Once I pay the bill, I lead Leila through the restaurant with my hand pressing into her lower back. Outside, the air is balmy, the breeze brisk. Leila starts walking down the sidewalk, and I snatch her arm. “Where are you going?”
“Home. The subway station is that way.” She points behind her.
I gesture to the black car idling at the curb. “Tony will drop you off at your apartment.”
“What?” she squawks, staring at the open car door and leather interior. “No, that’s okay. I’ll call a cab.” Then she whips out her phone, almost poking herself in the eye in the process, and starts typing furiously.
I smoothly pluck the phone from her hand and slip it back into her purse. “You’re not taking a cab. Tony will drop you off at your house.”
“Then you’ll see where I live.”
Never breaking eye contact, I ask softly, “Why don’t you want me to see where you live, Leila?”
The fabric of her dress shimmers in the streetlights. Color creeps down her neck. I bet her nipples are flushed and hard, perfect little nubs for my lips and teeth.
“Because,” she whispers, “I’m not as rich as you.”
“No one is as rich as me.” I’m not trying to be condescending. I’m just stating a fact. How many billionaires are there in the world?
“Yeah, okay, I get that. But my apartment is tiny, while I’m sure you live in a mansion—”
“Penthouse.”
“And I bet you have a diamond-studded toilet seat.”
I laugh. Like, really laugh. This woman is ridiculous and I love it. “Do those even exist?”
A flash of exasperation crosses her face. “Obviously, since you have one.”
Interesting. I swipe back my hair in an effort to compose myself. “Why do you think I have a diamond-studded toilet seat?”
“I don’t know. So you can make money while sitting on your ass?”
That makes absolutely zero sense, but I crack up. After a few moments of gawping, Leila starts laughing too. Soon, I’m hunched over, tears pouring down my face because this woman is nothing like I expected and I’m realizing that is a very good thing. A blessing in disguise. “Leila,” I manage, finally coming down from that high. “I don’t want you to feel self-conscious about where you live. You rent what you can afford. Okay? Let me take you home.” A pause. “Please.”
She trembles. I shrug out of my jacket, drape it over her shoulders. A small whimper comes out of her mouth as my fingers brush the bare skin of her upper arms. I freeze, my hands still gripping my jacket.
Leila’s eyes grow wide as saucers. She throws herself into the car before I can ask what that was about.
Leila gives Tony the address, which he inputs into his GPS. The drive to her place is quiet. The interior of the car is dark. It smells of leather and the subtle perfume Leila wears. She sits as far away from me as possible, her face pressed to the window as the city lights flash by. The foot of space between us feels like nothing. The way her legs stretch out, her thighs curvy, the hem of her dress creeping up higher each time she shifts in the seat. I growl out an expletive under my breath and exhale hard through my nose, looking out my window so I can calm the desire scratching at my skin. She doesn’t seem to notice the tension, so thick in the air. Or if she does, she doesn’t acknowledge it. I’m not sure what’s worse.
“Must be nice,” she murmurs as we turn a corner, past the throng of people exiting one of the subway stations, “living like this. Never having to take public transportation. I can’t imagine.”
My skin crawls with unwanted emotion. That’s right. Leila doesn’t live like this. She is subject to the dirty, cold, angry part of New York. The hungry, take-no-prisoners part. What I experience is security.
We reach her building about forty minutes later. I get out first to examine the neighborhood surroundings. It’s not the worst, but as a single woman living alone, I’d be wary of walking around at night. I hope she’s smarter than that.
Leila doesn’t sense my displeasure. She unlocks the front door to the building, then the second door. I’m happy to note they’re both made of steel, and the sound of them falling shut behind us falls heavily on my ears. Her apartment is located on the second floor. Up a rickety staircase we go. It smells of stale cigarette smoke, and the wooden floor buckles every few steps. My perspective on this place is quickly plummeting.
Leila fumbles for her key when we reach her front door. A door opens down the hall behind us.
“Ms. Engleton!”
