceived notions about Nix. It isn't about him. It’s about the customers who will make the casino everything that Nix hopes it will become. Once I clear my head and heart of frustration about Nix, I see a clear vision and begin working toward it.
“Hey, Jeremiah,” I shout from my desk loud enough for Jeremiah to hear it at his cubicle. In a few seconds he's standing in the doorway, eyebrows raised. “Make sure we don't put Nix’s name on any part of this pitch.”
“You don't want to mention the owner?” Jeremiah asks.
“Not once,” I answer. “I've got a feeling that other people will aim their pitch toward him because everyone knows who he is and what his reputation is, which would attract a certain kind of person. It’s sort of like Club Asylum—everyone knows that it’s owned by Solomon King, so going there feels like stepping into a jungle full of wild animals. You're on edge the entire time because you know there are dangerous people lurking. Well, that's the last thing I want for this pitch. It is not our job to attract rich criminals to this casino. We want to attract everyone . So that will be the foundation of our pitch. No Nix Malone.”
Jeremiah looks up at the ceiling, thinking it over.
“Okay,” he says, nodding. “No Nix Malone.”
He walks away and I spend the next hour crafting a pitch around Golden Diamond and its prestige. I get into the zone, and the only thing that pulls me out of it is when I see people in the bullpen getting up and walking out.
Lunch time.
Proud of the direction of the pitch and how much work I managed to get done, I get up from my desk and head to the breakroom. I know I have a turkey sandwich waiting for me there, and I plan to bring it back to my office and close the door to enjoy it. I take my time, walking slowly so that most of the people who go into the breakroom have already filtered out by the time I arrive. By the time I leave my office, half the building has cleared out, while the other half are enjoying their lunch hour at their desk.
I make my way into the breakroom and find only two people in it, which is better than the handful I usually have to force my way through. As I enter and open the fridge, both of them leave while my hand is reaching in to grab my sandwich, and I smile when I find myself alone. I know I’m not the only one who likes life better when there are less strangers in my presence. I open my carrying case to make sure that the sandwich is still safely inside along with my chips, drink, and a side of turkey gravy. Once I'm satisfied that I haven't been stolen from, I turn to leave … only to come face to face with Rome as he enters the room.
My pulse quickens to a blistering pace as we make eye contact, and while I'm worried that my eyes are bulging out of my head, Rome is as calm as ever. His unfazed demeanor doesn't waver for a second as he walks in, his eyes staying on me as he comes to a stop at the fridge and grabs the handle.
“Good morning, Nia,” he greets me, his deep voice like a massage to my ears.
“Good morning, Rome,” I reply, stepping to the side even though he’s not even close to me.
I watch him reach into the refrigerator and grab something to drink. He cracks open the can, spins around, and leans against the counter, his eyes on me like a predator watching its prey.
“So,” he says before I manage to force myself out of the room. “How’s the Golden Diamond pitch coming along?”
I clear my throat to give myself an extra second to gather my thoughts as memories of last night flood my mind like tsunami waves. Is this it? Is this the moment I test the waters with Rome and see if he's into BDSM?
“Uhh, it’s going well,” I reply honestly. “I had a little trouble at first, but I think I may have had a breakthrough this morning. Jeremiah and I are making progress and I’ll be ready to go for pitch wars.”
The side of Rome’s mouth lifts, but not fully. Why does he seem to work so hard at denying me his smile?
“That’s great,” he replies with a nod. “What was the trouble you were having?”
“I’m sure you can guess,” I say, angling my head down to cut my eyes up at him.
“Ah, the client himself.”
“Bingo.”
“But you pushed your way past it and had a productive morning. That's what it’s all about. I knew you could do it, and I’m sure your pitch will be phenomenal. Can’t wait to hear it.”
“Well, I appreciate your faith in me, even when I wasn't sure I had it in myself,” I say, to which Rome licks his lips and makes me feel off balance when I'm not even moving.
“Of course,” he says. “I see something in you, Nia. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but whatever it is, it makes me believe that you're special. Not everyone has the level of passion that you possess. I’m the same way, really. Sometimes it gets in my way and I have to take a step back in order to figure out how to use it to my advantage, but once I put it all together, I feel unstoppable. I think I see the same thing in you.”
My eyebrows lift. “Wow. I’m not even sure how to respond to a compliment like that, but I do appreciate it. You're very observant.”
“Only with things that earn my attention,” he replies, his eyes magnetized to mine.
I drop my gaze to the floor, because keeping eye contact with him can be overwhelming. He's so good-looking it should be a crime. Why is he allowed to walk the streets while looking like this? Plus, he seems to say all of the right things. Who does that?
When I look up at him again, I decide that this is it. This is the moment I've been waiting for, and if I don't do it now, I might not get another chance to find out. He seems to be in a good mood, even a little flirty if I’m being honest—so why not do it now and find out once and for all? Nervousness creeps up my neck with tiny fingers coming to choke me, but I lift my head and force the words past their grip.
“You have to stop,” I say.
Rome tilts his head. “Stop what?”
I let out a sigh, stand up straight as if I'm preparing for battle, and keep talking. “You have to stop looking at me like that.”
His head stays tilted as his eyebrows knit together. “Like what ?”
“Like that ,” I answer firmly. “Maybe you don't know that you do it, but I highly doubt that. You have a certain look, and it … affects me.”
“I have a look that affects you?” he asks as if he can’t believe what I just said.
“Yes, Rome,” I reply. I’m too far gone to pull it all back now, so I take a deep breath and dive into the deep end. “Look, I’m a submissive woman, and that look on your face is a prime example of what I’d expect … and want … from a dominant man. It’s alluring. It’s attractive. It’s fucking intoxicating, and you're my boss so you have to stop looking at me like that, because it’s driving me a little crazy.”
Rome stops moving like my words have just frozen him solid. He gawks at me, his eyes large, round, and unblinking, and I swear I can see the gears grinding in his mind, screeching to a smoky halt as everything falls apart. I don't have to be a psychologist to know that I’ve clearly dismantled whatever he has been thinking by admitting to him that I’m a submissive. Without him saying another word, I know that I already have my answer. Rome is not into BDSM, and he most certainly isn’t into me.
“You’re a … submissive?” he manages to ask through a tightly clenched jaw.
“Yes,” I admit proudly. Just because he isn't into it doesn't mean that I'm required to be ashamed. “So, I think it’s best if you could just stop gazing at me like that, and then I can stop wondering what thoughts you have lurking behind those eyes of yours. I don't mean to be rude, and it’s clear that I've rattled you a bit with this admission. I apologize for that, but I just need you to stop for my sake. Okay?”
As if a spell has finally been broken, Rome’s eyes fall off of me and drop down to the floor. I have absolutely no idea what he’s thinking, but he looks like a man who just watched his life flash before his eyes—like I just ruined a plan he’d been working on his entire life and he’s watching it all come crumbling down before he could even begin to carry it out.
Seeing this broken expression on his face doesn't make me feel good. I may be proud of who I am and the lifestyle that I’m into, but I’m also still a woman in search of the type of love and happiness that would make my world complete. Learning that Rome, like everyone else I’ve been into, will not be the one for me is like a cramp in my stomach—I can walk around fine, but I still feel it, and it fucking hurts.
I watch him slowly nod his head, accepting the shocking revelation.
“Okay,” he says.
Both sad and satisfied, I grab my stuff and utter a final word. “Okay.” Then I leave Rome and his thoughts in the breakroom to entertain themselves.