Chapter 9 Savannah #2
“Hallway sounds good. I’m sure you have a pen somewhere on you, like a good CEO should, so we can move this along.” I smile tightly with my lips pressed.
“I’m not that competent, remember? As a CEO only, of course.” He throws my words back at me. “I have to get one from my office. Shouldn’t you be carrying one around?”
Rolling my eyes, he has a point, and I fish in my bag for a pen, only to come up empty.
He notices, and it pleases him. “My oh my, what’s your favorite word again?” He clicks his fingers in the air, pretending to search for a word. “Oh yeah, competence. So, would you be obliged to come in?”
My lips press tightly as I accept that I’ve been a hypocrite for the last minute. This is a headache of wanting to escape and wanting to stay because my body is a traitor, and my mind is captivated. “Fine.”
Stepping over the threshold, I vaguely hear him pushing the door shut lazily, but I immediately forget that he’s behind me because I’m too engrossed in the view of a very large open-plan living space with glass stairs. It’s modern yet surprisingly welcoming.
“Huh. Kind of had you down as a Dracula dark-cave kind of vibe, and this is not that,” I observe and slowly walk as the windows magnetize me. There’s a lightning strike over the Chicago skyline that highlights the outline of the buildings and the height of being on a top floor.
“Imagine that. Savannah is wrong. Oh, the shock and horror,” he flatly rebuffs.
I feel him behind me, but he isn’t close, a few strides.
However, his presence is more domineering than it is in the office.
It’s him out of a suit that seems to heighten my body’s awareness of his proximity.
As though being casual stripped him down and thinned his walls to leave me unprotected.
I don’t gift him a glance over my shoulder as I saunter around the room, letting my fingertips glide along the top of the sofa. “I believe time is ticking. Would you be a gentleman and sign those papers so I can ensure they are where they should be by 8 AM tomorrow?”
I hear a sound buried in his throat, and it resembles a hidden laugh. “Wait here. I’m sure you can follow instructions like a good girl.”
My entire body locks up because the way he said that sends a wave straight to my center.
It unleashes thoughts in my mind of how he would be in specific settings, and it’s only ever been implied that he is anything but sweet and tender.
Rolling my lips in, I decide to brave it by snapping my gaze when I turn to face him.
Julian’s face is stone. It wasn’t a slip of his tongue. I’ve felt his tongue on mine, and I’m now well-versed to know when he taunts, because it sharpens my awareness of him and it’s a safe threat that doesn’t scare me.
The only way to fix this possible detour is to lighten the mood. “Whatever you say, dear master.” I’m frivolous, or so I thought, because maybe it still sounded sultry. He half-smirks to himself, mollified and posed, before he walks away.
My pulse is pounding, and I repeat in my head over and over that he has been a horrible boss. Even if I think he wanted to talk about the kiss, I wanted to hear nothing. Safety first.
Except, it’s hard to bury.
I mosey around, studying the various paintings on the wall and the lack of framed family photos.
Instead, I notice a tray of whiskey and crystal glasses.
Next to it is a small shelf with more hard alcohol options and half a shelf of different playing card boxes.
None of them look new. They’re worn boxes with fonts and designs from long ago.
“Want a drink?” He startles me, and my body reacts.
I turn to see him strolling my way ever so slowly, hunting.
“No. It’s fine. I should go.” Where did my attitude go? My voice lacked it.
He holds up the folder, and I reach out to grab it, but he moves and holds the folder out of reach.
“Tsk, tsk. Not so eager. Let me call you a car.” His eyes catch mine, and it’s clear that it’s his way or no way.
“It’s the least I can do for causing you inconvenience.
” The politeness, however, is by no means serious.
I step back and sigh in exhaustion. “You can be quite insufferable, but fine.”
He sets the file on the table in victory. “Time for a drink.” Before I can object, he’s already setting two glass tumblers in the middle of the tray.
“Aren’t you going to arrange a car like a gentleman?”
