Chapter 31 Ransome
RANSOME
Amara opens the door and her mouth pops open in surprise.
“Expecting someone else?” I ask while trying to pretend that the purple dress I handpicked for her isn’t going to be the culprit of a four-hour hard-on.
“The driver, maybe?”
“Is the driver taking you to dinner?” I ask.
She gives me a confused look. “No, but he does usually drive me places. It’s why I call him the driver.”
“I’m driving tonight, dorogoya.” I place my hand on her lower back and guide her out of the penthouse.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asks in an attempt to be formal. But you know what’s not formal? That fucking dress. It’s hugging her curves like it’s holding on for dear life, showing off the fact that she is both fit and delicious.
“I told you. I’m taking you out tonight. No business, only pleasure,” I say, and I swear I can feel the goosebumps prick on her skin under the fabric when I say the word pleasure.
After that, I go through all the rituals. Tonight, Amara is not my assistant. And she’s certainly not a hostage. She’s my date.
So I open the door and close it for her. I ask if she is comfortable. And when she responds with, “The front seat is certainly more comfortable than the trunk, that’s for sure…”
I respond with a tiny upward tick in one corner of my mouth instead of the scowl that feels more natural to her attitude.
“Do you want to listen to music?” I ask as we drive. The night is black other than the streetlights streaking by.
“I highly doubt we have the same taste in music,” she says with a giggle.
“Try me,” I say.
“Alright. I like older stuff. The Who, The Doors, Hendrix—”
“Queen,” I add, and it’s not a question.
It also gets her attention. “How do you know I like Queen?”
“I’ve seen you notice the record on my wall. I’ve also heard you humming Don’t Stop Me Now at work.”
“Who’s watching who?” she asks snarkily.
“I’m the boss. It’s my job to know everything.”
“And I’m your assistant. It’s my job to make sure you know everything.”
That earns an actual smirk, though it’s still only on one side and not a full one. But she notices. And while I park the car in reserved parking in front of Blue Fin, I try to decide if I care.
I don’t.
“Sushi?” she asks as I open the door for her. She takes my hand and I help her out, then place it in the crook of my elbow as we walk inside.
“I’ve noticed you order Japanese a lot, and this is the best sushi restaurant in the city. I’ve also noticed that you order in a lot.”
“Is that a problem?” she asks. “I use my own money.”
“I want you to use your lunch break to take a break. Ordering in leads me to believe that you work through your lunch.”
“And is that a problem?” She smiles up at me.
Jesus fucking Christ, this woman is charming when she wants to be. When she’s not stumbling to keep up with every snap of my fingers. When she’s not trying to predict my every storm.
When she’s not locked in my penthouse because she knows too much.
“You’re not my secretary, Amara,” I tell her as the host silently leads us to the table in the back, away from the crowd.
A waiter also approached wordlessly, setting down a carafe of water and two cocktails, leaving us with a food menu.
“You’re my assistant, and you need to take time for yourself once in a while. ”
“Time for myself,” she echoes with a smirk. “What’s that?”
“Exactly,” I say, reaching for my whiskey neat.
Amara reaches for her drink too—and then stops.
“Is something wrong?” I ask.
“That’s tequila.”
“And?”
Amara still doesn’t touch it. “I thought I wasn’t supposed to drink tequila anymore. Now that I’m with a guy in the… Bratva.”
She mouths the last word, and it has my eyes glued to her lips. I wouldn’t mind having my lips glued to her lips. Both sets.
“Consider this a special occasion,” I tell her, and use two fingers to slide the drink closer to her.
Amara picks it up and smells it. The lime green mixture. The Tajín rim. I know what she likes, even if it’s best that she doesn’t. Unfortunately for her spicy Mediterranean and Mexican blood, vodka is the proper drink for anyone we associate with.
Though I wouldn’t mind seeing her more authentic side in private. I could use a little spice in my life.
We order several sushi rolls for the table, all her choice. And I have to admit, her taste is pretty impeccable. Everything from a volcano roll to one with eel and mango sauce and some classic nigiri. She even gets a bowl of edamame with spicy aioli.
This girl really likes heat…
I can’t help but wonder what else she likes.
“Do you want some?” she asks, picking up an edamame pod.
“I’ve never had it before. How do you eat it?”
“You dunk it in the aioli. And then you put it in your mouth and you use your teeth…”
She shows me. She squeezes the beans out with her teeth and tosses the pod in the empty bowl, licking her lips before smiling at me.
And there’s one more tick in the smirk for her.
“You were right about this place,” she says before popping a piece of spicy tuna in her mouth, then reaching for her napkin. “Seriously. It might be the best sushi I’ve ever had.”
