Chapter 9
“Actually Romantic” - Taylor Swift
Maeve
I tap Pierce’s name on my screen. It takes six rings for him to finally pick up, but when he does, his voice sounds tight and concerned. “What’s wrong?”
I experience a single second of guilt before pushing it aside. “Good morning to you, too.”
His sigh fills the phone. “What do you want, Maeve?”
“Since you’re still my assistant for another six hours, I need you to pick up some things for me and bring them over.”
He clears his throat, and I wonder if he’s put his glasses on or if he’s still lying in bed in the dark. “In the middle of the night?”
“That’s correct. Unless you’d like to let everyone know that you’re dropping out?”
“What do you need?” The iron in his tone is unmistakable.
I bite back a smile so he doesn’t hear it in my voice. “Tampons.”
“Tampons,” he repeats.
“Yes, but they need to be a very specific kind. You’ll probably want to write this down.”
There’s a brief pause, then: “Naturally.”
“I need the Cora Organic Compact line, and they must be fragrance-free and chlorine-free. Look for the brown-and-purple box. It will say ‘biodegradable’ and ‘paper-wrapped.’”
“Got it,” he says.
I wonder briefly at that before adding one more thing. “Make sure you get heavy flow. Two boxes, please.”
While I wait for Pierce to arrive with the feminine care products I hope are embarrassing him in the checkout line right now, I fix myself a mug of tea and pore over the HavenNet plans once more.
I know what you’re thinking. How am I going to go back to sleep after focusing on this for an hour?
I probably won’t. Like I said, I can sleep when I’m dead.
When the doorbell finally rings, I’ve nearly forgotten why I’m up in the first place. I cinch the belt of my satin dressing gown a little tighter and answer the door.
Pierce is standing on my doorstep, holding several shopping bags. He has on a light gray crewneck sweatshirt, black joggers, white trainers, and those infuriating glasses, as I suspected. Inclining his head, he gives me a measured look. “As requested.”
I reach to take them, but he doesn’t hand them over. At my frown, he gestures with his chin. “Tell me where you want them.”
The furrows in my brow grow deeper as I move aside to let him in. “Just . . . anywhere.”
He brushes past me and into the house. I’ve lived here for two years, and I can count the number of times Pierce has been inside on one hand. Nevertheless, he moves to the kitchen as if he lives here.
“Thank you,” I say. It comes out stilted. “That’s all I needed.” Now that he’s here and his presence is filling every crevice of my home, I feel a little stupid for dragging him out of bed in the middle of the night.
“I’ll just heat this up for you first,” he says, keeping his back to me while fishing something from one of the bags. The muscles under his sweater ripple. He takes a container to the microwave and pops it in.
“What is that?” I ask.
He looks at me for the first time since coming inside.
“Soup. I thought it might help you feel better.” While the microwave runs, he returns to the bags he left on the counter.
“I also grabbed some aspirin, chocolate, and a heat pack. I assumed you had one already, but just in case.” He removes said items, along with two large boxes of organic tampons.
Keeping my arms folded over my chest, I stare at his haul. “Do this a lot?”
He shrugs, then grabs the soup when the microwave pings. “Occasionally.” Fishing a spoon from the silverware drawer—which he located on the first try—he gives me a look. “Never at three in the morning, though.”
I imagine him strolling the aisles of the supermarket, looking for the right feminine products. It was meant to be humiliating, but he doesn’t seem affected in the least. In fact, he seems rather proud of himself. Cocky, even.
Tucking both boxes under my arm, I give him a sugary smile. “My housekeeper will be so grateful for these. Thank you again.”
The lines around his eyes tighten ever so slightly. “Your housekeeper.”
“Yep.” I set the cartons down near the back door with a flourish. “I’ll make sure she knows you were the one who got them for her.”
The silence between us grows loud and thick. Finally, after an entire century passes with the two of us staring at each other across the room—something we’ve gotten quite good at lately—Pierce sniffs and sticks his tongue in the side of his cheek. “You’re not on your period, are you?” he deadpans.
“Nope,” I say cheerily. “And when I am, I use a menstrual cup. But this”—I gesture to the items on the counter—“is really quite impressive.”
He folds his arms across his chest, and I don’t know whether it’s the fact that 90 percent of the time I’ve seen him he’s worn a jacket or if I’ve just honestly never noticed that he is an actual warm-blooded male with ridiculously high testosterone levels, but mother of god, have you seen his biceps?
His sweatshirt does little to hide the bulk there.
His silence prompts me to fill it. “But anyway, it was really over the top of you to bring all of this. I’ll make sure to let the others know how helpful you’ve been. Quite stellar, really. Maybe not enough to win the challenge, but it’s the effort that counts.”
Most people would take that as a not-so-subtle social cue to leave, right?
But the man just keeps standing there, staring at me, as though he’s waiting for something.
I don’t have a clue what it is. I just admitted to luring him here under false pretenses after dragging him around as my slave all day.
What else does he want? An apology? Fat ch—
“Well played.” His voice cuts through the air, making the hair on the backs of my arms stand up. “But you should know something.”
My mouth goes as dry as a good vintage cab sauv, and I swallow as he steps closer. I force my feet to stay planted on the French terracotta tiles, because I will not allow Pierce St. James to see me flinch.
When he’s a breath away, close enough that his scent wafts under my nose—not cologne, but toothpaste and soap—he leans in. The man really has a propensity to use his height to his advantage, and it’s starting to piss me off, but I hold my ground.
