Chapter 22
Daisy
As I apply lip gloss with the pad of my finger, last night’s memory surfaces unbidden—Jake’s rough finger pushing past my lips, his quiet command to suck. Vivid heat envelops me, all from the memory, and I squeeze my knees together to squelch the fire flaring up my thighs just as a knock sounds.
“Come in.”
Jake fills the doorway, sandy-blond hair tousled, my handiwork from last night—the neat goatee—making him look even better in the morning light. There’s a gleam in his eye that says he’s been thinking about last night too.
Yes, we’ve been carrying on like a couple, continuing to let everyone believe we’re an item. And, in truth, we’re sleeping in the same bed and having sex daily, sometimes more than once a day, but it’s not real in a way that will continue. Or is it?
He’s here because he’s hired by KOAN. Sure, he likes the double salary, but he hates the boredom of building security.
It’s beneath him. Once I, or well, if I, tell Rhodes I’m staying here, that I’ve given up on finding dirt on Sterling Financial, that this isn’t the evil bloodsucking racket I imagined, Rhodes will finally see what I’ve been insisting, that he doesn’t need to be worried about my safety.
He’ll halt KOAN’s assignment and Jake will be on his way to his next assignment with KOAN, a job he likes.
And that’s as it should be. We’ve been playing house, and it’s been nice, but we’re going in different directions, and chances are we’ll never be in the same place again.
“What is it?” he asks.
He steps inside, and I blink away the emotional blur. One thing I am not is my mother. I’m not one to fall for a guy just because I’m sleeping with him. And I will not make this into something it’s not.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
I shut down my computer, something I don’t do every day but… “Like what?”
God, my voice sounds way too chipper. What is wrong with me?
He leans over my desk, taking in the black screen, and I swear I get a whiff of his soap; this understated sandalwood scent that I will probably always associate with Jake, long after we’ve gone our separate ways.
“You done for the day?” he asks, stepping back, and it could be my imagination, but it feels like his eyes narrow and darken as his gaze roams my body.
I changed into pointed heels and added a couple of gold necklaces to my black dress.
When I reach back for the black business jacket that hangs on the back of my chair, he zeroes in on the fabric’s stretch over my breasts.
Maybe that’s why I like him. He’s observant.
“The car’s outside.” Phillip’s deep voice rumbles through the room, and Jake cocks his head slowly.
“I’m going to dinner tonight with Mr. Sterling,” I offer as explanation.
“Phillip,” my boss corrects, his tone smooth but firm. “You’re on my executive team. You need to act like it. I’ll head down to the car. You won’t be long?”
“I’ll come with you.”
I lift my backpack, which holds my laptop, and pass it to Jake. “Would you mind bringing this home?”
He takes the strap, his fingers brushing over mine. I can feel Phillip’s gaze on us, patiently waiting. The tension in the room is palpable, which is ridiculous.
Phillip is having an affair with Ms. Weaver. At least, that’s what everyone in the office suspects according to Ned. Gilda doesn’t buy it, and Toby says he thinks they used to be an item, and the past tense is what throws everyone.
Jake steps close, blocking my view of Phillip. Then his mouth is on mine—hard, unexpected. Our teeth brush. When he pulls back, it’s his possessiveness that startles me, demonstrated by both his palm on my hip and his steady, hot gaze.
“See you back at our place.” He shifts, turning to address our boss. “Have a good dinner.”
“We’re discussing the position,” I say, probably unnecessarily. It’s not like I owe Jake a reason for a business dinner, but still, it feels like an explanation is the right thing to give.
Phillip waits, extending an arm, gesturing for me to join him, the implication clear–the car is waiting.
Head down, I lead the way out of the office. It’s not until I’m almost to the elevator that I glance back and see Jake pull my office door closed and proceed down the corridor.
That’s good. Riding down in the elevator with Jake would be tense, although there’s no reason for tension. In the elevator’s reflection, I catch myself rubbing my neck like I have an itchy rash and lower my hand, instead gripping the leather clutch I brought specifically for this dinner.
Phillip’s attention is on his phone, but when the elevator doors slide open, he puts the phone away in an interior suit coat pocket. Why don’t women’s business suit jackets have handy little interior pockets?
“Have you tried Bilancia?”
“No.” Jake and I tend to stay within walking distance, but Phillip Sterling also chooses restaurants with dress codes.
