In contrast to the harsh hue of her features, her voice was nothing more than a whisper. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”
I considered her question carefully instead of firing out some bullshit answer. I knew the reason she was asking, and it wasn’t trivial. I was her boss, and for all she knew, I had plans to fuck and forget. There were no guarantees that anything would really bloom between us, and we’d both feel the fallout. She was an asset to my company, and I signed her checks. Everyone would argue she had more to lose, but I wasn’t as sure.
Cynthia in HR would ride my ass for a decision like this—because, regardless of the absence of an actual no-fraternization policy, interoffice romance was always messy, especially when one of those employees was the boss. She knew it as well as I did, and I might have even known it better. But as I sat there looking at Georgia’s face, my big fucking desk in between us, the only thing I could think about was being closer, standing next to her, escorting her as I walked with a hand at the perfect swoop of her lower back—smelling the sweet curve of her neck and nibbling it with my teeth.
Maybe I was blind, but as far as I could see, it was the best goddamn idea I’d ever had.
Her gaze followed me as I stood up and pushed my chair back, circling the desk and settling my hips into it a mere foot in front of her. She wanted to move back, I could see it, but she held her ground anyway, ready to listen to whatever I had to say.
I crossed my feet at the ankles and clasped my hands together in front of my thighs.
“I get it.”
Her bottom lip rocked as she chewed at the inside of it. My vision locked on to the movement like a heat-seeking missile. With effort, I forced my eyes back to hers.
“I get why you’re nervous, and I get the kinds of things a leap of faith could cost you. All I can promise is that I won’t be a prick.”
Surprised eyebrows ate up half of the distance to her hairline.
“Whatever happens between me and you, Kline and Georgia, is a completely separate entity from what happens under the umbrella of Brooks Media between Mr. Brooks and his Director of Marketing. My employee is efficient, well liked, and boasts a seasoned track record of success. Mr. Brooks has seen it, paid attention to it, and appreciated it for a while now. But Kline…” I laughed. “Well, that guy’s been an idiot.”
A small hiccuplike laugh bubbled up her throat and right out of her mouth before she could stop it.
“Because Georgia Cummings is a beautiful, smart, intriguing woman, and until yesterday, he hadn’t seen her at all.”
“Good God,” she muttered to herself.
I smiled wholeheartedly, with nothing held back, and felt my heart jump in my chest when her eyes flared like she noticed.
“Kline is like Mr. Brooks in some ways, though. He hates to be stupid. And now that he knows, he’s not too keen to be stupid ever fucking again.”
She swung toward me on instinct, the movement excruciatingly slow and too fast to consider all at once. I grabbed her hips, squeezing them too hard, I knew, but I couldn’t help it. The thought of leaving my mark on her skin had my hands clenching again.
Heat settled in my palms and shot straight to my crotch as I caught a whiff of all that was her. A mysterious mix of fruit and flowers, her scent stabbed me right in the fucking chest like some kind of olfactory voodoo doll.
I slid my hand up her side with little finesse before cresting her shoulder and forcing it into the tresses of her bright red hair at the back of her head.
Her eyes were open and searching and a whole lot frightened, but her lips moved toward mine with purpose. My fingertips flexed in her hair of their own accord, and a cross between a whimper and a moan caught right at the top of her throat.
“Kline,” she whispered emphatically. The puff of her hot breath on my lips was enough to push me right over the goddamn edge.
“Knock knock,” Leslie called as she was pushing open the door.
The two of us shot apart like Leslie’s arrival was a hell of a skeet shooter and we were the clay pigeon. At the sudden release of so much sexual tension, I would have sworn shattered pieces of me littered the room.
My heart beat at double its normal speed, and Georgia’s cheeks were the color of cherry Kool-Aid. Though, given the fact that Kline had been milliseconds away from eating Georgia alive, I’d say Mr. Brooks’ and Ms. Cummings’ level of faux composure was impressive.