“And what’s that?” I say, because he cannot think he scares me in any way, shape, or form.
He ducks his head so that his lips are hovering right above my ear and whispers, “You’re not the only one who intends to ace this challenge.”
* * *
After Pierce leaves, I wait an hour before calling again, just long enough for him to get back to bed and hopefully fall asleep. But when he answers, he sounds anything but tired. In fact, he sounds out of breath.
“Yes, Panther?” he says.
“Sorry, this isn’t your girlfriend calling.”
A sharp laugh cracks through the phone. “Trust me, I do not call Amara a wildcat.”
A twinge of something unpleasant rolls through me at the sound of her name. “What are you doing?”
“I’m at the gym, Maeve.” The way he enunciates my name hints at irritation hunkering just below the surface of his voice, like soldiers in a bunker. “What do you need?”
I picture him panting from exertion, his body a sweaty mess of hard muscles and strong tendons. I clear my throat and those thoughts. “Wilson Foundation. 8 a.m. sharp. If you’re late—”
“I’ll be there.”
He hangs up, and I’m left staring at the phone in my hand.
Three hours later, he waltzes onto the fifth floor as though he owns the place. You’d never be able to tell the man only got a few hours of sleep or that I was the person responsible for those lost hours.
He flashes me a brilliant smile as he spots me across the reception. “Looking stunning today, Maeve.”
I immediately glance down at my outfit, looking for bathroom tissue stuck to my shoe or an undone zipper, but I can’t find anything out of place.
My short-sleeve red-and-white Dior minidress is flawless, as are my stockings and velvet-bow pumps.
Shooting him a glare, I snap, “Conference room.” Without waiting for a reply, I turn and march toward it.
When I reach the doorway, I look to see if he’s following, but he’s bent over Mrs. Rodriguez’s desk, that same stupid smile on his face. He hands her a bag from Cafe de Olla, and the way she practically glows back at him when she pulls out the croissant makes me see red for a few seconds.
Everyone knows those croissants are the best, okay? Her face has every right to light up like that at the thought of eating one. But spoiling her is my job. I’ve never brought her a croissant, and Pierce doing so now, after only knowing her a handful of months, is making me look bad.
He leans forward to say something else, then they both turn to glance in my direction, knowing smiles on their faces. I suck in a breath through my nose and spin on my heel into the room.
Several staff members have already gathered around the big conference table, and when I enter, their chatter immediately stops. I don’t know why. It’s not like I’m a dictator or something. They get to talk, for god’s sake.
Pierce walks in seconds after I’ve taken a seat.
He greets everyone with a smile as he approaches me.
I keep my eyes narrowed to let him know that under no circumstances will I be tolerating shenanigans this morning.
He must have truly underestimated my desire to win this thing if he thinks he stands a fighting chance.
It’s absolutely infuriating how good he looks after so little sleep.
I’m suddenly insanely curious to know if he visits the spa.
How dare there be no bags or dark circles under his eyes when I spent half an hour covering them on my own face?
He looks refreshed, wearing a dark suit and navy-blue tie.
When his eyes come to rest on me, his expression is impossible to read.
He stops behind my chair and sets a small box on the table in front of me. “Good morning,” he murmurs in my ear.
I steel my jaw against the goosebumps racing up my spine. My eyes refuse my orders not to look at the box and instead immediately seek out the label. It’s another croissant from Cafe de Olla, this one with a green “gluten-free” sticker on the package.
“What would you have me do?” he asks, voice still brushing against the hair at the nape of my neck. He could have run his fingers over that same area, and it would have felt no less intimate.
I shift in my seat, putting distance between us. Pointing to the chair to my right at the head of the table, I say, “You’re leading the staff meeting.”
He doesn’t say anything, but there are several beats of silence, which I presume he is using to process this information. But then he takes the seat and smiles at the whole table, which has been accumulating more attendees over the past few minutes.
My fingers ache to tear into the croissant—I didn’t have breakfast this morning—but I deny them the pleasure.
Not only will I absolutely not eat in front of my staff, but I will not give Pierce the satisfaction of knowing how badly I want it.
Besides, watching him fumble this meeting will give me much more satisfaction than a bunch of butter and carbs.
But as time progresses, I realize I have greatly underestimated my opponent.
Not only did he have zero preparation, but he doesn’t even know these people, and yet he is doing a smashing job leading.
Instead of working from an agenda, he allows each person to share about any issues or struggles they are having in their department.
It’s unorthodox and completely uncalled for, but I have to admit, it appears to have its benefits.
As the hour winds down and we’ve collected a list of issues that need to be addressed, I remind myself that Pierce is the enemy here.
No matter how good he might be at leading a staff meeting—and really, the awe I experienced probably had more to do with my empty stomach than anything actually impressive on his part—he needs to be taken down.
I cannot afford to lose this challenge and the only real friends I have.
Annoyingly, every staff member takes the time to thank Pierce afterward. Some of them even slap him on the back like he’s a mate, and I catch more than a few suggestive glances thrown his way, although he seems oblivious to those.
After the room has cleared of everyone but the two of us, I can feel his gaze on me and pretend to be busy with my phone.
“It’s 9 a.m.,” he says.
“It is.” I put my device down on the table and meet his eyes.
He’s standing near the door, hands in his pockets, looking like a damn L’Uomo Vogue model. “So I’ll be off, then.”
I nod and purse my lips. “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
As he turns and walks out, I tell myself the tiny catch in my chest is from lack of sustenance, nothing else.