9. Spencer
Chapter 9
Spencer
I stand from my desk and stalk towards the doorway, only to see that Delilah still hasn’t arrived. She’s fifteen minutes late, and I need my damn coffee.
Pulling out my phone, I punch Damien’s number. “Is there an issue with Delilah?” I ask when he answers the call.
“I’m not sure, but she seemed upset when I collected her from her premises this morning, but unlike the previous day, I didn’t hear any commotion before she left the house.”
“What do you mean, unlike the previous day?”
“I could hear screaming coming from inside while I was waiting for her.”
I presume he’s referring to the incident with her sister. “And why am I just hearing about this now?”
“I wasn’t aware I needed to report back to you on Miss St. James’s personal business.”
“Well, consider yourself aware now.”
“Sure thing, Mr Prescott.” I can tell by his tone that he’s not impressed, but even if he doesn’t agree, he’ll comply with my wishes.
“Have you dropped her off yet?”
“Yes, about half an hour ago.”
“Did you see her enter the building?”
“I did.”
“Thanks,” I say, ending the call.
I slide my phone back into my trouser pocket and pick up the landline receiver on my desk, pressing the button for reception.
“Shay-lee, it’s Spencer Prescott. Did you see Delilah St. James arrive this morning?”
“Yes, Mr Prescott. She asked me what floor she could find Human Resources on.”
“Thank you.” I can feel my blood pressure rising as I hit the button for HR. I don’t know what she’s playing at now, but I thought we came to an agreement yesterday morning.
“Marcus,” I say when he answers, “Is Delilah St. James on your floor?”
“Yes, sir. She said she needed to talk to somebody about adding a clause to her contract. She’s in with Christine now.”
“Put me through,” I growl.
“Mr Prescott,” she says. “I was about to call you.”
“Regarding?”
“Miss St. James is in my office. She’s asking about adding a clause to her contract.”
“What kind of clause?” I ask, feeling my temper rise further.
“She wants her wages garnished as reimbursement for some clothes that were purchased by the company yesterday.”
The company didn’t pay for her new wardrobe … I did. “Put her on, Christine.”
“Hello,” her meek voice squeaks down the line .
“I want to see you in my office immediately, Delilah,” I bark. “And bring me my damn coffee.”
I’m standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows with my hands shoved into my trouser pockets as I gaze over the city skyline, trying to lower my blood pressure when the object of my annoyance finally waltzes into my office.
“Your coffee, Mr Prescott.”
I’m forced to do a double take when I glance over my shoulder and see the vision in white standing in my doorway. The morning sun that’s streaming in from the reception area only seems to illuminate her further. Fucking hell. She’s barely recognisable with that hairstyle, the full face of makeup, and that outfit. You’d usually associate the colour white with something angelic, but the woman before me looks like pure fucking sin.
I thought I was doing the right thing, the noble thing , by getting my mother to take her shopping for some new clothes. I’m now second-guessing that decision. I’m not sure what it is about this woman, but everything about her, and the situation she’s in, tugs at my hardened heart. I feel all her injustices as if they were my own.
When I don’t immediately make a move, she crosses the room and gently places the coffee down on my desk. “That is not the size I usually order,” I snap.
Her blue eyes are slightly narrowed as she replies, “You seemed more growly today, so I thought extra caffeine may help.”
I inhale a large breath, counting to ten in my head before turning and approaching my desk. If I’m not careful, this woman is going to give me a bloody aneurysm. I pick up the takeaway cup and take a sip of coffee. The moment it hits my tastebuds I know the size of my drink isn’t the only mistake she made. “Does this have sugar in it?”
Those blue orbs are everywhere but on me as she nibbles the corner of her plump bottom lip. “I thought you could use some sweetening up as well.”
“Sweetening up?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You know, the growly thing.”
God, give me strength.
I arch an eyebrow. “You were given strict instructions on how I like my coffee, were you not? Is this the sort of behaviour I can expect from you going forward, Miss St. James?”
“I was showing initiative,” she counters, raising her chin.
