20
Bonnie
When I reach the chorus of the Rocky theme tune, I’m right there with Balboa on the steps and my feet bang the treadmill so hard that people in the gym stare.
This morning we will present our first version of designs to the Lexington team and Nixon Lee, the architectural firm overseeing the entire regeneration project. Bradshaw is a cog in a much bigger wheel.
We will commit to having the final design and access statements and everything we need to apply for planning permission to the local authority within a few months. No small feat. I’ll skip everything else in my life, some of which is shit anyway.
All I’ve done since the wedding is work on this proposal. So, the content is nailed, but I need to release some of this nervous energy.
The two cretins, Bradshaw and Brown, will both be at this morning’s meeting, as will Jack.
I can’t fail. My promotion is riding on it.
The treadmill says I ’ ve run ten kilometres.
I’m not one of those sexy runners. I’m sweating like a turkey at Christmas. My eyes sting from perspiration, and my hair sticks to my forehead.
I slow the treadmill to a halt, so I have time to clean it down.
I love running.
When my feet pound the pavement or treadmill I’m free of my worries and stress. Some of my best work ideas sprouted from a run.
After showering, I walk through the changing rooms to my locker, feeling marginally calmer.
Last night after the date, Jack emailed that he wanted to see me before the presentation, giving me no clue why.
But he says jump and we grab our poles.
There were no other email addresses from the team included so I can’t tell if this is a one-on-one.
I didn’t mention it to Max. He’ll be furious that he’s not invited but the less I see of him right now, the better.
I want to apologise to Jack in person about Dad. It doesn’t seem to bother him considering he took a while to even remember who Dad was. But it sure as hell bothers me.
It might not be professional bringing it up in this meeting. I’ll play it by ear.
I’m not sure which I’m more nervous about: the chat with Jack or the presentation. Whatever Jack says to me could severely fuck up my mindset for the presentation.
Maybe that’s his plan.
To mess with me.
Underwear.
My heart races as I root in my bag.
Where’s my underwear?
All the good work that my run did flies out the window. I pack two laptop chargers and a mini overhead projector on the rare chance that the boardroom tech will fail, and I forget to pack a bloody change of underwear ?
How is it that the simplest things are the ones that fuck you up?
I’ve brought a grey pencil skirt, so no-one will know but me, but still, the thought of presenting without underwear is a little disconcerting.
Goddamn it, no bra, either?
Wait, I set out my matching lacy power underwear set for luck before I went to bed last night.
They were . . . on the chair beside the door to my flat.
I groan. And I ran out with a coffee in one hand and my gym bag in the other.
I can still see the underwear and bra neatly folded on the chair, right where I left them.
For luck.
Right.
I’m wearing a fucking white silk blouse.
As it stands, I have two choices. Bare breasts, or I wear my drenched tank top with the built-in bra under my blouse. Stinking the room out doesn’t seem like a viable option.
I hope the air con isn’t on in the room.
It’s fine; I don’t exactly have showstopping jugs. It won’t be obvious at all.
When I change into my work outfit and stand in front of the mirror, my heart drops out of my fucking ass.
It’s obvious.
My nipples show through the blouse —subtly—but enough to draw a second glance. With no bra to constrain them, there’s a slight jiggle each time I take a step.
To me, they’re as obvious as meeting a car with blinding headlights head-on. I’d feel more comfortable if a bunch of birds shit all over me.
He’ll think I’ve done it deliberately.
The shops aren’t open yet.
I text Nisha: I need your bra!
Nisha: ???
Me: I need to borrow your bra for a meeting. I’ve got no bra! Hurry up, I’m in the gym.
I don’t have time for this. It’s 8:45, and I’m getting more flustered by the minute. I simply cannot present to a team of senior construction people with bouncing boobs.
Nisha: Keep your knickers on. I’ll be in the office at 9:15, see you then.
If only I could.
No, no, no, that’s too late. I have ten minutes left before meeting Jack, then it ’ s straight into the presentation. I feel sick.
Maybe if I can answer what Jack needs over a call, I’ll have time to run to a shop.
Flustered, I pick up my phone and dial his number.
He answers on the first ring. “Bonnie.” No indication to tell me whether it’s sweet Jack or grumpy Jack today.
“Morning, Jack.” My voice echoes around the bathroom. “Slight issue. I’m prepared for the presentation, you absolutely do not need to worry—”
“But?”
Grumpy Jack.
I draw in a breath. “Could we move our 9 a.m. to 9:30 please? Or do it remotely? I’m so sorry, but I have a . . .”
