3. Cassie
3
CASSIE
It takes a while for my pulse to return to normal when I stumble back from the meeting. There’s shock and hushed disbelief as I hang onto my desk, trying to feel the chair and my back and centre myself. I can’t quite believe that just happened. There’s a blur of emotions in me, and they’re all tinged with the electric blue of my boss’ eyes.
I think Mr Blackwood killed my old boss and promoted me into his role.
Me. A twenty-two-year-old who understands spreadsheets better than social dynamics.
I can see the logic of numbers. They have rules written down, whereas people have rules that no one can tell me what they are, so I always muck them up. And in this case, it seems to have been fatal.
Mr Blackwood has put his trust in me, and I’m equal parts terrified and exhilarated.
But even having seen photos of Mr Blackwood, and the other two Blackwood triplet kingpins, Vito Blackwood is different. In person, he’s an Egyptian god. He’s part black snake, part blue jay, and all muscled, bulky man, his hair touched with silver as though he’s permanently in the moonlight.
He is hot, and for the first time in my life, my body appears to have awoken to that. I’ve never thought much about men. I wasn’t boy-crazy like some of the girls at school, and I didn’t sleep around at university. I didn’t sleep with anyone, I never wanted to.
But Vito Blackwood? Oof.
The fact he’s ruthless, has piercing eyes that gleam with dark knowledge, and is my boss, only makes this feeling all the more forbidden and tempting.
Oh, and if I don’t do well with my new job, he might have me killed.
Drawing in a deep breath, I flick on my computer and open my pretty, decorated notebook, and start writing a to-do list. This promotion is huge, and I’m determined to show my boss that even if I’m as bad at dealing with people as he is—though less murderous—I am competent at my job.
I’m several pages through, pulling numbers from a spreadsheet and jotting them down, when I notice that everything has gone quiet around me.
The back of my neck prickles and nervously, I begin to turn.
My boss is looming over my shoulder, his square jaw only inches away, as he leans to examine my workspace.
A squeak escapes me.
In my small cubicle, he seems even bigger than from a distance in the board meeting. Not because he’s scary. Or, not only because he’s scary.
He makes me feel tiny, like a doll. I am not classic doll shaped. I’m curvy, and suddenly I’m hyperaware of how I’m small and slight and soft because he’s big and hard and bulky.
“That’s a tiny working space.” He glares at my desk, potted fern, pink pens, and the cute sticker-covered notebook I have open. “How do you get anything done?”
Ack. He doesn’t like my plants? I stop myself from dragging them protectively to me. They’re my friends, especially the one with the triangular purple leaves.
“I do most things on my computer,” I say brightly, and it’s true. “I don’t print things unnecessarily, so it’s big enough.”
“You’ll strain your eyes, Miss Meadows.” His brow darkens and he slowly regards my space, scanning from left to right. “And this isn’t appropriate for your new role. Come with me.”
I half expect him to lead me to my boss’ office, a glass walled section much larger than any of the cubicles on the main floor with most of the employees. But he doesn’t, and I follow him to the elevator, where he jabs the button to the top level of the building. I stand beside him awkwardly, not knowing what to say. My chest tightens as the doors open. Since Mr Blackwood took over, this floor has been rearranged into sleek meeting rooms and offices, with a large central space with a glass roof that could be used as a dance floor, or for tenpin bowling, if you had a death wish.
Which I do not.
“That’s my office,” Mr Blackwood says unnecessarily, as we pass enormous opaque glass doors and come to another set beyond. “And this is yours.”
He throws open the door and stands back. My jaw must have a technical problem, because for the second time today my mouth falls open and refuses to close.
This office is amazing. It’s enormous, with floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the London skyline, hazy white clouds and blue sky stained with yellow sunlight. The carpet is so thick it’s probably more comfortable than my mattress, the desk is huge and shiny, and has on it a computer that probably costs more than my annual rent. The conference table, sofas, and space enough to do yoga are just the icing on top. Even though I don’t do yoga. Last time I tried I pulled a muscle and couldn’t walk for days.
There’s even a coffee machine. A coffee machine! Just for me!
“The windows face east. In the morning, you’ll want to block out the light.” Mr Blackwood picks up a control from the desk, and as I watch, the windows turn opaque, then become reflective, until in a few seconds they are floor-to-ceiling mirrors. And I’m staring at me, tiny, next to my extremely tall and powerful boss. He meets my gaze in the mirror.
“Does that meet with your approval?”
I nod. I didn’t realise glass could do that.
“Thank you.”
His brows pinch together, and he takes a breath. For a second, I’m convinced he’s going to say something. But he doesn’t, and neither does he move.
“I’ll justify the trust you’ve put in me,” I add earnestly, filling in the gap. I’m eager for my boss’ approval.
Dropping his gaze, he turns abruptly, and walks out. No goodbye. No further comment.
And my stupid heart thuds.