Leila freezes, the key halfway into the lock. “Shit.” She quickly turns it and shoves open the door, yanking me inside before slamming it shut behind us, cutting off the voice of whoever is calling her.
“Who was that?” I ask, studying Leila’s place. It’s a small, one-bedroom apartment that smells like evergreen. The walls are off-white and cluttered with colorful prints and watercolors in varying styles. Hardwood floors warmed by soft rugs. Everything is clean, but disorderly. Like her.
“Oh, that was my landlord. I still owe her money for rent. I’ve been hiding from her.” She smiles, then it falls away. “Why am I telling you this? You’re my boss.” Shaking her head, she goes into the kitchen for a glass of water, and I follow. The kitchen is tiny, barely large enough to fit a small table and two stools. Recipes are taped all over the walls. I’m guessing it’s because she doesn’t have room for a bookshelf.
“Water?” she asks, pouring herself a glass from a water pitcher.
“No thanks. I’m good.” I half-turn toward the window, and I almost fly out of my skin. “Shit! What the—?”
“Huh?” Leila turns. “Oh.” Then she laughs. “That’s Legolas. You like?”
“Who?”
Together, we stare at the giant cardboard cutout of a man in tights, with white hair and pointed ears and an angelic face.
An elf, I realize.
Leila looks like I just told her there was no such thing as Santa Claus. “Oh, my God, do you live under a rock? Legolas, from The Lord of the Rings? No?” She searches my eyes, scoffs, and drinks the cold liquid down. I watch. Can’t help it. Her neck is long, slender as a swan’s. Her blue dress clings to those delicious curves. Her heels click against the hardwood floor as she strides to the sink and sets the glass down. Then Leila’s gaze locks on mine, and it takes a second for my lungs to catch up with my head. Sweat beads on the back of my neck. She’s lovely.
Motion draws my attention to the kitchen doorway. Leila lights up like a Christmas tree. “Oh, Henry!” she coos, except there’s an evil gleam in her eye. This must be her pastrami-loving, bitch cat.
Hopefully he’s friendly.
A gray ball of fluff charges toward us, and Leila’s laugh turns evil. I’m deeply confused as she says, “Come greet Mr. Schaffer, Henry. Say hello.”
The cat charges. His eyes are laser beams. He emits a growl that forces me a step back, then suddenly he changes direction and latches himself onto Leila’s thigh. She screams and bats at his head, which makes him dig the claws deeper. Seconds later, the cat flings himself away and stalks toward me. Shit. These are expensive pants and if the cat decides to shred them I’m going to kick him, and I don’t want to do that. But instead of attacking me, Henry starts rubbing his body against my legs, transferring cat hair onto the fabric.
Leila blinks. Blinks again.
With a smirk, I pick Henry up in my arms and scratch him under his chin.
Her mouth opens and shuts. “What. That’s not—I mean—” A cute little huff comes out of her mouth. “Is he purring?”
Now that she mentions it, yes, Henry is purring. It feels like I’m holding a small car with the engine idling, except fluffier. “I believe he is, yes.”
“How could you do this to me, Henry? How?” She looks gutted. Like her world is crumbling. Honestly, I feel bad. It’s obvious Leila wants Henry to
show her affection.
“Here, Henry. Come to mommy.” She reaches for him lovingly.
Henry hisses at her and jumps away.
Her face collapses, and for a terrifying second, I’m afraid she’s going to cry. If that happens, I don’t know what I’ll do. Wrap her in my arms and comfort her? That would be overstepping the boundary of our relationship, wouldn’t it? But I’ve already decided I want to make her mine, so what would it matter?
“Hey.” Instead, I tug her closer and tilt up her chin. Tears shimmer in her eyes. She looks miserable. That’s the problem with drinking. It brings all your emotions and vulnerabilities to the surface. “Henry loves you. He does, in his own way.” Do I think Henry actually loves her? No. But it’s the right thing to say, as Leila obviously loves her cat.
“He’s never let me hold him. He’s never purred for me either.”