“What do you need, Leslie?” I asked, straining to make my voice sound even, but she was clueless. Most of her attention focused inward, on herself, rather than the things going on around her. I swore it was the first and only time in my life I’d be thankful for that kind of woman.
Chapter Nine
Georgia
It had been one of those days where staying in bed and calling in sick would have been a better option than actually participating in life. Kline Brooks left his new intern, Leslie, under my watchful eye while he flew out to L.A. for the day to schmooze investors and impress potential advertising clients for TapNext.
I was certain she had been sent straight from Hell. The devil might as well have wrapped a big red bow around her neck and attached a note.
Dear Georgie,
Have fun with this one.
Love,
Satan
I’d seen more of her tits today than I had of my own in the past month. Either she had a severe body temperature control issue or she didn’t wear a bra. I didn’t care who was setting the dress code policy; nipples would never be considered business casual.
Why Kline had hired her was a goddamn mystery at this point. And I hadn’t even brought up her predilection for selfies. Her social media was busier than a Las Vegas escort during March Madness. Which I guess was fine—if only she’d put the same amount of work into her actual job.
Finally at home, I settled into my favorite pastime—sweatpants, a bag of sour cream and cheddar potato chips, and a DVRed episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians. Despite the ridiculousness that this family had made a fortune off reality television, I still found myself recording every damn episode. It was a true mind-suck of valuable time and brain cells, but I couldn’t deny my consistent guilty indulgence. What could I say? I was a true American—enjoying every trashy reality show produced for my viewing pleasure and shit-talking them the next day.
Kim had just declared that women wearing the wrong foundation color is, like, the worst thing on the planet when my phone rang.
Incoming Call Kline Brooks
What in God’s name does he need now? He should’ve been on a plane headed home from L.A. His absence was the exact reason why I would have five pounds worth of potato chips on my hips and ass tomorrow morning. Two days ago, I would have told you he’d put stars in my eyes with swoony almost kisses and confidence in my ability. Now, after a visit to the depths of incompetency hell, the blush on my feelings had more than worn off.
That cocky, demanding bastard damn well knew what he had been doing when he’d asked me if I could handle being in charge.
After five rings’ worth of muttered curses, I decided to put him out of his misery. “Good evening, Mr. Brooks. What else can I assist you with today?”
His hearty chuckle filled my ears. “I thought we were past the Mr. Brooks bullshit?”
“Yeah, not after today we’re not.”
“Rough day at work?”
Rough day? Was he serious? I was still trying to scrub my brain free of the moronic comments Leslie had made all day. “Your new intern is a gem. Quite the asset to the company, I might say. It’s amazing how many selfies one woman can take in a fifteen-minute stretch, and yet, she can’t seem to make a single photocopy in the same amount of time.”
“I know she’s got some time management issues, but she’s a good kid, Georgie.” There was a smile in his voice.
“After today, I honestly have no idea how you’ve gotten anything done for the past two weeks.” I strived to be the type of woman who didn’t judge other
women by their brainpower, but Leslie made the Kardashians look intelligent.
“Are you concerned about my workload, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart? I hated that something as simple as Kline calling me sweetheart made my heart flip-flop inside of my chest. But it did. Stupid heart. The damn thing didn’t have a clue. I cleared my throat, ignoring my body’s reaction to his sweet sentiments. “Of course not. Why would I be concerned when you’re the one who hired her? Plus, you’re the one who continues to let your intern make a mockery of her job responsibilities.”
“Is now the right time to tell you Leslie is a friend of the family? Her dad asked for a favor and I obliged. Plus, I’ve got Dean keeping an eye on her.”
“Oh, so you’re making Dean do your dirty work. I see how it is. That explains his bitchy mood today. I was worried Prada went out of business.”
Kline laughed.
Good God, that laugh. It was crazy hot and had my body reacting in all sorts of dirty ways. “I’m kind of sad you didn’t have Leslie reporting to Meryl.”