“I take it you’ve never been here before,” I conclude, eating a piece of sashimi.
“Are you kidding?” she asks dryly. “I’ve never been anywhere even remotely like this before.”
With that, I set down my chopsticks. “Do I not pay you enough?”
A laugh bubbles out of her throat. She reaches for her drink. “I’m sorry?”
“Do I not pay you enough that you can treat yourself to a nice meal once in a while?” I rephrase the question.
“Of course you pay me enough. I just have… more than myself to think about. And besides, I’m too busy to go out much. Between reservations and commuting, I just don’t have the time.”
“Because of work?” I press.
But Amara just continues to sip her drink, savoring it like she’s not allowed to have another. With that, I signal the server for a second round.
“Work. Friends.” She pauses. “Family.”
I pause. I vetted her before she was hired. I’ve looked into the people in her life. I know she has siblings, but who doesn’t? I didn’t dig any deeper into it.
I make a mental note to do that.
Our drinks come. We sip them more leisurely. Conversion flows a little more freely too. It hits me in the chest that other than Baron, I don’t really have anyone I can just have a meal with and talk about things other than work or my other work. It’s almost… nice.
“So what about fun?” I ask halfway through the drinks.
“Fun?” she echoes. “I haven’t had much time for fun either. Between learning about what you do for fun and suffering the consequences of knowing that information, it doesn’t leave much time for crocheting and pickleball.”
I almost smile. “Do you do either of those things?”
“Nope.”
The fact that she is making a joke about how I’ve basically held her hostage just shows how spicy she really is. I don’t hate it.
But it’s also trouble. And I don’t need trouble.
“Really, though, what do you enjoy doing?”
“Why do you want to know?” She shifts her weight, infusing her jasmine perfume into the air as she does.
“Consider it an icebreaker question,” I say.
“Pretty sure my workplace icebreaker was showing you how fast I can deliver your coffee each morning before even clocking in.”
“I pay you a salary,” I remind her.
She smiles again, as if it’s effortless and she has nothing to lose by giving me that. “Poker,” she says after a moment.
I narrow my eyes a little, tipping my chin up as a motion for her to go on.
“Texas hold ‘em, to be exact. I used to work a night job at a casino. I was only sixteen, but I had a fake ID.”
“You had a fake ID?” I ask, a little surprised. “I never took you for a party girl.”
“I wasn’t,” she says, running her fingertip through the condensation on her drink glass.
“I needed a second job to help pay the bills. Well… to pay all the bills, really. And I wanted a cash job, something I could do while my siblings were sleeping. That way, I could hit a grocery store on the way home and there would be food when they woke up.”
“What about school?”
“I was in school.”
“Working two jobs.”
“Graduated early..”
“Why a casino?”
“Because gambling men do two things. They drink a lot, which means high tabs, and they take chances. Needless to say, it paid very well.”
I hate the idea of all of it. Men throwing dollar bills so she can pay her family’s bills. Even if it was years ago, it still pisses me off. I’m tempted to give her another raise just to see to it that she’s never in an environment like that again.
“Why are you doing this?” she suddenly asks.
“I don’t know what you mean.” I finish off my drink.
“You don’t have to wine and dine me. That’s not part of the contract, the benefits or the show of it. If you wanted to parade me around, we wouldn’t be somewhere this private.”
“It’s just dinner.”
“Are you sure you’re not feeling guilty for keeping me prisoner?” she asks before crossing her arms in satisfaction.
I lean in, my eyes hard, not a hint of amusement in them. “You’re reading into this too much.”
We drive home without speaking another word, though Under Pressure is playing very softly on through the speakers.
I like to think I’m not a complete dick.
I also like to think the evening went well and served its purpose.
She’s no longer a cat with its claws out, and I got to see her in the purple dress. It’s a win/win.
I walk her up to the penthouse and unlock the door. For a moment, she hesitates.
She’s wondering if I am coming inside, I realize.
I could. I could finalize the benefits clause right now. Peel that purple dress right off her body and give us both the dessert we’ve been craving for.
But I don’t. I let the moment hang in the air long enough that she knows I’m leaving.
She walks inside and then turns back to me. “Thank you for dinner.”
I no. She turns to walk further inside.
“Amara.”
She looks back at me.
“You’re not a prisoner. Treat yourself more.”
With that, I close the door and head down the stairs to my car.
As soon as I’m inside, a safe distance from her and that dress and those lips, I pull out a box of cigarettes I keep in the glove box.
I quit smoking years ago.
Tonight, I light one up.