Womanizer

by Katy Evans

  I’m not a girl who wants to specialize in takeovers, but to find companies that need help and find ways to acquire that help for them. But in order to do what I want to do in the future, I figured the best way to build a company up is to know how companies are usually taken down, and why. Reviewing each leg of a business and finding the weak spots is how sharks like Carmichael topple them and claim ownership. But finding the weak spot can also help me learn ways to rebuild and strengthen until—voilà—you have a healthy business again.

  Part of the day I’m overwhelmed wondering if I’m cut out for this and desperate not to fail. Coffee, notes, folders, research.

  Hostile takeovers are the name of the game. I need to research info on positioning—whether the business we’re after is listed on the Dow or NASDAQ, investors, company history, capital investment, cash influx, costs of running, the works.

  I have nine-to-five hours, but I linger today until 6 p.m., helping Mr. Lincoln finish the stacks of folders for the presentation with Carmichael and his board tomorrow.

  I’m bringing the last set of copies from the copy room on the third floor along with Lincoln’s fifth coffee when I set them on his desk—and spill his coffee right down my required gray jacket.

  “Shit!” I mutter. “Mr. Lincoln . . .”

  “It’s fine. It’s fine. We’re nearly done here. Just go. Take that mess off. Just don’t let anyone see you without it.”

  Feeling the coffee sticking against the fabric, I whip the jacket off.

  “Go, I tell you,” he says as he waves me off and keeps sorting the files.

  I do go, but not before I refill his coffee and bring it back to his desk. “I’m sorry,” I apologize.

  “Stop apologizing—you’re going above and beyond what any intern ever has on their first day. Go home and rest,” he says again, kinder now that he sees I brought him coffee.

  I nod and then head to the elevators, folding the jacket over my arm. Three elevators stop on my floor and each of them is bursting with people leaving. All of them staring at the stained jacket draped on my arm.

  God!

  Am I to go down as the intern who fucked up on her first day?

  I click the up arrow and find the elevator heading to the top is absolutely empty.

  I step inside and exhale, trying to regroup and waiting to leave until the entire building has left first.

  I step onto a gorgeous terrace.

  My breath catches when I spot something.

  A dark figure at the far end, leaning on the railing.

  He’s wearing a white shirt and black slacks, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. I can see the definition of his back muscles and the slim waist encircled by a sleek black belt, and the ass.

  His backside is to me, and I blink because, what a fine backside it is.

  A cigarette dangles from the corner of his mouth. I’m not a smoker, but suddenly I want to be.

  He looks relaxed and on top of the world, and suddenly I want to be right on top of it and relaxed with him.

  “Would it be terrible of me to ask for a hit?” I take a step forward.

  He doesn’t turn to look at me. He doesn’t seem surprised I’m here. I suppose he heard the elevator ding when I stepped outside and he’s used to others coming here.

  He merely stretches his hand out, silent, and I see his forearm and the masculine veins there because maybe he works out.

  I walk forward to where he leans over, looking at the city. “It’s my first day here.”

  “Treat it just like any other day and you’ll be fine.”

  I start at the deep voice. I take the cigarette from his fingers and take a hit, inhale, and I’m exhaling the smoke when I feel him look at me. I look back.

  Lovely brown hair with light sun streaks throughout and a pair of eyes that are unsettlingly intense stare fixedly at me. They’re fringed with dark, spiky lashes, and above them, a set of straight dark eyebrows. The rest of the features accompanying them start to filter into my brain, and I can’t believe anything could be both this male and this perfect. Smooth forehead, a nose that is elegant and a mouth that is strong, a jaw with perfect hard lines, a little scruff on it—but not a lot—and lips that make me, for some reason, very aware of my own lips.

  I’m staring.

  So stop staring.

  “I . . . uh . . .”

  They start to dance, those eyes.

  “Do you want to light one?” His voice is more gravelly than before.

  “What?”

  He signals to the nearly extinguished cigarette, reaching into the inner pocket of his shirt to pull out a pack, and with a movement flicks open the top.

