Chapter 17
“Saul, you remember my assistant, Trystan.” Both men shake hands while Sabrina bounces from foot to foot.
“Of course, Trystan. I do hope you are well.”
“As expected,” Trystan adds, his reply more reminiscent of a geriatric during his last medicated days and not a thirty-year-old executive.
“And who may this be?” Isaac Grenfer asks, gesturing toward Sabrina. My mind continues to whir with cogs and machinations pertaining to the upcoming meeting; I’d forgotten to introduce her, eliciting a snicker from Juliette Nasta-Vrees.
“Another assistant, Ms. Sabrina Broe,” Trystan clarifies, ushering Bri forward to a line of handshakes.
She stops before she reaches Juliette and turns to walk away.
The gesture does not go unnoticed by Trystan or Juliette.
Christ, can’t one fucking thing go right while Helen is away?
Is it any wonder she’s only taken four sick days over eleven years working for me?
Her loyalty, work ethic, and optimal health are all saving graces.
Isaac begins his idea pitch: a national blog spot featuring his father’s dulcet tones and focusing on how the face of media has changed since he was a boy in the 1950s.
Abe Grenfer grew up with broadsheet newspapers and radio and saw the invention of television.
No one other than Magnus Mercer knows media more intuitively.
Sabrina and Trystan take mountains of notes, asking periodic questions and promising Saul to work with his team on the very best partnership possible to get this deal done.
Juliette Nasta-Vrees sits sullen-faced, only answering questions with basic answers when prompted.
What are we missing here? Surely both women aren’t this moody because of hormones?
Yes, they don’t like each other, and Trystan was furious with my behavior at the gala, behavior that he was convinced hurt Bri’s feelings when her appearance at the event couldn’t have been clearer.
No, something else is at play here, and we need to get to the bottom of it.
“Isaac, what timeframe were you and Abe thinking about?” I ask, pen poised.
“In the new year, for sure. I’ve got something wrapping up soon, and both of us will be ready to roll from February, say March at the latest.” This pitch has Isaac in an executive producer role; a role I sense Saul Fenkel isn’t thrilled about.
“Thank you for your time gentleman, and lady,” Isaac says with a nod toward Bri. His gaze has been fixed on her for longer than it should, which pisses me the hell off. He’s around forty, and if he says he’s maintaining eye contact per proper business etiquette, I say he’s a damn liar.
“Saul, Juliette, we will be in contact going forward.”
“Are you sure?” Trystan asks, alarm plastered all over his face.
“Are you questioning me?”
“Um, no. Well, yes. Kind of.”
“Then don’t. Just do it.” If I want two masseuses to meet me back at the office, then that is my want, and as CEO, my fucking right.
It’s never been an issue before, and it has been a stressful week beginning with the wedding.
I’ve probably slept fifteen hours for varying reasons.
In the Bahamas, it was because Bri lay next to me tangled in sheets or bound to the mast with ropes as I fucked her from behind while we were anchored off North Eleuthera Island.
I couldn’t get enough of her heated skin pebbling under my touch, the rich coconut scent mingling with her freesia, Tonka bean, and vanilla perfume.
The way I drank down her moans as she came.
All of it was idyllic, sexy, and not on my foreseeable agenda.
When we returned from hazy days to the chill of New York, it slapped me clear across the face, and reality bit like a rabid dog.
What the fuck are we doing? What the fuck am I doing?
By the time we arrive back at the office, it’s after six.
After exiting the lift, Sean’s brief nod lets me know all is running smoothly.
Trystan and Sabrina peel off in different directions to their respective desks.
Trystan throws his messenger bag onto his desk while Sabrina follows me into my office after stopping at hers.
I push my door open and see that Sean has, in fact, done exactly what I wanted, and the masseuses Trystan booked are set up and ready.
Tugging the tie free from the collar, it lands on the desk with a soft thud.
The jacket follows, before my fingers dance down the front of my shirt, freeing each button and pulling it from my belt and pants, over my shoulders to join the tie on the desk.
I look up to see Sabrina in the doorway, taking in the scene.
The massage table is set up between the entry doors and the conversational space opposite the desk.
Anika and Brit, two of my regular masseuses, are ready and bristling with energy in their skintight white uniforms showing expanses of toned legs, stomachs, and arms. The skimpy outfits barely contain heaving silicone breasts, and long hair pools around their shoulders.
Brit is a platinum blonde, and Anika is more of a light strawberry blonde.
Anika saunters over in her sexy hip-sway walk, ready to take over the ministrations of undoing my belt and removing the last of my clothes.
“Was there anything else, Mr. Mercer?” Bri stands as rigid as a pool cue, eyes focused on mine and the space between my eyebrows, and not the giggling blonde sinking to her knees before me.
Avoiding her eyes, I exhale slowly and deliberately. “No, Bri. You are free to go.”