10. Maisie
10
MAISIE
Mr Blackwood summons me via email. Just a terse, “Come to my office,” at lunchtime the day before the meeting of the Blackwoods and my dad. Unlike the missed calls and messages from my dad—I’m dreading what he might say—I respond to my boss immediately.
Nathan, his assistant, is absent as I walk in, and Sev is at his desk. He’s not pretending to work, just sitting back, his suit jacket discarded, and his top button undone. His brows are low. He’s so serious, but those blue eyes have a fire of intent that sparks excitement in my belly.
“Mr Blackwood.” I shut the door, so we have privacy, and stand before him. We’re alone. “You called.”
“Thought I’d avoid being shoved in a cupboard tomorrow by seeing you today.” He sweeps his gaze down my body.
I tingle everywhere and I can’t help but smile. That’s as close to an acknowledgement that he wanted to see me as I’m likely to get.
I’ll take it.
“What am I teaching you this time, Maisie?” He leans forward on his elbows, staring at me intently. “I’m at your service. What would you like to do?”
I blink in disbelief. Is he offering?
“Can we go on a date?”
Sev’s eyes snap. “A date? What for?”
To wear you down. To make you think of me as more than your best friend’s daughter, and your employee .
The sexy shows I’m putting on every evening don’t seem to be working. Not going to lie, I really thought I’d have had some effect by now. That thing I did with a cucumber was absolutely obscene.
Maybe Sev doesn’t like the visual of a girl choking on a vegetable then taking it deep in her pussy.
Am I the weird one here?
Possibly, possibly. Or maybe he has an allergy?
I shrug. “I’d like a date for the same reason as any girl would, I guess? To feel attractive, wanted, and admired. To have a man interested in being with me. To have a man’s eyes on me.”
I venture further than I should with that last comment, but Sev is glaring—that’s the only accurate description—as though I’m asking for unicorn balls for supper.
“You don’t feel pretty.” It’s not quite a question.
I do when I imagine his gaze on my body, but another week has passed without him doing anything, and I’m exhausted.
“No,” I whisper. “I feel... Ignored.”
The air goes thick as gravy between us.
“And unappreciated?” His expression suggests this conversation is a punishment for him. “In your job?”
I give a tiny nod.
“In your private life?”
“I don’t get to have a private life!” I burst out. “My father won’t even consider me dating. I tried once and the boy gave up, too scared.” Admittedly I was eighteen at the time, and since then it’s been only me and my book boyfriends. “I love my books and my job, but it’s not the same as a person .”
I love that Sev sees me, but I need him to see him more.
“I just want to go out for a nice dinner and have a man look at me like I’m worth something,” I finish pathetically.
Sev’s gaze slips from mine, and he puts his head in his hand, massaging his forehead with his fingers, using the sort of pressure that seems the opposite of relaxing.
I’m not sure what to do. He appears even more irritated than usual.
“It’s okay.” I pin my go-to bright smile onto my face. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter,” he snaps, jerking his head up. “It really fucking does, Maisie. You matter.”
I might faint. Should I loosen my corset or something? Where are smelling salts when you need them?
“You’re going to get me fucking killed, sweetheart,” he mutters under his breath but he’s on his feet and around the desk before I can figure out what he means. “Come on.”
He grabs my arm and tows me to the door, and then appears to realise what he’s doing. He’s touching me.
He lets out a frustrated sound as he releases me and shoves the door open.
“Go and print off every document you have about the Parkside development. I’ll meet you downstairs in ten minutes.”
“But you hate paper and say printing is a waste,” I ask, confused.
“I say it’s a fucking waste, yes, but I do not care how many trees you murder, Maisie. I will poison those fuckers with bleach myself and pulp their green shoots with my heel. Print off a stack of paper—or find one of those towers of dead trees that you like so much—and meet me downstairs. You have nine minutes left.”
I’m absolutely speechless, and frozen for a second. My boss is… I mean, perhaps he’s finally lost it. The raving about tree death certainly supports that theory.
“Now,” he snarls, and I scurry away, my heart pounding. It’s only when I reach the elevator, thankfully open, that I look back at him.
He is gazing after me, pulling his hand through his silver-streaked hair, and his blue eyes are electric with intensity.
A shiver goes down my spine as the metal doors close.
I don’t have to print much. I grab up piles of technical drawings and plans, and some lengthy reports. The clock ticks down in my head and when Trish from accounts asks what I’m doing, I just pant out, “Documents for Mr Blackwood.”
She gives me a sympathetic, if baffled, grimace.
“You’re late,” he says when I get to the lobby less than ten minutes later, my arms full of a stack of paper almost a foot high.
He lifts the documents from me and turns without another word. I follow him out to a car, and I think my brain breaks when we pull up outside a restaurant.
I peek up at him curiously.
“My favourite Italian restaurant. Yes, even I have to eat,” he replies to my unspoken question as he ushers me inside.
“I thought you drank the blood of innocents and avoided garlic,” I mutter, “but this smells delicious.” There’s the scent of garlic, yes, but also salty butter, fresh bread, herbs, and olives. My mouth waters.
“I like both garlic and have an interest in the blood of innocents. I contain multitudes and no, you can’t stake me,” he says dryly, but there’s a spark in his eyes.
A waiter appears with menus and greets Sev like an old friend, leading us to a discreet table at the back. There are red and white tablecloths and paintings of Italian landscapes on the wall. The bistro-style chairs have cushions and Sev slams down the pile of papers so hard that a couple of our fellow diners look around.
“Sorry,” I say, giving them an apologetic smile. Sev glares and the one remaining guy who was eying us curiously turns away guiltily.
“She’ll have the alfredo,” Sev says as the waiter comes to give us menus. “And I’ll have a steak, rare.” Drinks are dealt with in the same arrogant fashion, with Sev ordering my favourite without any reference to me.
“I’m allergic to dairy, you know,” I say when the waiter hustles away.
“No, you’re not.”
I snort with laughter. He’s right, I’m not. And he knows that because I’ve made creamy pasta alfredo at home, pawing over the online recipe.
“But why did you order that for me?”
It’s not as though I expect him to confess his stalking, but there’s a frisson between us as he regards me across the table.
This is beginning to feel like our game. Does he suspect that I know? Does he want me to?
“It’s the best thing on the menu apart from the steak, and I didn’t think that was your taste,” he lies smoothly. “And the drink? That’s what all teenagers are drinking, isn’t it?”
“I’m twenty-three,” I remind him.
“I’m five years out, so shoot me. You’re only about ten minutes from being a child, whereas I’m a sixteen-hour trip in an aeroplane, three-hours in a car, then thirty minutes on foot.”
“Still know what a young woman likes though, don’t you?”
There’s really hardly any innuendo in my words, but Sev hears me exactly.
His gaze drops to my lips.
“I know what you need Maisie,” he replies, so low I barely hear him. “Scatter some of those documents over the table,” he directs at normal volume, with a flick of his fingers.
His summer-sky-blue eyes assess my movements as I place an architect’s drawing in front of him, and a biodiversity report before me.
“Good girl,” he says, and this time his voice is pure sex. It flashes right to my core.
“So what’s going on here?” I ask breathlessly.
“That,” he points at my stack of papers. “Unnecessary waste of a tree’s life is making this a working lunch.” There’s a beat of silence. “But we both know it’s a date.”