His lips purse out as he opens the bottle of whiskey, and his eyes remain set on pouring drinks. “Nope.” The P pops, and a sound of liquid pouring accompanies it. “Not yet. Might as well enjoy your glass of whiskey, since it cost a couple grand. Otherwise, it would be a crime to waste it.”
He hands me a glass with his eyes arrowing straight into me. “Here.”
Our fingers briefly touch when I wrap my hand around the tumbler, and they linger for a second longer than they should. Bringing the drink to my nose, I smell a sharp odor. I decide to go for it and take a sip, instantly feeling the sting on my throat.
“You are quite a rule-breaker. Not even toasting.”
I give him an "oh, really" look. “What are we toasting? Indifference?” I suggest.
He looks away and fails terribly at hiding his tiny smile because he found it funny. “Fine.” He swings his gaze back and taps my glass with his, indicating with his head to follow him. I do, but only because it’s clear that it’s straight to his couch.
The quiet in the room is unnerving. It has everything to do with our dynamic; professional yet crossing borders of professionalism in terms of jabs thrown and his commanding lips. I decide to break the tension.
“I noticed the card collection.”
He smoothly drinks his own whiskey. “Mmm.” He finishes his sip. “I collect playing cards. Some are from the 1920s, and others are special editions.”
“Really?”
“You sound surprised.”
I smile genuinely. “I am. Are you a poker player then?”
He licks his lips, and his cheeks tighten. It’s sexy and strikes curiosity, especially when his smile is sincere. “You’ll like this. No. I only play Go Fish.”
“Funny.” He shakes his head gingerly side to side. “You’re serious?” He nods, and my entire face stretches in surprise with a wide grin. “No way! That is… hysterical and total blackmail material.”
“I thought you would enjoy that.”
We both continue to nurse our drinks. “Why Go Fish?”
He lifts a shoulder. “I don’t know. It’s easy. Doesn’t require much brain power. It isn’t poker, which I fucking hate. My da—” Julian stops himself from finishing the sentence, clearly poking a sensitive thought. I want to press him on why, but I sense that it isn’t a good idea.
Instead, I ask, “Go Fish involves at least two people. Do you play a lot?” That was not subtle, and I could facepalm myself if I weren’t holding a drink.
Julian shifts and positions his body to face me as we both lean against the back of the couch with one arm, as though we’ve been talking for hours. It’s crazy, but a man holding a glass of whiskey with a watch like his yet wearing jeans is a turn-on for me. It’s sophistication.
“Not here. No.” His voice is unyielding, and his eyes pin me in place.
Part of me wants to say to hell with it, toss the expensive glass to the floor, and move to straddle him. The other part is much wiser.
“Right.” I swallow.
“Don’t have any antique stores near Purplehope, do you?”
The corner of my mouth snags. “You mean Everhope, and actually, there are a few in the county. I’m sure you can send someone to check them out. I’m not sure they’ll take your gold card, though. They’re simple people and enjoy staying behind in the times.”
“Charming. Going all in on the theme of antiques, it seems.”
I laugh. “Wow, you made a cheesy joke.”
Julian takes a final swig of his drink. “I am capable. Plus, I have a pain-in-the-ass assistant whom I could send to look for me. Are you heading to Purpletop soon?” He mistakes the name purely for enjoyment.
“Hopefully. It’s an easy drive for the weekend, but I want to go when I have a few extra days. I really want to see my aunt.”
“You’ve mentioned her a few times now.”
I smile with fondness. “A great woman. If she met you, she would offer you a drink and a cookie, no matter what mood you’re in. I’ve come to realize that some parents let their kids down, but it’s okay. Because you could be lucky and get something even better.”
His face stills, and I realize I hit a nerve with my philosophy.
No, that’s not it. There is a hint of longing.
Or complete numbness to whatever family baggage he carries.
He stands and picks up his glass before he heads straight back to his whiskey table, clearly agitated because he pops the cork of the bottle with extra vigor.
Standing, I don’t follow. Instead, I stare at the chiseled muscles of his back that the shirt covers tightly.
