Chapter 6
Chapter Six
I was seriously going to hear that chime in my sleep. No, wait…my nightmare. I glanced up from the spreadsheet I was working on to the little red bubble sitting on my iMessenger icon. Blake Carson hadn’t come out of that damn box of an office all day.
But he sure as crap had been sending me orders via the messenger since I sat down that morning. I clicked on it.
Mr. Carson
Spreadsheet. Now.
No please, no thank you, not even an “is it ready?” Just barking orders through clipped sentences. Kind of like his voice. At least what I remembered of his voice. I hadn’t heard it since the day before.
I typed back that I needed five minutes. And, of course, there was no answer.
Just orders.
I toggled to the spreadsheet I’d been trying to work on for the last forty minutes. In between calls from three customers who’d been flagged in his almighty list of important clients. He had a list for everything.
And I do mean everything . Times for reports due, times for calls to be made, spreadsheets for specialty invoices for these supposedly special clients. And each of them was different, so I had to learn every one of the layouts.
I recognized the names. The Governor of Boston, The Governor of New York, the freaking Secretary of Defense, and three celebrities who had been in the news lately. What the hell did this guy do for them? It couldn’t be just the pretty glass.
I took a swig from the soda on my desk and frowned when I hit the bottom. Again. I couldn’t worry about the level of caffeine running through my veins at the moment. I needed every last ounce.
I pitched the bottle into the tiny blue recycle bin under my desk, and it bounced out. I sighed and picked it up and put it on top of the seven others.
Oh, boy. Not good.
“How’s it going, Gracie?”
I looked up. “Jack. Hi.” I looked up at the corner of my screen. “Wow. It’s 2:30 already.”
“Yeah, I tried to tag you to come to the conference room with me and Vi, but you didn’t answer.”
I frowned. I vaguely remembered the reminder, but then I’d gotten another message from Mr. Carson and had promptly forgotten about it. “Sorry.”
He sat on the edge of my desk. “Is he keeping you busy?”
I huffed out a laugh. “You could say that.”
“Hey, just the one soda, though. Impressive.”
“Yeah. Told you.” I laughed a little and nudged the recycle bin deeper under my desk.
The door to my boss’s office opened, and I shot up out of my seat. I hit the bin, and the top two bottles rolled out. Jack looked down at them, then he peered under the desk and then up at me with a quirked eyebrow. “Yeah, just one.”
Shoot .
“Jack, why are you bugging my assistant?” Mr. Carson stood with his arms crossed. The pristine white of his dress shirt pulled tight across his shoulders and arms. He wore a blue tie today—so navy that it was almost black. His face had been almost smooth yesterday, yet he was heavy with stubble today.
But it was his hair that made my throat tighten. No. No looking at his hair. Even if it was sinfully thick and completely disheveled from his fingers. At least I assumed there was no one in there with him. How would I know?
Great, now I was thinking about him having some secret tryst in his office while I was toiling away outside.
Tryst?
God. The melodrama overfloweth today, Grace Cordelia .
My heart thudded double-time in my chest. What the hell was it about this guy? I’d known plenty of good-looking guys. Marblehead wasn’t quite as impressive as Martha’s Vineyard, but we definitely had a lot of the wealthy set. And where wealth was, hot trust fund boys followed. Blake was no different.
Right. Totally the same. Good grief.
I frowned when he swiped his palm across his jaw. Had he even gone home last night?
Jack lifted the bag on my desk by the plastic handles. “Feeding her. You’re working her to death, Blake.”
“If she can’t handle the job, it’s not my problem.”
“Well, by law, she gets a lunch break, and since she’s been here since seven—I’d say she’s way past lunch.”
“I can eat at my desk,” I said.
Mr. Carson held up a hand. “It’s fine.” He backed into his office and nearly shut the door, but then he peeked his head back out. “Thai?”
“There’s some in there for you too.” Jack stood. “Since I know you probably haven’t eaten more than a power bar.”
Mr. Carson opened the door then he dipped his hands into his pockets. He filled the doorway. How? That freaking doorway was huge. The quick flash of our meeting yesterday had me clutching my magic mouse a little tighter. He’d been completely overwhelming. The residual reaction required at least ten Hail Marys and a dip in the ocean.
Thank you, wool sweater and padded bra.
He quirked his eyebrow. “They’re sufficient for energy.”