“Meryl would have had my balls,” he teased. “I’ve seen that woman make grown men cry. Hell, I’ve had to wipe a few phantom tears of my own. Plus, you asked for it.”
I was two seconds away from giving him a telepathic beatdown when his voice turned warm and soft like honey. “Thanks for dealing with Leslie. I really appreciate it.”
Did he just thank me? I pinched my arm just to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. “Shit, that hurt.” I winced.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Just…stubbed my toe,” I tossed out. “Sooooo…did you just call to see how truly awful my day was? Or is there something you actually need?”
“For starters, I wanted to make sure we’re still on for tomorrow night.”
I sighed. “Even though you threw me under the bus and have expressed little to no remorse, I’ll be there. But it has nothing to do with you and everything to do with the delicious ten-course meal I know will occur.”
“Duly noted.” He laughed. “If their food isn’t to your standard, I’ll make it up to you. Dinner anywhere. Your choice.”
“That’s easy. BLT Prime.”
“The steakhouse in Gramercy Park?”
“You betcha.”
“Swanky digs.” A low whistle left his lips. “Consider it a deal. I’ll take you there Saturday night.”
“Slow your roll, buddy. I haven’t agreed to a second date yet.”
“Yet,” he retorted with a flirtatious tone. “Haven’t agreed yet. And if it makes you feel better, you can think of it as more of a deal than a date. An I’m sorry for leaving you with Leslie kind of thing.”
When had the tables turned? This wasn’t the Kline Brooks I had grown accustomed to. He was the quiet, reserved, yet frequently demanding boss who made a point to keep me on my toes. Our interactions consisted of cursory emails and business meetings to assess my current game plan for Brooks Media’s promotions strategy.
This playful, charismatic man requesting my presence at dinner dates and effortlessly turning me on in his office was a complete stranger. I couldn’t deny my enjoyment out of seeing this side of him, but dear God, it was completely knocking me off my game. I felt like a fish out of water, floundering for an equally charming response.
And seriously, when had I started wanting to appear enchanting to the enigmatic Kline Brooks?
I cleared my throat. “Mr. Brooks, w-why did you call me?”
“Ms. Cummings, why are we being so formal tonight? I thought we got past the formality bullshit.”
He was probably right. I’d say it happened around the time he pulled my hips into an impressively unprofessional erection in his office two days ago.
“Okay, Kline,” I agreed with a mouthful of sass. I didn’t really want him referring to me by my middle school joke of a last name anyway. “If you’re not calling to chat about work, why are you calling me?”
“I actually need a favor. Are you busy?”
“No, not really. I’m just sitting here…” I paused, reaching for the remote and turning down the volume. Even though we were past “formalities,” my boss didn’t need to know about my reality show obsession. “Just sitting here reading through emails.”
He chuckled into the phone. “I’m sure those emails can wait until tomorrow. I’m in a bit of a bind. Can you turn on ESPN?”
“ESPN?”
“The Western University-New York State game is on. Thatch and I can’t get the fucker to stream on the plane. I need to know what’s happening.”
Thatcher Kelly, the ever-mysterious financial consultant of Brooks Media. He worked as a contractor, providing expertise for several companies, or so I’d heard, but no big money decision within Brooks Media happened without him. I’d heard his husky voice and boisterous personality on several conference calls. Even received emails with his signature sarcasm. But I’d never met the man. Hell, I’d yet to successfully locate an actual photo of him. All of his social media accounts were private and most had some random sports-related profile picture.
“This is life or death here, Georgia,” Kline interrupted my thoughts. “Thatch is a big New York State fan, and I’ve got five on the fact that his Tigers are no match for the Mustangs.”
I scrunched my nose up. “So…what exactly do you need me to do?”
“I need you to give me the play-by-play for the next twenty minutes until we land.”