The next day, I’m set up in my new office. A team of sinister looking but very polite Italian men brought all my stuff from my cubicle downstairs and all I had to do was tweak their positions. Then I started getting to grips with my new job, which was easier than it sounds because honestly, I was doing everything for my old boss except giving the presentations. The analysis, the reports, everything was written by me. I was in until late last night though, and I’m in early in the morning, determined to make a good impression.
Mr Blackwood has emailed overnight, and there are messages on my phone too. He’s asking for an update by the end of the day.
When I’ve figured out what I need to do, I grab another coffee and when I check the time, I’m shocked to discover it’s after twelve, so I unpack the sandwiches and chocolate bar I bought on my way into work, and put them at my elbow to eat while I work through lunch. I unwrap the chocolate first, because why not, and get back into the spreadsheet.
“Miss Meadows.”
My head snaps up, mid mouthful. Mr Blackwood is standing in the entrance to my office, having magically stealthed his way in and I am stuffing my face with chocolate.
“Mr Black…” Oh god. I cover my mouth and cringe. So much for looking professional.
“You’re eating at your desk, Miss Meadows.”
My heart skips a beat, not getting the memo that he’s my boss and not a sabre-toothed tiger.
“Yes. I was keen to keep working on…” I gesture at my screen.
His eyes narrow. “What are you eating?”
Oh no… Not this. Please not the “eat less sugar and you’ll be slimmer”. I can’t cope. Or rather, I can, but not without risking being shot for shouting at my boss.
“A sandwich and a small treat,” I chirp. He cannot murder me for eating something he doesn’t approve of. This isn’t a bible story. I refuse to believe it.
“You should eat more healthily.”
“It’s healthy,” I protest. “There’s?—”
“That isn’t good enough, Miss Meadows.” He picks up my crumpled budget sandwich and scowls at it.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll bring in food from home.” Ugh, I was looking forward to buying lunch rather than making it now I’ve had a pay raise.
That seems to incense him even more. “No more eating lunch at your desk.”
“But—”
“It’s not good for you not to take a break,” he interrupts in a stern voice that causes an unexpected throb in my clit. “Get up.”
It shocks me so much I don’t point out that most of the reason I’m working hard is because he gave me a promotion, and rise from my seat trying not to squirm.
I’m turned on by him being stern and commanding. What is wrong with me? My heart leaps as he strides around the desk and cups my elbow. He practically frog marches me out of the office, the door banging behind us. There are curious stares from the executive assistants working in the foyer as he leads me to the elevator, and out of the building.
He doesn’t let go of my elbow until we’re in a restaurant with white tablecloths and the best pasta I’ve ever eaten. Mr Blackwood grumbles about the lack of authenticity of the Italian food, questions me constantly about work, and watches me clear my plate like a hawk tracking a mouse.
Probably I shouldn’t have eaten as much as I did, never mind agreeing to dessert—tiramisu—but honestly it was delicious and why should I hold back? It’s not like this is a date. Though, saying that, it’s not like I have any experience of dating, so what would I know?
He pays with a wedge of cash tossed onto the table that makes my eyes bulge and when we’re back on the top floor, he stalks to his office without so much as a, “Hope you had a good lunch.”
“Thank you,” I call from the elevator where he’s left me for dust.
He doesn’t even turn. But he pauses, one hand on the door, and rasps, “From now on, if you need to have a working lunch, you have it with me .”
Mr Blackwood is as good as his word. He takes me out for lunch to the Italian restaurant three days that week, usually stomping into my office or ringing about the task he gave me only a few hours before and that needs the whole day.
After the fateful Monday morning meeting, he’s done nothing but growl. I don’t know what level of supervision is normal in a new job like this, but I think he’s checking up on me too. Usually, he phones as soon as I get into the office in the morning to check on the progress of whatever I’m working on. Then at some point during the day he’ll appear at the door, or phone and say, “Come to my office, Miss Meadows,” in that rough, deep voice of his. And every time my heart lifts in a silly way. I thought it was nerves at first, but… No.
On Wednesday I arrive at work with damp hair after walking in the rain, and when I’m called in to see him, he takes in my appearance and demands an explanation. I protest that I like the exercise, and it’ll be dry in half an hour, but he overrules me. I end up with a chauffeur driven SUV to take me to and from work.
And I kinda like it.
On Thursday, he zeros in on my pink keyboard. And okay, yes, it was a bit dirty. I should have cleaned it, and the “a” sticks sometimes. The new ergonomic one that arrived a few hours later is easier to type on. But it’s not pink.
On Friday, I don’t hear from him at all except an email first thing about a report he needs by the end of the day. At quarter to five, I’m going through the last details when my neck prickles. I stroke the hairs back down, and refocus.
Then the scent of citrus and sandalwood catches at my nose and I stop typing.
It’s him.
The air crackles with electric tension. I can hear him breathing. He’s watching me, and he knows that I know.
But Mr Blackwood makes no movement to announce his presence.