“In time, he will.”
“When?” she wails. “I adopted him three years ago.”
A tear falls down her cheek, which I smooth away. No tears. I don’t ever want to see Leila upset. “You’ll just have to wait for him to come to you.”
My hands stroke up and down her arms, around to her back. She sighs and rests her head on my chest. Then she sniffs. “Why do you always smell so good?”
I grin. “You think I smell good?” A pleasant bubbling feeling fills my chest.
“Oh, please. You know you do. What kind of soap do you use?”
On a laugh, I say, “If I tell you, then the mystery will be ruined.”
For a time, she’s quiet. At first I think she’s fallen asleep, but then she whispers, “Can I tell you a secret?” except it’s not really a whisper. It’s pretty loud, actually. Leila doesn’t notice.
“What’s the secret, baby?” I murmur the words against the shell of her ear and dare to let my tongue flick against its rim, just for a second. It’s so fleeting I doubt she notices. Deeply, I inhale, trying to memorize the smell of her shampoo, her skin, all of it together. It’s a heady combination. The blood rushes south, and I shift my hips so my lower half no longer touches her. The last thing I need is for Leila to feel my boner.
“Um.” She traces shapes against my back. “I put the dog shit in your office.”
My hands still their exploration of her body.
It’s utterly silent.
There is only one thought in my mind: of course it was her. It had to be. She’s just cunning enough, just spunky enough, to risk my wrath, all for the sake of payback. If it had been anyone else, I would have kicked their ass out the door, fired them on the spot, no remorse. But it was Leila the whole time. And she was telling me, in her own way, that my behavior toward her wasn’t okay. I can see now that she’s right.
But, God. Shit? Really?
This woman. This beautiful, snappy, compassionate, gentle woman. My God. She’s grabbed hold of my body and soul without me even realizing it.
“I think, Ms. Engleton,” I say, dropping my voice and shifting my body so she’s trapped between me and the wall, “that makes you a very bad girl.”
Hitched breath. Her pupils pool black, swallowing the hazel of her irises. We stare at one another in silence, our mouths inches apart. Her warm breath fans my mouth, and I can taste the alcohol as it lands on my tongue.
The atmosphere tightens. I feel it scratching at my skin. Leila reaches up to touch her damp temple, the hollow at her throat. I watch, mesmerized, as a single drop of sweat slides down the curve of her neck. Holy hell. What would happen were I to lick it off?
“A b-bad girl?” she asks hoarsely.
Abort, abort, abort.
Abruptly, I pull away. Leila falls forward, but I grab her arm to steady her. I need space, now. “There are some things I need to finish up at the office. See you on Monday?” Why am I asking that question? Of course I’ll see her then.
“Oh.” She looks so disappointed I almost feel bad for stopping things before they went any further. But I take pleasure in that disappointment, too. “Thanks for not making me feel like an idiot when my date didn’t show up.”
But he did, I want to say. It’s me. It’s been me all along.
She bites her lip, then nods. “Goodnight, Mr. Schaffer.”
“Leila.”
Her throat bobs, and she lifts her head to meet my eyes. Her lips are parted, damp from where her tongue swiped a wet line across her lower lip. My hands fist in my pockets. No touching. She first needs to learn how to trust me.
“I meant what I said earlier. You really are beautiful.” I touch her cheek with the pad of my finger, lingering.
I softly shut the door on my way out.
Chapter 17
Leila
What just happened?
Dazed, I stumble over to my couch and collapse with a long, loud groan. Byron Schaffer was here, in my apartment. Mr. Billionaire.
I think, Ms. Engleton, that makes you a very bad girl.
He said that, didn’t he? I wasn’t imagining it? God, my core is throbbing like a toothache. Already my fingers inch under the hem of my dress, skimming the damp fabric of my underwear. I groan again as acute pleasure shoots through me, bowing my hips off the cushions.
