Chapter 32
thirty-two
I gave Juliet a key to my place in case drinks with Jason McAllister ran long Tuesday night.
A purely practical decision that, of course, brought out the fight in her.
We went seven rounds about the goddamn thing, with her claiming it had some “unspoken significance” and calling it “egregious,” while I argued, over and over, that it was a temporary measure to keep my neighbors from thinking I left my women standing around in hallways.
She, naturally, objected to being referred to as “one of my women;” I pointed out that, like or not, she is .
Stubborn bijou .
Even after eating our incredible sandwiches in silence and working quietly on my couch for two hours… even with my mind so clouded with issues and my gut full of fear…
I still wanted to fuck her the second that little chin tilted up.
I managed to rein my impulses in long enough to talk her down. “It’s just a key, Jules,” I growled, pressing it into her palm for the tenth time. “A meaningless sliver of metal. And look, it even has a monogrammed fucking keychain on it. GE—Graham Everett. It’s mine . My spare key. Not yours. You’re just using it for one night .”
She finally took it and left in a snit, muttering about me in Spanish.
I want to ask Grayson for a list of curse words—ones I know I won’t find in any respectable dictionary—but think better of it. Any weird questions like that might give us away.
We decided to wait until after his vacation to tell him about our working arrangement. Better to inform him after he spends a week in his fiancée.
I mean, in Aruba .
Drinks tonight did, in fact, run long. So, I’m feeling particularly smug when I shove into my apartment…
And all haughtiness evaporates.
At the impossible sight of a gorgeous woman—dressed in my clothes, blasting music on my speakers, barefoot—in my kitchen.
Holy. God .
What have I done?
Juliet’s ponytail swishes as she tosses a look over her shoulder. A loud laugh bursts up her throat.
“ Ay Dios mío, pinchao . You should see your face.” She shakes her head and turns back to my stove. “Worth it.”
I can’t tell if she means that making dinner is worth the look on my face, or if she’s promising that her meal will be worth the panic running through me at the sight of a girl in my kitchen . In my clothes .
Either way, her cocky little remark makes me smirk. “For someone who didn’t want the damn key, you certainly used it to help yourself.”
I toss my own keys onto the island and lean my hip into the counter, crossing my ankles as I stare at her backside. She’s a sight for sore eyes, even in my burgundy joggers and black T-shirt. She had to roll the ankles on my pants to her knees and tuck the back of the T-shirt into the waistband, but she still looks adorably small and soft engulfed in my clothing.
Jules moves from the stove to the mess of chopped vegetables on the nearest stretch of counter. Using the back side of a blade, she scrapes them off the cutting board and into the stock pot, where they make a satisfying hiss. With a slight shrug, she points the knife over her shoulder. “I didn’t want to wreck my dress.”
I’ll be damned .
The red fucking dress.
My cock goes from semi-erect to stone as I spot the garment draped over the edge of my sofa. Her matador’s cape. She wore it to work again . Then wore it in my apartment.
And took it off .
Torture.
I have to clench both of my fists to keep from snatching her up and pinning her to the counter. “Naughty girl,” I comment, forcing an even tone. “You knew I wanted to take that off for you, and you did it without me.”
She laughs again. “Keep dreaming, boy.”
For the first time since Sunday morning, a wide smile pulls at my face. Some unfamiliar swirl of satisfaction and gratitude whirls in my center, warming me.
Christ .
She is so beautiful. And funny. And brilliant.
And here . With me.
Cooking?
After giving her veggies a good stir, she turns and faces me. For a long moment, her eyes work up and down my body. Liking what she sees. Her luscious thighs press together.
“You wore the purple again,” she comments. “After my stroll through your closet earlier, I thought you had a new suit for every day of the year.”
I stalk a bit closer before stopping myself. “And I thought you had a different dress for every workday. Guess we’re both outfit repeating.”
Juliet cants her head, her shrewd gaze staring me down. “Fancy that.”
I nod to the food behind her. “What is it?”
She throws back a word I don’t understand, then grins at the confusion on my face. “Ah-yah-co,” she repeats, taking mercy. “It’s Colombian chicken soup. For truly bad days.”
Bad days .
I bark a laugh. “Got anything for bad weeks ? Bad lives ?”
A flash of sympathy tightens her fine features. “This will help,” she replies, almost gentle. “It’s my favorite when something shitty happens.” She winces at the pot. “Abuelita usually makes it. But I had a hell of a day, and I figured you did, too, so you’re stuck with my version.”
I hate the idea of her having a hellish day. “What happened, bijou ?”
My nickname seems to soften her. Her lips fall into a slight frown while she bites the inside of her cheek and spins away, hiding her eyes.
“Dominic,” she grumbles.
My fists tighten. “I’d love to kick that guy’s ass. He’s such a prick.”
That earns me a sly, amused look over her shoulder. An expression that’s quickly becoming one of my favorites. I wish I had a picture of it.
“Marco and I think he has penis problems.” She smirks, adding a pile of pulled rotisserie chicken to the pot. She pours a whole quart of chicken broth on top and backs away from the range.
With a sigh, Juliet floats over until we stand face-to-face. For a second, my impulses get away from me; I reach up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Tell me what he did,” I murmur, refusing to let it go.
Her posture stiffens. “I can handle him.”
My fingers have a mind of their own. They trace a slow path from her ear to her chin. “Never said you couldn’t,” I reply mildly, examining her beauty up close. “But I want to know what he’s up to.”
