Chapter 7
CARLIE
Millie hands me the chrome desk leg as I wind noodles around my plastic fork. “God, I should put tacks in his seat. Set the trash can on fire under his desk. Or glue his fucking shit to his desk.”
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this wound up over some guy.” Mills digs in the bag of hardware for a screw as I hold the leg in position, the fork still in my mouth. I pin her with my ‘don’t be ridiculous’ look, and she shrugs.
Swallowing the mouthful, I slide the fork from my lips and drop it to my Chinese takeout box. “Uh-uh, no way. That’s not what is happening here.”
“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
“Millie, we can’t stand each other. He got me fired.”
“Or . . . you were unjustly fired, and he had no power to prevent it?”
She’s tilting her head, her crow’s feet-flanked eyes giving me that annoying ‘I’m older and you know I’m right’ look.
Urgh.
“No, Mills. He stood there while I was humiliated and then fired. And, to add insult to injury, they let you go, too. This is the furthest thing from what you’re thinking, old lady.”
“Who you calling old?” She cackles, her smile flattening the wrinkles over her face.
I love it when she does that.
When we first met, I didn’t see that beautiful smile for months. She was literally homeless and trying to pay for three items at the convenience store. Three. And couldn’t afford them.
A week later, she was waiting at the bus shelter outside the same store.
I sat in my car, watching her as bus after bus came and went and she never boarded a single one.
On further inspection, I realized she was dressed up nice, but the plastic bag by her side was stuffed with what looked like her life’s possessions.
Her bony, frail, liver-spotted hand never lost contact with it, not once.
I offered her a ride home and was scared she would pull a runner. As fast as that might be for someone her age. She declined, telling me she was waiting for her son to pick her up.
I wonder now how many people bought that line from the incredible little woman before me. I’ve also wondered how long she was displaced before someone had the guts and the heart to help. She’s proud and will never tell.
When she fed me the same line the very next day with tears in her eyes, I swiped up her tattered plastic bag and took her home, my heart breaking all over my goddamn Gucci sleeve.
I got her a place in a rental not far from me. Then a job somewhere I knew she would be safe, which of course was with me. We’ve been inseparable ever since. Her own children, the fucking pieces of shit-eating vultures, are the reason she’s left with nothing.
They have no idea what they lost.
She has a sister who lives in Florida who is none the wiser to her situation.
Mills is too proud to admit defeat to her remaining family.
Every year I send her there for Thanksgiving.
It’s her early Christmas present, but I always get her an actual gift at Christmas, too.
With some excuse, like I bought it for myself and it wasn’t right, too small, etc.
She buys into it, I think . . .
“Finished your dinner, sweetheart?” Mills pushes to her feet, wobbling.
I catch her wrist, steadying her on the spot before she takes the food to the trash can. I screw the last leg on and plant it onto the table, and we are ready to flip her over.
Well, I am.
Mills can supervise.
I scramble to my feet and slide my fingers under the glass top.
It’s heavy. I squat, thankful for the years of working out that are paying off right now, and lift it, careful to keep its weight on the front edge to prevent the glass from cracking.
I groan as I lift, realizing as I rise the desk higher that the legs are going to be too heavy.
“Fuck. It’s too big.”
“Here, let me help.”
“You are not blowing a vessel for my desk. Sit down, Mills.”
“You listen here, I might be smaller, a little older, but I am far from useless.” She shuffles toward the table as I raise a brow at that last phrase. With a tsk, she waves me off and grips one short edge of the glass top. “On three.”
“Fine. But you have a coronary over this, and you’ll never lift a damn finger again.”
“Whatever, bossy girl. One, two, three.”
We flip the desk, and it lands precariously on its feet. Mills steps back, holding her arms out: “Look! We did it!”
It looks . . . a little off. But it’s still much better than that wreck of a dining table Lawson and I had to share. And now I can put distance between me and Mr. Brownnoser himself.
I chuckle and pad to where she stands. “We did, didn’t we?” I hug her shoulders, and she reaches up and pats my cheek. I dot a kiss to the crown of her head, into the grey curls that she keeps styled. “We should go home. Past your bedtime, little lady.”
A fine hand slaps the same cheek. I giggle, and she pokes her tongue out at me.
The cheeky brat. Oldest damn brat in this city at seventy-five.
I drag the desk back toward my sideboard on my side of the office space and decide the drawer cabinet can wait until I can rope one of the staffers into fixing it up for me.
Our fish tank is being upgraded. The desks are only the first of the changes I want to bring to my workspace. But I’ll bide my time, make sure I’m staying before I sink any more into this place.
“You going to call that mother of yours back tonight?” Mills asks.
“Yeah, sure. Right after I kiss and make up with Rawlins the Brownnosed-Rat.”
“Don’t you forget her, sweetheart. Family is too hard to lose. Learn from my mistakes.”
I groan internally.
The only family that is worth my while is the woman right in front of me.
And I hate it when she says that kind of stuff.
Like she’s the reason her family disintegrated to nothing.
All she ever did was give until she had nothing left, literally.
Stripped of her assets and down to her last penny, she ended up at the fucking bus station.
So, what, her kids could live it up? If I ever—
A soft thumb finds the crease between my brows. “You’re far too young and too beautiful for a frown. Wait ’til after you meet Mr. Right and fall in love. Then, you can frown and have a face like mine.” Soft eyes find mine as her head tilts. “Take this old lady home, sweetheart.”
