11. Kira
11
KIRA
“Think about giving him a chance, Keeks.”
James’s words echo in my ears as I cross the threshold into Warren’s office. I toss them around in my mind, wondering if James has any idea that I’ve been fighting the urge to give the man a chance for weeks. As the weeks have gone on, it’s become harder and harder to stay angry at Warren. I told him I wasn’t going to be steamrolled. I told him to leave me alone, not to fuck with me, and he listened. He’s gone out of his way to give me space, going around his elbow to get to his ass anytime our paths–physical or professional–should have crossed.
He’s done what I asked him to do, and that should satisfy me.
So why does it hurt my feelings?
Warren gestures to the chairs across from him, but I don’t want to sit there. I don’t want a stuffy, formal dynamic with him. Instead, I round his desk, hopping up so my ass is perched on the corner. I cross one knee over the other and try to fight the thrill that runs through me when I clock Warren’s gaze drifting over my thighs, slowly roaming up my body before landing on my face.
Having him look up at me like this reminds me of the way he looked at me when his head was between my legs. The way he moaned and whimpered against my clit while he sucked on it, making me see stars. How he stared into my eyes as he licked me through my orgasm, bringing me down before building me back up again.
It’s unbelievably unfair that even when I’ve been determined to hate him, I haven’t been able to stop myself from wanting him again.
“What can I do for you, Kira?” His voice is low and raspy, sounding like every sin I want to commit with him.
“I’m going to go ahead and assume you’ve already met with the product team?”
A rhetorical question. I know he did. He’s met with every team. Every executive. He’s immersed himself in every aspect of the business seamlessly, just like I have.
Warren nods, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.
“Then you know that the new rowing machine is going to beta roll out early next year? ”
Another wordless nod. I think I might make him nervous.
That shouldn’t thrill me, but fuck, it really does.
“Good. Glad to hear you’re up to date on the equipment. Right now, I’ve got Adler, Maddison, and myself for the instructor lineup, and we’re all on board to film the necessary roll out particulars. Tutorials, calibration materials, early classes so that we have a backlog when we launch. But it’s not enough. If we want the row program to be successful from the get-go, we’re going to need more instructors. We learned when we launched the treadmill that we need a wide array of instructors with different personalities, music taste and teaching styles. Variety is important, not just to bring in new customers but to appeal to current members, too. We’ve got a good start, but we’re going to need to start hiring.”
“That makes sense. Can I assume you’ve got a handle on the process?”
“I do. I’ve done some recon and I’ve got my sights set on a handful of people. Two of them are already in the Bay area, but the person I’m really interested in is based in New York. Jeslyn Bender, she works for The Core Collective.”
The Core Collective is a boutique gym in Manhattan that offers a similar streaming option for their members. They offer Pilates, boxing, bootcamps, and personal training. But unlike Spin Sync, they aren’t also a product company. They don’t sell machines or equipment.
“Jeslyn Bender, she sounds familiar,” Warren says, his brows furrowing. The move makes the little crinkles by his ocean-blue eyes even more prominent. I briefly wonder what it would be like to press my lips to that spot, to feel the warmth of his skin against my mouth again.
Ack. No. Bad Kira. No lusting over Warren’s cute little eye crinkles.
“She’s a former Team USA Olympian. She won gold with the women’s rowing team in the straight four in Tokyo. You probably remember hearing her name when they were on the podium. Great Britain came in third.”
My voice comes out a little more arrogant than I meant, but oh well. He’s lucky I didn’t tell him to take the bronze medal and shove it.
Warren cocks his head, lips pursing in an amused smile.
“Such a pest, trying to annoy me by preying on my patriotism. I appreciate the attempt, but I’m a dual citizen. Besides, I’ve been in California for more than half my life. I’m Team USA, baby.”
He winks, and I scowl. God, why does it sound so good every time he calls me a pest?
Fuck it. He can take his stupid sexy accent and shove that, too.
“Anyway,” I say, shaking away my annoyance. “Jeslyn has been hard to pin down from a distance. She’s been taking my calls, but I don’t think I’ll get a yes out of her unless I can sit her down and persuade her in person.”
“So, you’re going to New York.”
“Yes.”
“Well, thank you. I appreciate you keeping me informed.”
I take a deep breath, dreading the next part. But I made a promise to myself–and to my therapist, after I admitted to feeding the rumor mill–that I was going to be a bigger person. I was going to keep an open mind and not burn my bridges. Bringing on new teammates is a big decision. A scouting trip like this is something Jonathan and I would have done together, even if he left all the actual work and final hiring choices up to me. I owe it to Warren and to Spin Sync to give him the same courtesy I would have given his predecessor.