  I’m thrilled to meet someone other than my brother and his girlfriend. This is one friend I’m making on my own.

  I nod, afraid to reach out. He takes a cigarette between his lips, lights it, takes a drag, and hands it over to me, slowly blowing out a cloud of smoke that billows upward as he watches me, his eyes glimmering.

  I take it, place it between my lips, and inhale. I exhale the smoke out slowly. “Thank you.” I stay where I am. “I’m afraid of heights.”

  He turns and shifts his shoulder, eyeing me in curiosity now. “Any reason you’re here, other than masochism?” His lips tilt a little.

  So do mine. “My fear of heights keeps my other fears in perspective. When things start to seem crazy, I look for the highest place I can find and everything else feels manageable. It all feels smaller.”

  He gives me a smile that sends my pulse racing unexpectedly as he plucks the cigarette from my lips and buries it in the standing ashtray nearby as he says, “Come here, seriously, I won’t let you fall.”

  I hesitate.

  He tucks his cigarette pack into his slacks and easily, like it means nothing, reaches out to pull me a few feet closer to the edge. “See? Nothing to fear.”

  His pleasantly deep voice seems to sink into my stomach like an anchor, sending a little prick all over. I shiver. And then I realize this guy, this stranger, is touching me. His hand is on my waist, curving around me.

  Um, hello, move, Livvy? I’m not the kind of girl who lets guys this close without a proper date.

  I squirm a little. But his hands are strong. “You can let go of me.”

  “Can I really?” His eyes are still dancing.

  “Yes, um. You can.” I’m shaking. There’s more amusement on his face.

  He looks down at his hand, smiling, and raises his eyes with pure mischief. “Are you sure?” He scans me as if to make sure I’ve got my footing.

  I nod. “I’m okay.”

  He lets go, looks at me with that same puzzled smile, then at his watch. “And I’m late.”

  I exhale and nod. “I’ll just stay up here for a bit.”

  He pulls out his pack of cigarettes and sets it on the ledge, then winks at me, and walks away.

  I stare at the cigarettes. I take one step, and another, and even if everything I ever wanted were waiting for me, sitting up on that ledge, I couldn’t reach it if I wanted to.

  I tell myself I’m not going upstairs today. But I find myself wandering up the elevators the next day, and up onto the terrace before I head home. It’s not the terrace that has been niggling at my curiosity nonstop.

  It’s Hot Smoker Guy.

  I’m not a girl who thinks a lot about guys. I hardly thought about them all through college, I was too busy trying to graduate. So this curiosity is a bit of a first, and maybe just a tad worrisome too.

  He’s wearing a blue polo today. It’s kind of ballsy that he doesn’t care about being fired because he’s not wearing the requisite black-and-white or gray uniform everyone in the company wears. He is most definitely the mail guy.

  “You don’t care about the dress code either, huh?” I say.

  He lifts a brow, apparently amused by the tone of approval in my voice.

  “You’re wearing a polo today, and the other time no jacket.”

  It seems impossible, but
his eyes sparkle even more. “You know all about my dress habits?”

  He seems amused and delighted by that, and for some reason, it makes me flush.

  He turns the chair and sits before me, arms draped over the chair back. “What’s the problem with the dress code? Looks to me you wear it very well.”

  I roll my eyes.

  He’s laughing at me.

  “It’s boring, that’s what.” I signal to him and his don’t-give-a-shit attitude. “I just wish I had your balls.”

  “Where exactly do you want them?”

  I laugh, then flush. Oh god.

  He laughs too. “I’m sorry, that was completely out of line,” he says shifting forward in the chair. “I couldn’t resist.”

  “You know what? You really should,” I say with a little frown. “Does anyone fall for those antics?”

  “You’d be surprised how many women fall for my . . . antics.”

  I eye him dubiously. “If you say so.” He has his charm and that face does him plenty of favors but the guy seems to have a gargantuan ego already, I’m not about to feed it any more. “And I meant the balls to not wear . . . the required clothing. How do you get away with it?”