“I don’t believe in that kind of love, you know that.” I can’t help it; I wrap her in a hug. “But you know I love you, right?”
My eyes burn, and I suck in a random emotional breath.
The hell?
She rubs my back. “I do. The feeling is mutual, in case you have forgotten.”
I huff a strangled laugh before whispering, “I haven’t forgotten, Mills.”
She yawns. “Time to go, then.”
“See?” I hold her at arm’s length. “Past your old-lady bedtime.”
This earns me a slap to the arm, and I grab up my bag and hook my arm through hers.
We leave the office and take the stairs steadily before spilling out into the cool night air and onto the street.
Fishing out my keys, I unlock my car. I’m glad I drove today.
I doubt Mills would make it home without falling asleep if we took the train.
When she’s safely inside, I round the car and drop into the seat. As I start up the BMW, her eyes fall closed.
Yep, we stayed too long.
The woman’s ass in front of me twerks. Bending over, she looks behind herself and right at me. I bend down, following her position and then squat, following the instructor’s shouts.
My thighs burn.
Hell yes.
We raise our arms over our head, lacing our fingers as we pulse deep into the squat. I breathe through the burn, gritting my teeth. This is what I pay hundreds of dollars a month for.
Torture.
In return, I have a stellar ass, fantastic legs, and an even better waistline.
I can’t imagine not working out five days a week now.
After years of trying every diet and exercise combo known to woman, I fell into this HIIT class, desperate to find something that worked for my body. I’ve never looked back.
I’ve never felt as strong, as indestructible, as I do now.
The shape I have after three years of working out daily as a sort of promise, a commitment to myself, is delicious. I’m not shy about flaunting it by buying the nicest clothes I can to compliment my assets, as Mills calls them.
I chuckle at the memory of her voicing that one during a particularly deep and meaningful conversation.
“Reverse lunge, with weight. And go . . . in five, four, three, two, one. Lunge, ladies!”
I swipe up my ten-pound weights, gripping one in each hand, and step back into the lunge. After the pulsing squat, this feels easier and better all at the same time.
Twelve minutes to go.
Not that I’m counting.
I’m always counting. It’s not that I don’t enjoy the workout—I do. But mid-workout is where my willpower wanes, and I start watching the clock at the front of the class. Millie used to come along too, to watch the class, but said all the Lycra-clad women made her feel old.
She stays home these days and sleeps in. Breakfast is always waiting on the table when I make it back to the apartment.
As class finally finishes up, I tug my towel from my bag and wipe the sweat from my brow.
“Nice workout,” twerking woman says, chewing gum as she closes in.
“For some,” I say with a shake of my head.
“Good view?”
Um . . . Okay.
“Yeah, I prefer the mixed class, actually. Less pussy shoved in my face.”
She gives me a sour look and walks off.
“Fucking hell, whatever happened to being mysterious?” I mutter.
Am I giving off desperate vibes or something? Must be time to swipe right on something with a handsome face, sizable hands, and no strings. I gather my things and head upstairs to Mills.
Sure enough, the second I crack the front door, the aroma of coffee and croissants finds me. And I find a note on the front table.
Gone to the store, then to a midweek book club, it starts early today. See you tonight, sweetheart.
I dump the bag by the door and head for the shower.
Since when does Mills do book club?
God, the short trip upstairs has done nothing for my mood. Nothing my vibrator can’t fix. I strip down and turn the water on. Pulling my hair tie out, rose-gold locks tumble over my shoulders. As the sweat from the workout dries, my skin flushes with goosebumps, my nipples pebbling.
How long has it been since I took care of myself?
Heat thunders south, and I palm my breasts, letting my eyes flutter closed.
A girl could use an orgasm or three before a long, stressful day with Rawlins.
Fuck me.
My eyes fly open.
Urgh, the last man on earth I want to think about right now is Lawson Rawlins.
And just like that, my head latches onto the ridiculous idea. I groan at the thought of the insufferable man, and the second the sound reverberates on the tiles and swings back at me, my imagination transposes it to a moan.
Images of him, his ropey forearms, his deep blue eyes, and his handsome fucking face.
I’m wet.
Ridiculously so.
“Shit.”
No, Carlie. Anyone but him . . .
I slam my eyes shut again, only to find more images conjured up, in all sorts of ways I wouldn’t have considered.
I must be ovulating.
Even Elmo would look like my last meal during those few days.
Giving myself a little grace, I let my mind wander, and when I brush a finger over my clit, my lips part, one nipple pinched between two fingers.
My mind has Rawlins on his knees.
“Oh god.”
I slide the second drawer open to find my translucent pink vibrator, Vinny.
Thank fuck.
Stepping into the shower, I sit on the bench at the far end, letting the water wash over me. As hot as it is, it feels lukewarm over my skin. I push the tip of the vibrator against my entrance.
Blue eyes and a square jaw flash through my mind, the fucking traitor.
I impale myself on Vinny and cry out as I explode around it on the first pass. Body convulsing with every soul-wrenching wave, I slap a hand to the tile, my legs spread wide.
The second it’s over, all I feel is empty and alone. Bar the images of Rawlins that refuse to budge. I groan, and the noise resembles the man himself.
I need to get laid.
The sooner the better.