Jack hung his head. “Sufficient for energy is what you say about food for a mission, not for an office job.” He handed him the bag. “Here. Go show her the seventh floor and feed her.”
“No, it’s okay. I can just eat at my desk. Really.”
Mr. Carson took the bag and went back into his office. The hydraulic hiss of his door closing took the rest of my will. I dropped into my chair. So, I didn’t need food, anyway.
I covered my grumbling belly. Now that I’d smelled the food, I wanted it.
The door opened again, and he returned with his suit jacket on. It was the same dark gray suit. At least it looked like it. Impeccably cut, but still the same suit. When he shot his cuffs and I saw that little flash of ink again, I swallowed a groan.
Enemy.
Owns my grandmother’s house.
My house.
Should be my house.
“Ms. Copeland.”
I stood. His voice was far too low, and the way he said my name was an eight on the sin scale.
Wow. Insane much?
He didn’t wait for me, simply kept moving toward the stairs. Okay, then. I didn’t want to be in an elevator with Mr. Carson, anyway. I followed him down the stairs, and he stopped at the landing before the next flight. “Was your packet acceptable?”
I took the last stair and gripped the railing tighter. I hadn’t had time to look. “I’m sure it’s fine.”
He frowned down at me. “You didn’t check?”
That was weird. I should have checked. But I wasn’t truly here for the job. I was just killing time—though I should probably take advantage of the benefits while I had them. A few months’ worth of birth control, at the very least.
Every dollar counted at the moment.
Yeah, I really needed to check that packet. What if I made enough here to try to afford the mortgage?
And the sky would turn pink tomorrow. Like I could afford the payments on a house by the water in Marblehead.
How long had I stood there not talking?
“I honestly haven’t had time.” I lifted my chin. “You’ve kept me a little busy for a first day.”
“I was going easy on you.”
Somehow I schooled my features not to goggle. “Bring it.”
His eyebrow lifted. “Are you sure?”
“I’m your assistant, aren’t I?”
Shut up, Grace.
Honestly. When his hazel eyes showed interest again, I ordered all of my girl parts to settle down. I was not going to do this. No way, no how. It was a job—and this man was holding my future, even if he didn’t know it.
“The smell of that peanut sauce is killing me. Can we please go eat before you pummel me with work?”
Really, I had to go with pummel ? And in a stairwell, with so many walls?
He nodded tightly and headed down the stairs. He held the door open. “After you.”
Not this again.
I sailed through the door and almost made it without touching him. Until he let the door close behind us and his lapel brushed my arm. Thank God it hadn’t been skin. Obviously, I couldn’t take it since my skin was going haywire with an innocent brush of material.
Had he done it on purpose? Didn’t seem likely.
He walked around me and headed for the glass wall, which slid open soundlessly. I forgot about my reaction to him and simply stared into the gallery.
Every conceivable use for glass was showcased here. Huge, glossy pictures were mounted to the walls. They showed off mansions with glass fronts, dozens of different verandas, and wide frosted panels that afforded people in the mountains an outdoor space with warmth.
There were a few sports cars with the windows done in the specialized glass with dioramas showing the uses. Protection, safety, anonymity. That was impressive enough, until I spotted the huge clock face.
It looked out onto the harbor but was from the side of the building, so I hadn’t seen it when I’d walked that way. It didn’t seem practical. That was probably why I couldn’t stop staring.
A glass artist’s wet dream.
Before I could think better of it, I traced the copper seams of the clock and sighed. The glass was fashioned in separate panels and cut to fit the design. Beveled glass in pie-shaped sections gave dimension to the piece and was framed by a copper seam that even had lines for each minute of the hour.
Huge copper hands were set to the correct time with a working second hand slowly ticking around the clock face. It had to be eight feet tall.
I turned around to him. His eyes were gold fire, and his fists were clenched at his sides. “It’s beautiful. Superb, actually.” I turned back to the clock. His stare was too intense. If my heart rate went any higher, I was going to need a damn doctor. I tried to even out my breathing, but my chest wasn’t cooperating.
I pressed my hand to the glass.
It centered me. This, I understood. It had been my one constant with all the changes in my life.
“Did you create this?”
I wish I hadn’t asked. I really didn’t want to know. I could deal with Blake Carson, mogul and inventor, but he wasn’t allowed to move into artist.
How was I supposed to hold out against someone who clearly loved glass as much as I did?