“I wanted to know if you’d like to come to New York with me,” I say through gritted teeth with all the enthusiasm of a dirty cat at bath time.
He opens his mouth, then shuts it again.
“Seriously?”
“Yes. It’s something Jonathan would have done. Scouting and onboarding new team members is delicate work. I can handle it on my own, but you’re in charge. Regardless of my personal feelings about you, I’d appreciate your input on the matter. And it never hurts to have a second set of eyes on a trip like this. We’re going for Jeslyn, but there could be others, too. ”
I almost expect some push back. I haven’t been kind, and if someone called me a stupid British twat-waffle and told a bunch of strangers that I couldn’t get it up, I certainly wouldn’t be keen to hop on a cross-country flight with them. But Warren doesn’t hesitate, not even for a moment. He pushes to his feet, meeting my eyes.
“Alright, then. When do we go?”
For a moment, I’m stunned. Fuck, he smells good. Like sage and spice and the peppermint toothpaste on his breath. Standing in front of me while I sit on his desk, he’s the perfect height. Tall, but not a giant. If I were to drop to my feet, I’d have to rise to my tiptoes to wrap my arms around his neck. But like this, we’re almost equals. Face to face, hip to hip. The perfect alignment for kissing.
My eyes drop to his lips, full and soft like pillows. They’d felt so good on my skin. I don’t think I’d ever been kissed the way Warren kissed me. Fully, passionately, like the only thing that mattered in the world was the fusing of our mouths. Looking at those lips, remembering the way we’d been together, it makes my head spin. My emotions swirl in my chest like the cream I poured into my coffee this morning. Longing. Desire. Resentment. Pride. I feel it all.
“How’s next Friday? My brother’s football team will be in town to play the Redwoods and his coach gave him permission to skip the team hotel and stay at my place. I’d like to use him as free labor to water my plants and feed my fish. ”
“Fish? You have a fish?” Warren asks, his nose scrunching.
“Yes, I have a fish. He’s a golden half moon Betta named Pancakes, and he’s my son,” I say, lifting my chin. I’m not ashamed of my love for Pancakes. I’m proud to be doing my part to uplift the lonely single fish-ladies of the world. Why should cats get all the attention?
“Ugh,” he groans, gagging dramatically.
“Excuse me? Do you have a problem with fish or something?”
“Yes. They’re vile creatures that don’t belong in tanks or dinner plates. They belong far away in the sea where I don’t have to see them.”
Warren shudders, and it’s the exact kick in the ass I need to shake off the feeling of wanting to lean forward and kiss his stupid, beautiful mouth. I can’t be sexually attracted to someone I’m supposed to dislike and who hates my son.
“Betta fish don’t live in the sea, Warren. They live in rice paddies and slow-moving streams.”
“You know what I meant, you pest. Forget it. Your brother can feed the–” he pauses, gagging dramatically “the fish, and we can convince Jeslyn to join the Spin Sync team. What airline are you flying? I’ll book a seat.”
I throw my head back, letting out a loud guffaw.
“I don’t think so. You’ve got big boy money, call up the hangar and book us a jet. I’m not spending six hours on a commercial flight sitting next to you. ”
Warren smiles, leaning in to place his hands on the desk, framing my hips while leaning in closer.
“One private jet for my little pest, coming right up.”
I know it shouldn’t, but the way he says that word like it’s a dirty promise makes my knees weak.
Pest.
He called me that on the dance floor. He repeated it when I was on my knees, teasing his delicious piercings with my tongue. It made me feel powerful then, like I was holding him in the palm of my hand.
Now? It makes me feel like I’m putty in his.
“Why are you smiling like you’re the cat who got the cream?” I ask, hoping he doesn’t notice the way my breathing has picked up from his nearness.
“Just thinking how cute it was that you told me to be afraid of you.”
This time, I get to smile maniacally.
“You still should be. You want to take a live class with every instructor, right? Good news. I’ve got a seat in the front row of my sixty-minute tabata ride with your name on it.”
His smile falters slightly, and I pat a hand on his chest.
“Better do some stretches, old man. I’ll see you in Studio B in twenty minutes.”
I jump off the desk, duck under Warren’s arm, and sashay out of the room.
I can’t stop the smile that spreads across my face when I feel his eyes locked on my ass, watching me as I go.
Later that evening, after a day of teaching, filming, and going over next week’s schedules with the production team, I’m practically dead on my feet as I cross the empty Spin Sync lobby. I’m sore, I’m tired, and I’m ready to cuddle up on my couch and spend my evening binge watching Gilmore Girls with Pancakes.