Her topaz gaze narrows. “Why?”
She’s probably worried I’ll go running to Grayson. Most women would try to take advantage of my connection with their boss. For some, it would be a major point in my “pro” column. But Juliet obviously considers it a mark against me.
She wants to make her own way. And she will. I’d never take that away from her.
My touch glides up her cheekbone and back to her hair. I blow out a long breath, loathing myself for what I’m about to say.
“Because I care.”
Her face becomes so wary that it feels like an affront to my character. “ You care?”
I almost laugh. “Yes. And it disgusts me.”
That seems to mollify her. A dazzling grin lights her features. “Why does that make me so happy?”
I don’t know, but her delight delights me . I find myself smiling widely, too, even as I push back. “Your gorgeous smile will not get you out of my question.”
She composes herself within a second, smoothing her face back into a stunning mask of stubbornness. “It isn’t anything major,” she lies, flicking her ponytail back. “He's just an asshole who doesn’t want anyone to upstage him.”
I think back over the few times I’ve interacted with Dominic Carter, including the meeting where Juliet’s cool competence made him look like a pedantic moron. “And you upstage him all the time, I bet.”
She hasn’t pulled away from my touch, so I take a small step closer and slide my hand around to massage the back of her neck. Another fleeting spark of vulnerability softens her expression.
“I don’t mean to,” she mumbles, looking down at her bare feet. “I just want to do good work. I’m trying to learn as much as I can, you know? And the best way to do that is through experience. So when Mr. Stryker gives me something new to do, I jump at it. But Dominic feels threatened.”
Fucking piece of shit .
What does he care if Juliet flourishes? I flatten my lips, actively holding in a stream of expletives.
Juliet goes on, staring at her toes while they draw circles on my floor. “He told me that I’m not allowed to contact Mr. Stryker directly anymore, and I have to route all communication through him. So, I sent an email to Mr. Stryker letting him know that I’ll be doing that, in accordance with ‘the new policy.’”
She throws up air quotes and snaps her fiery honey eyes back to mine. “I didn’t even mention Dominic by name because I had a feeling Mr. Stryker would be annoyed with him if I did.”
But I know Grayson. He saw right through that shit, I bet.
“What did Stryker do?”
Juliet deflates. “He’s angry with both of us now. He spent ten minutes nailing Dominic to the wall of his office and then called me in to ‘clarify the chain of command.’ I could tell he didn’t like that I obeyed Dominic’s orders when they contradicted his own. I guess that was stupid. I —” She breaks off mid-thought.
“You what?” I demand.
Her eyes darken, along with her expression. “I was intimidated, okay?” She spits it like I’m responsible, somehow, then rants on. “I didn’t go to Harvard or Yale or whatever, Graham! I don’t have fancy business clothes or debutante etiquette training. My only previous work experience was waitressing in high school and restocking shelves at a Rite Aid in college.
“Dominic and all the other guys in my department are, like, fourth-generation attorneys who went to Ivy League schools and started temping at firms the summer after they graduated from high school! They have credentials I will never have. And despite all of that mierda , on my good days, I know they’re all idiots who are full of hot air. But when I make a mistake or they get in my face like Dominic does, I start to wonder if maybe I’m the one who doesn’t belong.”
I start to step up against her body, but she shoves at me with both hands. A hot knife of chagrin stabs me.
Embarrassment turns to defensiveness. It bleeds into my concern. Both roar through my blood, pounding in my ears, begging me to snatch her hands and haul her into my arms. But I just glare at her.
Seething .
Yet another similarity we seem to share: we both get mad when we feel vulnerable.
I understand all too well. Sometimes, true weakness seems like an unforgivable sin. And Jules is a fighter, like me. She’ll claw and snap to protect her pride.
She isn’t mad at me . And I know what she really needs.
Reassurance that I didn’t lose respect for her after her outburst. That I still find her formidable, despite her weaknesses. That I’ll always think of her as the mysterious, wondrous creature who kept me up all night on Saturday… and every night since, if I’m honest with myself.
After my revelations last night, I get it. I want to know if she still wants me, still thinks of me as a worthy opponent.
I slip my light gray jacket off, meeting her eyes with a challenging look. “Your shirt. Give it to me.”
Juliet’s chest heaves, and color rushes to her cheeks. “ What? ”
“Your shirt— my shirt, rather. Take it off.”
Golden flames flash at me. “ Why would I do that?”
I yank on my tie and toe my socks and shoes off before stalking toward her, leaning my face down into hers. “Because you want me to flatten you on this island and ram my cock into you until you forget all about your shitty day. Because I’m going to show you how powerful and beautiful and brilliant you really are. So fucking perfect that I can’t keep my hands off you, even when I should.”
We stand chest-to-chest. She swallows hard, glaring up at me. “You are the cockiest, most spoiled, insensitive, vulgar son-of-a-bitch who’s ever lived.”
I smile, knowing it’ll goad her. “And you hate me, right?”
“Yes,” she spits.
“Then say no.”
She won’t. Because she already has my button-down fisted in her little hands, tugging it out of my pants. Her fingers unfasten it, along with my alligator-skin belt. She whips the latter off my waist with a flourish.
Grabbing it from her before she gets any ideas, I snap it once before stepping back against her. “Let me show you,” I whisper, grabbing her chin roughly. “How crazy you make me. The things you make me want to do.”
She tilts her head back, silently panting while we lock eyes. Her eyes spark. “Make me.”