  “My special antics include charming my way past reception.”

  “It would help if the receptionists were male and maybe I could charm them.”

  He eyes me. “I’d bet on it.”

  “Seriously. It’s one thing to be a perfectionist and another to be anal. Come on!” I sigh. “I don’t want to disappoint my brother, though. He got me this job. But I intend to be the one to keep it.”

  He lifts his brows, scrutinizing me suddenly.

  As if he just realized something life-altering.

  I wonder if he has any ambitions other than being the mail guy. He’s not putting out the vibes of someone desperate to climb the ladder of success.

  I’m so busy wondering that I don’t realize he’s frowning thoughtfully as he stares down at his cigarette. He laughs softly, as if to himself, and then he rises from his chair, takes a step back and says, “Good night.”

  He grabs a jacket and his phone and keys, and walks out.

  Did I say something wrong?

  The next day, I spot him in the elevator.

  The coworker who boards with us spots him too, and the instant she sees him, her spine shoots up straight. I’m surprised she’s not fluffing her hair, though I don’t blame her one bit. I suppress the urge to primp myself too. She nods politely at him as we ride to our floors. Hot Smoker Guy nods back, then looks at me. He doesn’t nod. Just stares. I smile. We’re left alone.

  I’m impressed that my unambitious mail guy broke out the best suit he owns, dark black, and a tie that’s just killer. Nobody would wear a red tie here unless they’re interviewing, it would need to be silver or black.

  “Look at you! Are you here for an interview?” I ask when we’re alone. “You broke out your best suit.”

  He starts to laugh, then rubs his face with one hand and shakes his head.

  “We’re matching.” I point to the red scarf I’m wearing as a hair band, my one small rebellion against the dress code.

  “Yeah, I’ll have to do something about that,” he says as he reaches out and tugs the scarf loose, tucking it into his pocket. Just like that. He crosses his arms in a nonchalant stance and stares at the climbing numbers.

  He tilts his head to eye me, and I can’t miss the way his gaze runs to my shoulders and to the fall of my hair. I become breathless.

  I glance at my reflection in the elevator doors. Blonde and blue-eyed, fair-skinned, I look small and weak and he looks big and hot in that stupid suit.

  “Will you be at the terrace this afternoon?” I blurt out.

  His brows rise in surprise, and then his eyes run over my hair again, slowly and thoroughly.

  It feels like forever before he speaks, his voice smooth and calm in a way that his stare is not. “I’ll leave you my cigarettes, how’s that?”

  “Oh no, it’s not the cigarettes. I don’t even smoke, not really. I just . . . well, I don’t have a lot of friends here, really. I like it when we share a cigarette on the terrace.”

  His eyes look a little tender, but that gorgeous mouth of his doesn’t speak.

  Thank god that finally my floor is up.

  “Well, bye.” I wave, smiling, and I step out awkwardly and force myself not to look back. Shit. Fuck. Shitfuck! I’m cursing to myself, feeling a flush creep up my cheeks, wondering why I care so much that he didn’t say yes.

  I still end up showing upstairs.

  Still wondering why I even care. The last thing I want is a guy. In fact, I’m even wearing the small diamond ring my parents gave me on my fifteenth birthday on the fourth finger of my left hand, so the guys will leave me alone in case I ever go to a club or out with some of the other interns.

  I suppose I just want a friend. And I like his energy. All easy confidence and male strength. It’s something I adore about my brother. He makes me feel safe. But this guy is a stranger, so I don’t understand, exactly, why I crave talking to him except that maybe I’m curious, and I feel a buzz of excitement when he’s near.

  He’s standing by the ledge when I step out of the elevator. My heart leaps a little, and I have to take a deep breath in order to act cool when I join him.

  He looks at me as if challenging me to walk close to the ledge.

  I stop a few feet away and finger the hem of my black jacket. His eyes snag on the ring I’m wearing.