“Are you good with Italian?”
“Of course. Who isn’t?” I smile, feeling grateful that whatever weirdness upstairs has evaporated.
“We have reservations at Fin, a sushi restaurant, as well. Which would you prefer?”
“I’m not picky—I’m like a universal adapter when it comes to food. Italian, sushi, I eat almost anything.”
A driver stands by a black sedan, the car parked in front of the building, which is actually a no-parking zone, reserved for the fire department, but the driver hasn’t parked. He’s picking us up. No wonder Phillip didn’t want to leave the driver waiting long.
I slide into the backseat, immediately noting the leather’s chemical smell and the driver’s cologne.
I dig my nails into my palms, a grounding technique that works when I can’t plug in my earbuds, and something I don’t normally need to do, but my toes are crammed in heels, and I’m dressed like a fraud.
Phillip comes around to the far side, phone in hand once again as he enters the car.
“I’m in the mood for Italian,” he says, pressing on his phone. I assume he’s sending a message to his assistant. The gang says he’s old school and does very little himself.
“How long have you and Jake been together?” he asks when he’s done tapping on his phone.
“Not that long,” I answer, choosing a purposefully vague, honest answer because I don’t remember if Ms. Weaver asked the same question.
If she did, what did I tell her? Shit, I should have prepared a spreadsheet of our cover story details.
Jake would probably laugh at me for wanting to version-control our fake relationship, but inconsistencies are how you get caught.
“You’re living together.”
I side-eye him, because it doesn’t sound like a question, and sure enough, his expression is one of judgment.
“Must be serious,” he adds.
“I don’t know that…” My words trail because I don’t know where I’m going with that answer. Our story is that he moved here to be with me, so that would mean serious. “Yes, things are good.”
I cross my legs and check out the passing scenery of strip malls and suburban sprawl.
“You know, we both could have driven.” I don’t know why I didn’t think of that before.
“Well, if we have a celebratory drink, it’s best that neither of us drive.”
Right. I suppose he’s correct. Back home, I Uber everywhere. I suppose taking the business car service is the corporate equivalent of an Uber.
“You’re an executive now. Enjoy the perks. At least, I believe we’re having dinner tonight to celebrate you joining the executive team. You received your signing bonus, yes?”
“Yes. I did. It’s official.” I must have stared at the bank alert for ten minutes. The funds aren’t available yet, as it’s a large deposit.
“Are you planning on staying in your condo or will you be moving?”
“I’m not sure,” I answer, but the question strikes me as odd, or at the very least, invasive.
“I’m familiar with the floor plans for the condominiums across the street.
A two-bedroom, twelve hundred square feet, is about as large as they get.
Perhaps you could choose to keep your present condo as a convenient place to stay, but live elsewhere on weekends.
Chicago, New York, if you prefer something coastal. You have options.”
“I’ve run scenarios in my head,” I admit, “but there are too many variables to optimize for right now.” The admission makes me sound like the overthinker I am, but it’s honest.
“If you decide you prefer Chicago, you could always work remotely. Keep the condo for when you have business meetings at our offices. You can afford to do anything you like.”
He’s right. I can. It’s a dizzying thought. I mean, I wasn’t poor before. ARGUS paid me well but this is just sick money.
“That’s what I do,” he volunteers. “I own two units. They were a steal when they first came on the market. A solid investment opportunity.”
“Which units are yours?”
“Both of my units are on the top floor. My view is of the park that runs along Jefferson Street. I didn’t want a view of a building.”
“I can understand that.” It’s definitely not a situation I’d seek under normal circumstances. “How often do you use your condo? Or do you rent both units?”
“I have one that’s part of a corporate rental program. One I keep for personal use. When I first got divorced, it’s where I stayed.”
“Ah.” My gaze falls to his ringless fingers, lightly tapping his thigh. “Was your divorce a long time ago?”
“Two years, three months.”
“I’m sorry.” He gives me a strange look, and I look out the window. That was probably not a normal response, but I have little experience with divorce. I don’t know what you’re supposed to say. Growing up, I had friends whose parents divorced. My perception has always been that it’s rough.
“It was for the best. At any rate, there’s a possibility we may move our headquarters to Miami. It’s becoming a respected financial center. We’d probably keep the servers here.”