I’ve got my eyes down, glued to my phone screen while I try to decide which of my hundreds of playlists will be best for tonight’s foggy walk home. I’ve just decided on Jefferson Airplane–a classic San Francisco band for a classic San Francisco night–when an arm reaches out over my shoulder, pushing the glass door open in front of me.
“You headed to the garage?” Warren asks, his voice muffled by the headphones covering my ears.
“No, I live close by. I’m going to walk.”
“Perfect, I walked today, too. I’ll join you.”
I wish I could say that I keep myself from rolling my eyes at him, but I’d be lying.
“Aren’t you in Pacific Heights with the other gazillionaires? I’m headed towards Haight Street. We’re going opposite directions.” I shrug half-heartedly and step through the door, power walking in the direction of my home without a backwards glance. Warren might not be much taller than me, but he certainly has long legs. He uses that stride to catch up with me without breaking a sweat.
“I am in Pac Heights, but I’m not opposed to taking the scenic route. It's a beautiful night. Chilly, but that’s San Francisco for you. And besides, I need to know where to pick you up for our trip, don’t I?”
I don’t look up at him, but I can still feel his cheeky smile like a brand on my skin. Sighing, I slow my pace to a stroll. I’m too exhausted to keep up a near-running pace all the way home, and I can’t stop the man from walking on a public sidewalk.
But that doesn’t mean I have to talk to him.
I make a show of swiping on my phone screen and pressing play on “White Rabbit”. The haunting melody and soothing voice of Grace Slick fills my ears as we fall in step next to each other, instantly transporting me back to the San Francisco of the sixties. I sneak a glance at Warren from the corner of my eye and find him watching me, his eyes locked in on my profile. Those bright blue eyes swim with the same mystery, interest, and desire that they always have. He looks at me the same way he looked at me at James and Georgie’s wedding.
Like he wants to lick every single inch of me, and like he knows I might let him.
Warren was an incredibly good sport today, sitting in the front row of my tabata class and never complaining. Even when I called him out specifically, using him as an example of how not to sit on the bike (even though his form was perfect) and telling the class to boo the CEO who thought I’d miss him trying to skip an interval (he hadn’t been), he pedaled with a smile on his face. Even when “No Scrubs” played and I pointed and sang to him during every chorus, he looked like he was having the time of his life. Like my attention was all he wanted, even if that attention was negative.
I had to keep reminding myself why I was supposed to not like him
He took your job, and he hates fish. He’s a monster.
I don’t understand him. He’s just so willing to offer himself up as my punching bag, and I keep on taking swings.
Man, I can be such an asshole.
I take my right earbud out and offer it to him, a gesture of good faith. He takes it, popping it into his own ear wordlessly. We walk like that the whole way to my neighborhood. Quiet, contemplative, immersed in the sound of the music. A sort of separate togetherness that makes me want to reach out and thread my fingers through his. It’s a nice reprieve from the monotony of always walking home alone.
Maybe I should invite him in for dinner, as another show of good faith. All I have in my refrigerator is Sauvignon Blanc and carrot sticks, but we could order in. People have meals with the bosses they hate all the time, right?
“It’s a bit odd, don’t you think?” He asks as we round the corner of Masonic Avenue, breaking the silence and my devolving thought spiral. The brightly colored Victorians that line my street come into view like a watercolor palette, breaking through the murky, late-fall grey hanging in the air.
“What’s a bit odd?” I ask as we approach my front stoop. I make a mental note that the Madagascar palm on the right side of my stairs needs a little attention this weekend.
“The houses. All these colors, it’s like an Easter basket. My mother would have hated this city. She’d say that new money can only go so far, and that these multi-million-dollar rainbows are proof that you can’t buy taste.”
He sounds amused, like he doesn’t necessarily agree with his mother’s take, but he gets where she’s coming from. Just like the fish comment in his office, his offhand remark comes at the perfect time, reminding me why entertaining anything more than a working, disdainful relationship with Warren Yates is a terrible idea.
“You’ve got a little something, right here,” I say, brushing the corner of my lips. His hand flies up to his own.
“What is it?” he asks, wiping at his face .
“Oh, my mistake. It was just your foot entering your mouth. This is my house. Have a good night, Warren.”
I reach and retrieve my earbud from his ear and then hustle up my front steps. When I’m safely behind the front door, I peek through the curtains framing my front bay window.
Warren is standing on the sidewalk, tugging at his luscious hair, looking positively gob smacked.
Just the way I like him.