“I mean, I guess a lot of things are luck of the draw.” I try to take down the insistence of my view.
He holds the bottle in the air. “Another?”
“No. I should head out.”
Julian turns and perches against the table with a fresh drink in hand. “Do I scare you?”
“No.” I’m amused.
“But I annoy you.”
“Confirmed.”
He tilts his head to the side and seems to be examining me. “And you didn’t tell me to go fuck myself, either.”
“I do. I simply don’t say it aloud,” I bounce back.
He smirks, even with the glass between his lips. “I’m sure, but I meant last week.”
Oh.
It dawns on me a possibility. “Did you leave the file on purpose and demand I come here?”
He pushes himself off the edge of the table. “Now, why would I do that? Only someone very clever would think of that. I don’t possess that competence, according to my assistant.”
My entire body begins to melt, and my pussy starts to ache for his touch.
He did set this up.
“Subtle manipulation,” I repeat faintly to myself the earlier thought from when he explained his dealings.
It’s a red flag. Yet, I place my glass on the coffee table.
“He is capable of other things, though.” Am I testing the waters of where this evening could go?
That goes against everything I tell myself, remain professional, as in don’t cross the darkest line of them all, because it can’t be erased.
A kiss is a kiss, but one touch more and it leads you down a road of no return.
“Is that so?” He stalks toward his prey, and my nipples harden because his prey is me.
But I stay even in my stance. “Maybe. He does irrational things, so it isn’t always so clear.”
Another step closer and another. His mouth dips down to my cheek, and his breath cascades against my skin to that delicate spot near my ear. “No. I’m direct when I want to be,” he rasps before retreating.
I shiver slightly. I’m not sure he notices, but I want to have the upper hand, and when I open my mouth, he beats me to the punch.
“The papers.”
I flutter my eyes to adjust to the swift change of direction, and I make a sound in acknowledgment.
“You should take them. I’ll ensure a car is waiting for you by the time you’re downstairs.”
Is this happening?
Is he doing another 180 and flipping back to an arrogant man who calculates his every whisper and touch?
“Really?” I’m not impressed, mostly because I’m beginning to believe this is an addictive infatuation.
The twist of the corners of his mouth confirms he doesn’t care. “I’m sure you have things to do, and I want to get ahead on some stock research.”
I’m getting whiplash. Or is this payback because when he kissed me, it was me who left? Same in the sauna. Great maturity on his part.
“I do,” I lie. “A friend’s brother is in town for work. We’re meeting up for drinks.”
He didn’t seem to be expecting that, and his body tenses and his jaw strains.
This is my upper card. I walk past him and pat his chest. “Where’s that file?” I turn on my saccharine-toned voice. “Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to meet my deadlines. Not like drinks with a friend’s older brother is going to get crazy.” I sashay further on.
“Have fun. Don’t forget the file is on your way out.”
My eyes grow with annoyance, and I choose not to respond to him. Still, it’s hard to ignore the sense of his eyes targeting my back.
Continuing, I follow my quest to get the hell out of here. I slide the folder off the side table, and my heels click against the floor as I walk toward the door.
“Oh, Savannah,” he says, grabbing my attention, causing me to turn and look at him once more. “Thanks for stopping by. Huh…” He pretends to rub his head for a thought. “Did I mention that they actually only needed a digital signature?”
My face falls because the asshole set all this up. Disrupting my evening on a false ruse. My jaw grits with fury, even though logic begins to point out the obvious.
The man wants to have the last winning move of the night. That’s frustrating and embroiling. However, he also made this move with only one possible outcome in mind. I would show up, and apparently, he wanted my presence.
I could throw his expensive piece-of-art bowl on the side table at him, or I can give him a smile, sweet as can be.
Choosing the latter, I play defiance. “That’s okay, a simple thing to forget,” I lie.
Turning, I swing the door open with gusto and roll my eyes with complete distaste written on my face.
Why do I do this to myself?
I should quit and get myself out of this web of confusion.
But I refuse to let him win.