Chapter 2
IKE
Ifollow her with my gaze, admiring her full curves and the way she moves around the office.
Soft sunlight bathes the main area, where the designers stay, and each one of them has a large desk so they can work comfortably.
Though I have walls around my room, they’re made of glass, and I can watch Caroline swaying her hips up and down the entire day.
Not that I should be doing that. This company started small when I was twenty and another colleague from my design major wanted to start something of our own.
Thirty years later, this is one of the biggest graphic design companies in the entire world, and I have to outsource seventy percent of our work so I can keep a small group of designers at hand.
I believe in hiring them young and helping them grow, and after my partner sold his part of the company so he could retire early, I’ve been the only one to make the calls.
Caroline Hill is amazingly talented. From the moment I saw her portfolio, I knew I had to hire her.
From the moment I saw her in that elevator, vulnerable and frightened, fighting bravely through a panic attack, I wanted more.
She’s gorgeous, yes, and her juicy body makes my pants tight every time I stare at her long enough. But there’s something else. I don’t know what, or why, but she started a fire inside me.
I’m fucking obsessed. And I don’t know what to do.
She’s much younger than me—almost thirty fucking years. Shit, this is so wrong. I’m not a predator. Wanting a girl this young shouldn’t be on my mind. And she’s my employee; she could feel pressured, forced into a relationship. This is not right. And yet, why can’t I stop thinking of her?
Andrea, my secretary, walks in. I notice it because she blocks my view of Caroline. Lifting my eyes, I find her smiling too large. Is her shirt open further than yesterday? Soon enough, she’ll be walking around naked.
“Yes?” I ask, looking back down at my work. Or the work I should be doing.
“What would you like for lunch, sir?”
I crack my neck. She keeps offering, but I hate the idea of sending someone to grab me food. It’s unrelated to work. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll go buy it.”
She pulls her shoulders back and changes her weight between her feet. “Mr. Jackson, I promise I won’t get it wrong or anything. I’ll write it down so I won’t forget.”
I arch an eyebrow. Does she think that’s the reason I don’t send her after lunch? “Don’t worry about that, Andrea,” I repeat. “Worry about your job.”
Her body seems to grow tense. She whirls around and leaves. Was I rude? Shit, I was never good at this kind of thing. I try to be straightforward, but often people take me as offensive.
My size and the natural tone of my voice don’t help.
I’ve always been a big man, a large man, with a voice too hoarse.
People often wince and avoid me. It’s usual for them to cross the street so they won’t cross me.
I’ve taken to wearing suits to see if it helps, and it does, but not much.
The only thing that changed is that now I spend too much on tailored suits.
Of course they wouldn’t have anything that fit me.
At least I have enough money for it. Money is something I’ll never miss—and I work too much to use it, so a good part of it goes to charities. It’s the least that I can do.
Raising my eyes, I see Caroline going for the elevator, purse flung over her shoulder.
Is she going out for lunch? I shoot to my feet.
This could be it. A chance to talk to her, to get to know her.
The best I’ve managed at the moment was stalking her social media and reading all the comics she published.
She’s good. Talented, smart. I’ve read the comments on what she does. People love her. People relate to the things she explores in those stories. She’s well-spoken and gentle.
Eating the distance between us in a few strides, I watch her stop and turn to me. Her shoulders pull back and her eyes go round. I slow down. Am I scaring her with my size?
“Are you going out for lunch?” I ask, ready to offer to pay for her, to take her somewhere nice. Several restaurants cross my mind, and I try to choose the one she’d like the most. Some place that would be quiet enough so we can talk, but not fancy.
But Caroline shakes her head. “No!” And she lets the purse slide down her arm.
“No, I—I actually—” She shoots her gaze to both her sides, then to her feet.
“Excuse me.” And she races back to her desk, plopping down and picking her pen up.
I gape at her, blinking in confusion, but she keeps working as if nothing had happened.
Caroline has taken my mind completely, but she’s clearly avoiding me. I might scare her, like I do with others. This is just proof this obsession has to end. I can’t let it develop.
She’s too good for me, and she knows that.