9. Cooper
NINE
Cooper
W ater cascades down my back as I rest my forehead against the cool tile in the shower. I came home with Meghan on Friday night and when I woke up she was gone.
I’ve not heard a peep from her all weekend and, instead of calling her, I’ve stewed in my own thoughts. I tried to work, to focus my mind somewhere else, but it was pointless.
Every thought I have is of her. Her taste. The scent of her pussy and the sounds she made as we fucked. How her pretty little mouth felt wrapped around my throbbing cock.
It all plays on repeat in my mind.
I’ve laid in bed or stood in the shower and stroked myself to the thought of her, and if I concentrate hard enough I can still feel her hot, wet, mouth on me. I’ve never had a woman affect me like this before .
Now I’m standing here in the shower, washing my body, trying in vain to calm the frustration that’s rising inside of me.
How dare she leave without a word?
The thing that’s getting to me the most is that she could have called me or at least left a note to say…
something. I thought after what we experienced, she could have at least communicated with me, instead of running away like a coward.
I’ve left the ball in her court and she’s just walked away from it.
Fuck.
This can’t continue. I swore to myself that I wouldn’t ever sample the company pool.
But that was before her.
It doesn’t matter, I need to end this.
I’m no better than my father if it continues.
As much as it pains me to say, he was right when he told me the apple doesn’t fall from the tree. The only difference is, I don’t have a wife and kid waiting for me at home. I can’t believe I fucked up so monumentally.
I go through the motions of dressing, having breakfast and heading to the office, all with her occupying my thoughts and a burning curiosity at how she’s going to handle this. Yes, we need to work together, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want another taste of her.
I won’t give in.
I can’t .
Not again .
She’s sitting at her desk when I walk in, her focus on the screen of her computer with her fingers furiously flying across the keyboard. As I go to walk into my office, I look down and see a document with a bunch of gibberish written in it open on the screen.
My brow pulls into a frown and I lift my gaze to her. A rosy blush steals across her cheeks and she drops her chin in embarrassment before lifting it in defiance.
“We should talk,” I declare.
Standing from her chair and moving toward my office door, she says, “Yes, we should. You have time now.”
I follow her into my office, closing the door behind her as she walks to the chair in front of my desk.
“Obviously we had sex and it shouldn’t have happened,” she rushes out.
I freeze in the process of hanging up my coat. Even though I know what she’s saying is true, it doesn’t stop the ache that starts building in my chest and the feeling of regret that pools in the pit of my stomach.
Come on, Cooper.
I was about to say the same damn words to her. This shouldn’t be causing any feelings, let alone this feeling of… loss.
Slowly turning to face her with my coat still in my hands, I assess her for a moment.
She looks stunning, with her hair pulled back in a ponytail and in an oversized cream and navy sweater.
Although her chin is lifted, her gaze is on my shoulder.
She’s trying to be brave and strong, but for some reason she can’t look me in the eye.
Turning back to hang my coat away, I respond. “I agree. I’m sure we can both be professionals about it. And just so you know, I’m clean and have never forgotten about protection before.”
“Of course, I can be professional. I won’t be telling anybody. And I… uh, I’m also… clean. I’m on the pill too.”
I move to my desk, looking over the files as I reply, “Good. I’d understand if you wanted to mention it to HR, but I hope we can just let it go and put it down to a drunken mistake.”
Pushing her glasses up her nose, she gives me a small smile. “I think that would be for the best. To put it down as a drunken mistake. Well, if there isn’t anything else, I should get back to work.”
She rises from her seat, smoothing her hands down the front of her pants before moving toward the door. I tear my gaze away from watching the subtle sway of her hips.
“I’m glad we got this resolved,” I mumble to her retreating back.
Sitting in the silence of my office, I replay the conversation in my mind. I should be relieved that she wanted to draw a line in the sand, and I guess on some level I am. But I’m also disappointed that I won’t get to have her again, even though I know it’s for the best.
Yes, I had the best time I’ve had in a very long time, and if she was anyone else, I’d want to keep seeing her, but I refuse to become my father.
She needs to remain nothing more to me than my assistant, no matter how hard she is to resist.
