Chapter 4
“What can I do for you, Mr. Ellis?”
I plop myself down in my chair and Miles stops just beside me, only a few feet away. I watch him in the reflection of the mirror. He still looks beautifully confident, and I commend myself for my restraint. “Nothing.”
Joseph frequently tells me that I come off as “rude” because of the way that I speak to people.
I always tell him that I never say anything rude or mean, I just don’t have a lot to say to people I don’t know well or aren’t trying to schmooze.
He tells me that my looks don’t help—that I’m handsome but in a cold way.
And I tell him I don’t have a reason to say anything more if my meaning comes across—it’s the other person’s fault if they misinterpret.
We’ve had this conversation countless times over the years.
I think people would be surprised to find out that I’m not as heartless as I portray myself to be.
I have more emotions than “smolder” and “reserved” but they’re only shown to a few people that I trust.
Miles nods and makes his way across the room and plants himself on the small sofa in the corner.
There are crew members wandering about the room but pretending we aren’t here.
Some of them offer me a nervous smile and duck out as quickly as they enter, but I can’t seem to pay them any mind, my focus stays on the man across the room.
I watch his eyes scan the room again, like he’s searching for something in particular and can’t seem to find it.
He watches each crew member closely, watching every one their movements, but they don’t seem to catch on.
My eyes stay glued to his reflection—watching the tendons and muscles in his neck tense and shift with each turn of his head.
Miles runs his fingers through his hair, attempting to push his locks out of his face.
I imagine what he'd look like in a well-tailored suit—black with a burgundy, patterned tie.
I want to see his hair styled back, a luxury gold watch on his wrist.
My breath catches in my throat when our eyes lock. He doesn’t look away. He keeps his gaze on mine. Neither of us move, and I swear I stop breathing for a second.
Miles’s lips shift into a soft smile, “can I help you, Mr. Ellis?”
God. The way he says my name makes my flesh tingle. I want to keep talking to him more—I want him closer.
“Yeah. Can you hand me my cellphone? It’s in that jacket there.” I lie.
Miles bobs his head in response and digs through my jacket, quickly bringing me the requested item.
I don’t need my phone. Why would I need my phone?
I pull my cell from his palm, brushing my fingertips lightly over the back of his hand.
It’s soft and warm just as I’d imagined.
I pretend to check something, unlocking and relocking it just as quickly, and place it onto the vanity desk.
My hand brushes against something thin and cylindrical and clatters to the ground.
“Don’t worry, I’ll get it.” Miles bends down between my knees, head bobbing as he buries his hand under the chair and fishes for whatever fell.
I can feel myself getting excited, imagining what his face would look like with his lips wrapped around me, my hands buried in his hair, saliva and tears coating his skin.
I can feel his body heat radiating from his skin and hear the rustling of his shirt fabric with each little movement that he makes.
It’s getting hard to breathe and if he could read my thoughts I’d definitely be in trouble.
“Got it.” Miles stands quickly and places a pen back on the vanity desk. I let out a shaky breath and excuse myself to the restroom in a hurry.