I can’t move. Creaky like the tinman, and as lacking in courage as the lion. I’m fixed in place. His gaze, now I’ve realised it’s on me, is hot as the summer sun.
“I’m nearly done with the updated projections you asked for,” I croak.
“Good.” The single word is clipped. “Because I’ve realised the ones you sent yesterday aren’t broken down by month and I need them to review over the weekend.”
That snaps my head around. “By month? But you asked for quarterly!” It’ll take forever to redo that.
I could bite off my tongue as my eyes meet the bright blue eyes of my billionaire kingpin boss. Oh. Shit. His eyes are a summer sky, but his expression is thunder.
“Is there a problem?”
“It’s fine!” I smile. “I’ll work late.”
He gives a single nod. “Tell me,” he begins, without a thank-you, to ask for complex details about the previous financials of the company.
The way he listens as I reply is what makes me think I’m losing my mind. Because although his brows remain low, there’s an intensity in his attention that shimmers across my skin.
There must be something wrong with me, because grumpy and sour and difficult and objectively terrifying as my boss is, I think I like him. I enjoy his blue gaze on me, and the way he concentrates on me. He takes every word I say seriously.
I don’t want to disappoint him. So, when we seamlessly move from what he asked about to a new topic, then another, I don’t complain.
The massive pay increase doesn’t hurt, and that’s a good justification for why as the sun sets, turning the sky pink through the massive windows of my office, I don’t mention that it’s late, on a Friday.
What else do I have to do with my Friday evenings? It’s not like I have a boyfriend or invitations to go partying.
By the end of a month, I’ve come to a conclusion: I have to lose my virginity.
Pressing my thighs together all day might be good for my inner leg muscle strength, but it’s a disaster for my concentration. I might be tempted to quit, but for three things:
One, my predecessor in this role didn’t leave voluntarily, shall we say, and I prefer to remain alive. Especially because it seems Mr Blackwood hates me, and considers me the cause of the permanent rain cloud above his head. That is the only rational explanation for how he grumps at me all the time.
Two, objectively, I have a great job. All the salary and benefits perks, plus some I didn’t realise I needed, like regular working lunches with my thundercloud boss.
But I’d still quit, if it weren’t for reason number three. Because what started as an inconvenient tendency of my heart to race whenever Mr Blackwood was around has developed into a full-blown crush.
Which is insane.
I have the world’s most stupid crush on my demanding, grumpy, unreasonable, gorgeous boss. The evidence is irrefutable. I tingle under his gaze. When he scowls, I swoon. The mere sound of him saying “Miss Meadows” reverberates in my heart.
I’ve worked harder this month than I ever have before in my life. And what’s wild is, the more growly he is, the more I respond inappropriately.
When Mr Blackwood drops by my desk, and demands, “Why are you still here?” at nine at night, my pussy twitches. I’m there because I want his approval. Because I end up wondering what he’d look like naked when he’s watching me. I wonder what he’d feel like on top of me.
Or in me. Mmmhmm.
I gave a presentation to him and other department heads, and though during the questions he was full of quiet approval, afterwards, he pulled me aside and said, “You need to control your fidgeting.”
“Of course, Mr Blackwood,” I replied, but really, I thought, oh shoot. He noticed me being hot and squirmy in his presence.
I have an itch I can’t satisfy.
Because of this, I desperately need a life outside of work and Mr Blackwood so that I can stop being so pathetic about my boss.
Thankfully, since I’ve been so busy, I haven’t managed to change living circumstances. This morning, I asked my housemate Julie if I could come with them tonight when they went out, and she agreed.
There’s only one small hitch: telling my boss.
It’s funny, there are two types of days, I’ve noticed. Some days, when I arrive in the morning, there’s a message from Mr Blackwood, or he calls almost immediately.
Other days, it’s not until late afternoon that he’ll appear at my office door, or message asking me to come to his office. It’s as though some days he refrains from contacting me. Or maybe he just forgets me.
Today, it’s an afternoon visit to my office with an unfeasible amount of work to be done before the weekend. I muster all my courage, and say, “I’m sorry, that’s not going to be possible. I can’t work late tonight.”
There’s a silence as thick and black as the two seconds when I was in the basement level of the building when the power went out, before the emergency lights flickered on, and I’m just as terrified.
“You can’t work tonight?” he says with dangerous calm. “Why not?”
“It’s a Friday evening,” I point out.
“Do you not value the job I gave you?”
I break apart inside, because yes, and I value him even more. But it’s because of all the unwanted, forbidden feelings he invokes in me that I have to go out tonight.
“Mr Blackwood, this is the first evening I haven’t worked this month. You don’t want me to let my friends down, do you?”
I cross my fingers for luck and for the lie.
His jaw tightens.
“Enjoy your evening, Miss Meadows,” he snaps, and turning on his heel, strides out of the office.
Staring after him, my heart sinks. I’m a hopeless case. Because I suspect I’m not going to have a good evening unless it’s with my boss.