Chapter 10
Anthony
I’ve had back-to-back meetings since eight this morning, but I wouldn’t be able to recount them to someone if they’d asked.
Numbers blur. Projections filter in one ear and out the other.
The assistant from legal asked a question I didn’t hear, and I’m positive I answered with something clipped and likely rude enough to make him consider quitting.
Joseph even gave me a look from across the boardroom table; half amused, half concerned.
He’s not used to seeing me unmoored. But, I’m not used to feeling like this.
I’ve closed billion-dollar deals with less adrenaline in my system. My nerves feel like they’ve been pulled taut across my skin, but not from anxiety. No, it’s hungrier than that. Anticipation. Want. A low, thrumming desire mixed with a bitter need to find out how this weekend will go.
Will she melt again so easily? Will she let me have her in all the ways I’ve imagined?
My brain has been useless all morning. Signatures, phone calls, approvals.
I perform them all like muscle memory, but everything behind my eyes is just wandering thoughts of her.
I can’t stop thinking about the way she ran out of my office with her flushed skin and tangled hair.
I can still visualize the way parted lips with the last moan I’d pulled from her.
The way she’d texted me. The way she’d signed.
I don’t notice the waiter placing my food down at lunch until he’s already walking away.
We’re at the club, some laughable fortress of exclusivity uptown.
It’s a place where older men pretend to rule the city with over overpriced tartare and imported scotch.
Joseph Brant sits across from me, droning on and on about supplier negotiations.
I nod in the right places and make the right noises when I need to, but I’m not paying attention… not really.
Then something outside the window catches my attention.
A sleek, blonde bob, swaying slightly over the lapels of a black wool coat, down one level in the extended seating area.
Karen. Her profile is all I can see, but she’s laughing softly at something said from across the table.
I strain as inconspicuously as possible to get a better view of who she’s with.
Shit. The man across from her is Aidan Snow. I don’t react; at least not outwardly. Years of practice have taught me to school my face in tense situations. But my pulse ticks up, and up, and up.
Why on earth would she be meeting with the CEO of North/Snow?
That aggressively charming, ruthless showman circles the fashion sector of New York like a goddamn shark, and he has no business talking to her.
I’ve heard a few specific board members mention him, but the thought of whatever the hell she’s doing with him makes my spine stiffen.
My food is practically untouched, but Joseph doesn’t make a fuss when I excuse myself early.
————
My penthouse is so quiet it's suffocating. I move through my bedroom methodically, tempted to put on the news, music, or something to drown out the monotonous hum in my ears. There is only one task I can focus on before anything else. On the bedsheets in front of me, I’ve laid out a handful of things to pack with me for tomorrow: tailored casual wear, pressed linens for Saturday morning, my watch case, spare cufflinks, and toiletries.
I neatly pack them in my keepall one by one placing the smallest items on top.
I plan to leave by noon tomorrow, and I don’t want the headache of dealing with it after work.
I pour a glass of scotch and settle into the armchair by the window watching the city hum far below in chaotic darkness, my laptop perched on my thighs.
It’s an evening habit — reviewing expenses, checking accounts, reading through activity logs for the dozen projects I oversee even when I’m pretending not to work.
My eye catches the corporate card statement linked to the card I gave April this morning when she stopped in.
Her cheeks had flushed as pink as dusty roses when I handed it to her and told her to “Be smart.” I pull up the day’s statement, expecting a satisfying burn through five figures at the very least.
Instead, I find the most absurd thing I’ve ever seen on this account.
$85.23 — T.J. Maxx
$20.47 — Adam not just once, but multiple times. She’s not defensive, she’s not shrinking away, but she is teasing me. She’s too much fun.
Me:
Only the ones who underperform on lingerie expenditures.
Consider this a formal warning.
April:
HARSH
Come on it’s not that bad
(04.png)
The image of the most basic, scratchy-looking red lingerie fills my screen a second later.
It’s laid out on her bed like it’s meant to excite me, but it looks cheap and uncomfortable.
It’s barely more than a standard bra and thong set, but I still want to set it on fire.
It would probably turn to ash in two seconds from all the nylon.
Me:
The only thing you got right was the color.
April:
So you don’t want to see me in them?
My jaw ticks. She’s testing me. Well I can test her right back.
Me:
Are you offering me a show?
April:
I meant for this weekend.
Me:
Ah. No. I don’t want to see them on you in person.
But I’ll give you the morning off tomorrow to rectify this if you show me how they look on you right now.
Put them on. Let me see.
April:
Are you serious?
Me:
Deadly.
You want me to up the stakes?
I’ll approve your next assignment without asking for rewrites.
Might even tell you “Good job.”
The lack of a response quickly makes my fingers twitch. I’ve either annoyed her so much that she’s done with the conversation, or…
Four minutes later, my phone dings.
April:
(05.png)
The breath leaves my lungs in a whoosh. There she is, sitting on the floor on her knees in front of a full-length mirror. Fairy lights hang in the background of a mismatched, cluttered apartment.
But I’m not looking at the apartment.
I’m looking at her.
Her blonde hair hangs over one shoulder and her cheeks are bright pink.
And the phone in the reflection covers her lips and chin.
She’s wearing that stupid, cheap red thing she bought today, and I can see more of her than I’ve ever seen before.
Her shoulders, her cleavage, her belly, her thighs.
One arm is wrapped around her stomach like she’s trying to cover it, and I make a mental note of an insecurity.
My cock strains hard against my slacks.
Me:
Jesus fucking Christ.
Even in cheap lingerie, you’re breaking my brain a little bit, princess.
Take it off. Throw it out. It’s cute, but I want better. You’ll look even sexier in something prettier.
I watch the little dots dance at the bottom of my screen, then disappear, then dance again, then disappear. I’ve flustered her.
She’s flustered me.
April:
Okay
I’ll go in the morning, then
You'd better be serious about that “good job”
Me:
Good girl. I am.
Go to one of the places I mentioned. They’ll measure you and get you something that fits properly.
Get a few sets, they won’t last long.
Whatever she responds with is lost to the storm in my head. I don’t know how to respond to her anymore. I can’t stop staring at the goddamn image.
I let myself spiral this time. The flirting between us is light and easy, but it’s so far over the line when it comes to HR policies that I don’t quite know what to do with it. It’s inappropriate. It’s so good.