I click my tongue and take a seat at my desk. “Well, don’t.” She continues to stand there, staring me down. “Sit,” I growl. A silent standoff ensues before she finally does as I ask. I rest my elbows on the desk and interlock my fingers. “Let’s talk about this ridiculous clause … and more importantly, why you thought it was a good idea to go directly to HR instead of coming to me.”
“It’s not ridiculous, and …”
“And what, Miss St. James?”
“I was mad at you.”
I untangle my fingers and tap the tip of my pointer finger on the desk ten times, again counting the numbers in my head. If it was anyone else sitting in front of me now, I’d probably be flying off the handle, but Damien said she seemed upset this morning, and the last thing I want to do is contribute to her unhappiness. This poor girl has been through enough.
“You’re mad at me because?” I have a fair idea why, but my mother said she seemed to enjoy her shopping expedition.
“I …” She turns her face away, but not before I see the tears rising in her eyes. “I … umm … want to pay you back for the clothes,” she says, her voice cracking.
“I can afford it, Delilah … you don’t need to pay me back.”
“Please,” she pleads, and the overwhelming sadness I see in her eyes when they meet mine again has me wanting to wrap her in my arms and protect her from all the ugliness.
Instead, I nod my head once. “If it means that much to you, then we can work something out.”
“I’d appreciate that,” she says, standing.
“Where are you going?”
“I have work to do.”
“Delilah,” I say as she turns to leave. “I’m sorry if I overstepped the mark, but please know the clothes came from a good place.”
I’ve never met a woman who didn’t love being showered with pretty things, but I’m quickly learning that Delilah St. James is like nobody I’ve ever known. A complete paradox to all the others. She’s a combination of sassy and sweet, with an air of innocence that I find so damn appealing.
She pauses briefly, then glances at me over her shoulder to murmur, “Thank you.”
When she refaces forward and continues towards the door, my eyes involuntarily move down the length of her body. She’s so petite, but that round, peachy little arse of hers in those tightfitting slacks has all the blood in my body rushing straight to my cock. Thankfully, I smother down the groan that’s permeating in the back of my throat.
Jailbait, Prescott, I remind myself for the umpteenth time.
I’m already feeling like a lowlife for upsetting her, so my unwelcome reaction to that sinful body of hers only amplifies that sense of guilt. This is why I never let emotions get in the way of business, but I already know I’m in over my head with this one.
I spend the rest of the day avoiding my personal receptionist wherever I can. I’ve resorted to sending her emails if I need anything added to her to-do list. It’s immature, but I think space will do us both some good. Lines are becoming blurred, and that’s the last thing either of us needs.
I’ll say one thing though: she’s very proficient at her job and has gone above and beyond with everything I’ve asked of her. You could even overlook the addition to my coffee this morning, but I’ll make sure that doesn’t become a regular. She’ll soon learn I’m a creature of habit—I like what I like—and that’s not about to change anytime soon.
Just after midday, I’m pulled away from my computer screen when there is a knock on my office door. I look up to find Delilah standing on the threshold holding a large brown paper bag. She’s removed her white jacket, and I hate that I notice how well the high-waisted slacks she is wearing hug her narrow hips, only emphasising her hourglass figure.
“I have your Wednesday lunch order, Mr Prescott,” she says. “Pan-seared scallops with a citrus and avocado salad and a lemon caper dressing.”
“Thank you, Miss St. James. You can place it on my desk.”
“Do you always eat so … structurally?”
“What do you mean?”
“I went over the menu for the rest of the month and although there are five different lunches, you eat the same thing every Monday, Tuesday, and so forth.”
I arch a brow. “Is there a problem with that?”
“Not at all … I just find it?—”
“You find it, what?” I snap.
“Weird, predictable … dare I say, boring.”
“I can assure you there is nothing boring about the food I eat.”
“I looked it up online … the colloquial term is mono-luncher.”
“I’m not paying you to psychoanalyse me, Delilah. I have a therapist for that.”
Her pretty blue eyes widen. “You have a therapist?”
“I used to. I haven’t been back in years.”
“Can I ask why?”
“No,” I grumble.
“Does it have anything to do with your father?”
“I’m busy. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
I have to roll my lips to hide my smile when she gasps, spins on her heels, and storms from my office. My amusement only grows when she slams the door behind her.
If nothing else, she’s entertaining.