A what ? A crisis? Personal emergency? Catastrophe? “Something’s come up that I need to sort out before the presentation.”
My answer is a deep grunt down the phone.
Is that a yes? Apparently, when you become a billionaire, you stop responding in full sentences. “We can do it now over the phone if you’re free?”
“Where are you?”
“Over the road at the Bradshaw Brown office,” I lie.
“What’s the problem?”
“Ummm—”
“No, we can’t do it remotely,” he growls, ending the call.
Fuck. I stare at the phone in dismay.
It looks like I’m rocking the bra-less look on the most important presentation of my career.
***
I leave the gym feeling naked. It’s a skill to walk at pace with your arms crossed over your chest.
Is it considered unprofessional to not wear a bra? It sways more towards the casual side of business casual. Maybe I can cover my nipples with tape or Post-it notes.
I’m being ridiculous. It’s probably like that spot on your chin that you think is taking over your entire face, but nobody else can see it.
The queue to the lifts is massive. Six rows deep and it’s ten minutes to nine.
By the time I arrive at the fortieth floor, I’m sweating under my arms and my cheeks are crimson. I may as well not have taken a shower after my run.
Jess’s smile fades when she sees me, and I know I’m in shit. “He’s in his office expecting you. Be quick.”
It’s 9:01.
“Go quickly. Hurry. Knock first. Good luck,” she calls after me, looking sympathetic.
My pulse races as I knock. It’s the first time I’ll have been in his private office.
“Come in,” says the big bad wolf from behind the door.
When I enter, he is stalking back and forth like he’s planning an attack.
Flustered, I close the door and take a few steps into the room, crossing my arms over my chest. “Sorry, I’m slightly late.”
I’m trapped. The only contact with the outside world is through the floor-to-ceiling window.
His office smells of him.
Pictures of him on the wall catch my eye. Jack ice-climbing on a glacier, Jack riding a motorbike in the desert. Basically, the wall is covered with Jack engaging in extreme sports in extreme environments.
When I meet his gaze, his eyes flare.
“Some advice,” he starts in a hard tone. “When your largest client requests to meet you in person, you don’t call them ten minutes before and ask to do it remotely.”
I stiffen. He seems irrationally rattled. Two nights ago, I was wrapped around him on his motorcycle. I sense now’s not the time to apologise about my shitty attitude to Dad’s firing.
“I apologise. Would you like to see the presentation before ten? I’m not clear on what the agenda for this is.”
He’s about to answer when he stops short, nostrils flaring and jaw clenched.
Oh, fuck.
My breath stalls as his brown eyes burn holes through the silk to my breasts.
“Sean told me I was too hard on you in the last meeting. I’m making sure I have no reason to be this time.” The muscle in his jaw jumps as his gaze moves between my face and chest.
It doesn’t seem like the right time to point out that an entire team of ten is working on this, and two of us are presenting today. Does he assume I’m the only one capable of messing up?
“I understand,” I squeak. I feel his gaze on me. My stupid nipples tingle, and to my horror, salute him.
So, this is how guys feel when they have unwanted semis.
“I shouldn ’ t have bothered since you can’t manage your time or priorities very well,” he sneers. “Late one, last night, was it?”
My eyes widen. What the hell is he talking about? “Jack, that’s not why I wanted to push this meeting. I had one drink last night and was in bed early.” Alone. Not that it’s any of his business.
His throat bobs. “Who’s the guy?”
“My date last night?” I ask, confused. “Somebody I won’t see again.”
We enter a heated stare-off as I try to make sense of the strange conversation.
Finally, he clears his throat. “My team will want to see exterior 3D visuals in detail. Do you have them?
I nod. “Yes. I’ve already gone over them with your team to get their approval before the meeting.”
“What about the Affordable Housing statement?” he shoots back.
“Absolutely,” I reply instantly. “The Environmental statement is also ready.”
There’s a tic in his jaw, and I wonder why the Environmental statement makes him angry. What the hell is wrong with him this morning?
“What are you doing, Bonnie?” he asks quietly.
My brow furrows. “With the Environmental statement? I can show it to you on my laptop if you would like?”
His strong jaw clenches harder. “Did you forget to put on all your clothes this morning?”
What?
He can’t say that. Even if Dad did nick a load of building supplies from him.
Screw you, Jack Knight.
“Excuse me,” I snap, incredulous. “I hardly think this is an appropriate question, Mr. Knight.”
“So, which is it?” He scowls. “Poor wardrobe planning after your date, or are you fucking with my head again?”
“ Wha-at ?” I stammer.