I’m standing by the check-in desk when I see her step through the doors.
Trailing behind her is a small carry-on suitcase and I take the time to drink her in unobserved.
She’s dressed casually in a chunky cream knit sweater and blue denim jeans.
Her parka coat is undone and winter boots adorn her feet.
The column of her neck is exposed as her hair is in a ponytail and I have to remind myself that it’s not acceptable to bury my face in the space there.
It’s been nearly three weeks since we agreed to call what happened a mistake and resume our professional relationship—and it’s been the hardest three weeks of my life. I swear she knows the effect she has on me.
I’ve found myself watching her as she does the most menial of tasks, like answering the phone or reading through a document.
She’s been nothing but professional with me, acting like nothing has changed, but I’ve found myself craving her attention and living for the small snippets I get.
For the first time in a long time, I’m not entirely sure how to handle my feelings toward a woman.
“Mr. Jackson,” she greets .
I nod my head, biting my tongue to keep from asking her to drop the formalities. “Meghan.”
She leads the way over to the desk and takes charge of getting us checked in. The process is smooth and before I know it, we’re heading through security. We don’t have to wait long for our gate to open and we both busy ourselves with responding to emails and making phone calls.
Meghan spends the three-hour flight briefing me on the client we are going to see and although I know everything she is telling me, because we went to college together, I don’t stop her.
Jamison Monroe is a tech giant in Miami. He’s looking to move his operations to New York, and that’s where I come in. I’ll be giving him some legal guidance around the move, as it will most likely result in people being laid off.
She’s been in work mode since we met at the airport. Although a part of me is grateful that it’s not awkward and we can move past what happened, another part of me is pissed that she can be so unaffected by something that is consuming me day and night.
We take a cab from the airport to the hotel and when I step out of the confines of the air conditioned cab I pull in deep lungfuls of the salty sea air. In comparison to New York, the weather is perfect and I congratulate myself on planning in half a day to relax on the beach.
It’s been a stressful year.
Meghan leads the way to the reception desk, her suitcase rolling along behind her.
She’d taken it from me when I’d lifted it from the trunk, refusing to hand it over as we walked into the hotel.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t take the opportunity to watch the gentle sway of her hips as she strides in.
The reception area of the hotel is modern and sleek with lighting that gives it an almost moody atmosphere. There is plenty of seating and the space is filled with people, either checking in or out or meeting up with people.
“Good morning, ma’am. How are you today?” the receptionist asks as Meghan approaches the desk that sits directly in front of the main doors. He’s a slender guy with tanned skin, dark hair and dark eyes. His uniform is pressed and fits in with the prestige of the hotel.
“Morning, I’m good thank you. I have a reservation for Mr. Cooper Jackson for two rooms for two nights,” Meghan responds.
“Of course, Mrs. Jackson, let me just get your reservation up.”
“Oh, I-I’m not Mrs. Jackson,” Meghan mumbles.
A small smile graces my lips at her flustered state.
I’m not looking to settle down or get married, not after the disaster that was my parents' marriage, but I’ve got to admit, the thought of Meghan being Mrs. Jackson doesn’t make me want to run for the hills.
The sound of Meghan on the edge of panic snaps me out of my reverie.
“What do you mean, we only have one room on the reservation? I booked the rooms myself and had confirmation that the booking was for two.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. It looks like there was an error on our end and your second room was canceled. Unfortunately, we don’t have any additional rooms due to a medical conference in the hotel this week. I can see if I can source a hotel for one of you?”
Meghan drops her head into her hands and mutters something unintelligible before pulling in a deep breath and standing straight.
“Does the room you have available have one or two beds?” She asks, a touch of her frustration showing through.
“It has two, ma’am.”
Turning to me, she utters, “I know it’s not ideal, but would you be okay with sharing a room? We can take turns in the bathroom and I swear I don’t snore.”
“I know you don’t snore.” A blush steals across her cheeks and I mentally berate myself for saying it. “If you’re fine with it, then so am I. We’re professionals.”
Turning back to the grimacing receptionist, Meghan states with her resignation clear in her tone, “It’s okay, we will share the one room.”