“Isn’t there anyone else you can bug? I’m probably not the best person for the job.” The last football game I’d watched had been the Super Bowl where Janet Jackson’s nipple had made its television debut, and I could honestly have told you more about her areola than the game. I literally knew zilch about sports, especially football.
“Please, Georgia.” He rasped his words, confusing me by making me think about sex. “I’m begging you.”
I held in my answer until I knew I wouldn’t stutter. “You owe me. Big time.”
“Anything you want, sweetheart.”
The promise of his double meaning oozed from his voice, but I ignored him, grabbed the remote, and switched the channel. “Okay, it’s on.”
Chapter Ten
Kline
Thatch waved his arms manically, trying to get an update. Our personal flight attendant flashed him a look of distaste, but with one quick wink, her contempt turned into consideration. I didn’t have much to my name that said billionaire, but the private plane sure did. With the amount that I traveled and the necessary fluctuation in timing, it was just easier.
When his attention came back to me, I flipped him off, putting Georgia on speaker. “What’s the score? How much time is left? Who has the ball?” I rambled, desperate to know if Western University was pulling through. Fucking Thatch wouldn’t let me live it down if New York State won this thing. It was a nothing game—early season, Thursday night, and unquestionably obscure teams. But Thatch could turn anything into a competition, and he’d created this rivalry out of thin air years ago.
She gave us the rundown in succinct, inaccurate terms, but I got the gist of it.
Fourth quarter. Tigers were winning.
I cursed.
Thatch shouted, “Victory is mine!”
I’d honestly never seen a guy that big Riverdance.
“All of this for five measly bucks?” Georgia asked.
Thatch’s loud, boisterous laugh echoed inside the cabin of the plane.
“No, not five dollars. A little more than that…”
“Five hundred?” Her voice was incredulous. I pictured Georgia’s nose scrunching up in that adorable way of hers.
“Actually…” I cleared my throat. “Five grand.”
“Five thousand dollars?” she shouted.
Internally, I cringed. Hell, externally, I cringed.
I probably sounded like a pretentious asshat. Betting exorbitant amounts of money on sports was not my usual M.O. “It’s Thatch’s fault. He won’t take no for an answer and never bets
anything less than a grand. He could be the poster child for gambling addicts everywhere. His only redeeming quality is that he actually knows how to invest his profits.”
Thatch’s smile mocked me. He knew what I was doing, exaggerating his faults to help minimize my own.
“Whatever you say, Mr. Moneybags.”
Yeah, she definitely thought I was an ostentatious dick.
“Georgia girl, give me an update. What’s going on?” Thatch schmoozed, laying it on thick just to get a rise out of me.
“Uh…” she mumbled, trailing off for a brief second. “Boobear just tackled somebody.”
“Boobear? Who the fuck is Boobear?” Thatch mouthed in my direction.
I shrugged. “Who just got a tackle?”
“Boobear. He plays on the orange team,” she repeated as though it made sense. “Oh no, I think Boobear is hurt.”
It took some serious thinking, but I finally decoded the mystery. “Do you mean Boudmare?”
“Yeah, that’s him. His nickname is Boobear.”
“The commentators are calling him Boobear?” I asked, fighting a smile.
“No, I nicknamed him Boobear. He looks like a giant teddy bear. He’s so cute!”
“Oh, dear God,” Thatch groaned.
“Oh, thank goodness. Boobear is back up and on his feet. They’re lining up again. White team has the ball. The big guy in the middle chucked it to the thrower guy. He threw the ball… really far…” She trailed off, and then the line went silent.
“Georgia?”
Nothing.
“Georgia!” I strived to grab her attention.
“What?” she snapped.
“The ball was thrown…where? What happened?”
“Coca-Cola threw it a bunch of yards to Stuart Little. They’re lining up again near the touchdown box.”
Coca-Cola? Stuart Little? Who in the hell was she talking about?
“Who is she talking about?” Thatch mouthed, arms wide in frustration. “I fucking knew we should’ve called Wes,” he whispered, pacing the aisle.
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