  “Who’s the guy?” he asks, casually, frowning down at the ring.

  I laugh and glare at him. “Wow. What happened to your antics? Not ‘who’s the lucky guy’? I didn’t miss the omission.”

  “I’m not sure if he’s lucky, or terribly, terribly unlucky,” he says.

  I want to say a name out of the blue.

  I sigh.

  “It’s a gift from my parents and the ultimate commitment to giving my goals my all.”

  “Really.”

  “Really.”

  He moves and I step back.

  “So it’s a phony.”

  “It’s not a phony, it’s a real diamond!”

  “It’s a phony engagement ring.”

  “It’s not. I’m engaged to myself.”

  He shoves his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “Ahh, surely because nobody else would want you?” he asks, looking deathly somber.

  I nod, also deathly somber. “Actually, that’s precisely why. I’ve got clusters of freckles on every part of my body and a personality that’s even worse.”

  “Worse than freckles.” He scratches his chin.

  “Clusters of freckles.”

  “You might find someone one day,” he eyes the ring and then eyes me, “with a freckle fetish,” he draws out, laughing. “And he’ll see exactly why you’re special. But that ring could deter him from even trying to discover all those clusters of freckles underneath.”

  I wonder what that would feel like. To be loved like that. In the way my brother loves Regina. My dad and mom love each other. “If he can’t take a little competition and would let something like hardware prevent him from knowing me then I’m not interested. He gets none of my freckles.”

  He smiles quietly, and I wonder about him.

  If he’s ever loved, if he’s ever been loved, if he even wants to be. But don’t we all want to? Even when you think you don’t want to, there’s this feeling of waiting in the back of your head. Of waiting for that to happen. To know what it’s like and to be swept away.

  “I think I’ll have a cigarette now,” I say, flushing.

  I can’t believe I opened my big mouth, but I’m desperate for some real conversation and some silly conversation and to just be me, to talk with someone who won’t judge me or look at me like the lowly little intern whose brother got her the job.

  He lights up, and this time when I set the cigarette to my lips, there’s a low throb deep in my stomach just
knowing my lips are on the exact spot his were.

  The wind tosses his lovely brown hair about recklessly. He gives the impression of control but in a way that makes you wonder what happens when all that power is unleashed.

  “So. You have a brother,” he says.

  I nod. “Yep. He taught me to put my thumb on the hose and aim the stream at an angle to the sun so I could make a rainbow. We were silly like that. Though I hate his big-brother condescending bullshit. He wanted me to stay in his building in some posh apartment. I insisted I pay for an apartment I could afford with my salary.”

  He lifts his brows, impressed.

  “He put money into a trust for me when I turned eighteen, but I haven’t touched it. It’s not mine. I want to know I can earn my keep . . . and then give it away to something special. Some noble cause.” I shrug. “He makes plenty of donations, but I want to give something that comes from me so I can earn points up there.” I point to the sky.

  He listens attentively, the cigarette forgotten in his hand as he looks at me with the merest hint of a smile.

  “I had a friend who died . . . of leukemia, so young. You only live once, and you never know how long you’ll have to do anything, really.”

  “I’m all for going all in,” he agrees.

  “Me too. Or, I suppose I was all for going all in until a few failures made me a little less enthusiastic about it,” I admit. “Like my first crush! So, my first crush was at camp, on a counselor. Mike Harris. He was older and of course so mature, and he swam like a shark. One day I decided to go for it and I kissed him, and he gently turned me down. Listing all the reasons why we shouldn’t when all I wanted to know was if he wanted me back.” I laugh. “We’re still friends.”

  “Are you?”

  “Why do you ask as if the concept is alien to you?” I burst out laughing. “Yes! We’re friends. Guys and girls can be friends. I did camp every year, and he was there for several. I’m even friends with his wife, it was just a crush.”

  “Have you had many crushes?”

  “A few.” I laugh again. “But not another big enough to go after him like I did with Mike.” I eye him. “You?” My voice goes soft, as if the mere word you is something intimate.