The worst part was, I wanted him to kiss me. My boss. Once Byron showed up at Glass, I didn’t think about Pizza Guy at all. Does that make me a hussy? Confused, definitely. The desire had been there. I saw it, banked like a low fire in his eyes. He didn’t overstep, though I suspect he wanted to. I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or grateful that he didn’t.
Speaking of Pizza Guy.
I whip out my phone and start typing. Hey, I waited for you at Glass but you never showed. The least you could have done was say to my face you’re not interested in getting to know each other.
I wait, but I don’t receive a reply.
I know you’re not supposed to do this, but I call out of work on Monday.
The truth is, I’m too embarrassed. Not only was I stood up by Pizza Guy, but Mr. Billionaire was given front row seats to the ordeal. He then had the audacity to act like a nice guy about it? How dare he. He’s supposed to be a rich asshole. When he paid for my drinks, I even thought of flinging one in his face, just to convince myself this was all part of his plan to humiliate me further. It wasn’t a plan though. He was simply…nice.
Peg picks up on the first ring. “Hi, Leila. What can I do for you?”
It’s seven in the morning. I know Peg doesn’t actually live at the office, but sometimes I convince myself she might. Or maybe she teleports to work. “Hi, Peg. I’m sorry but I’ve been feeling really ill and I won’t be able to make it into work today.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” She sounds regretful.
There’s a muffled voice in the background—male.
“Who’s that?” I ask, leaning forward, as if that will help me better distinguish who she’s speaking with.
“What—oh, Leila? Sorry. Mr. Schaffer just arrived. He says he’d like to speak with you.”
I leap off the couch. “Wait! No, don’t do that—”
“Leila.”
His voice sends delicious shivers down my spine. “Y-yes?” I squeak.
“Why are you calling out of work? Are you sick?” Concern tinges his voice. It sounds genuine.
If this were Peg, I wouldn’t feel as bad about lying, but it’s much harder to lie to this man. He can hear the untruths in my voice. I’m convinced of this. “I am, actually. I’ve been throwing up all night. Must have been food poisoning from the restaurant.”
“Food poisoning.” There’s a long pause. The heartbeats pass, one, two, three. “But you didn’t order food, only drinks.”
Crap. He’s right. “It must have been the wine. I’ve heard it can go bad without the proper storage and—”
“If you’re sick, let me pick up a few things. I
’ll bring them over.”
“What? No! No, no, no, that’s okay. I’m fine. I have everything I need and Henry is keeping me company.” Actually, he’s glaring at me from under the coffee table, currently plotting murder. I bought him the wrong cat food. The low-fat kind. I know how you feel buddy, but it really is better for you, even if it tastes like crap.
“I’ll leave right away—”
“Okay, you know what? I’m magically cured. See that? I’ll be at the office within the hour.” Then I hang up.
I lift my hand up in front of my face. It’s shaking. Because of Byron? I think that’s a yes. I don’t want to give him any more reason to see me as less than capable of the job. I’ve been improving, slowly. For example, last week I only sent one wrong email instead of the usual three or four.
With a sigh, I drag my butt off the couch in search of some clean clothes. All my underwear is dirty, so I’m going commando. What a way to start a Monday, am I right?
Chapter 18
Byron
After getting off the phone with Leila, I catch sight of Peg. The knowing look she gives me as she adjusts her glasses. My heart beats erratically, yet gradually, it calms. For a minute there, I was ready to raid the nearest convenience store on Leila’s behalf. That should concern me. I don’t make it a point to go out of my way to help people. Leila, however, is different.
Peg still studies me.
“What?” I snap, fighting the urge to shift from foot to foot like I’ve been caught with my hand stuck in a cookie jar.
“Oh, nothing,” she says in a singsong voice.
Nothing. Right. Does she know something’s up? I haven’t mentioned anything about meeting Leila at Glass, but Peg also picks up details others don’t. It’s why she’s an invaluable employee.
This morning, I woke rested and ready to face the week. Today is going to be an excellent day. The air smells of possibility. Potential. I spent the weekend catching up on emails, pondering how I’m going to make Leila mine. The thought of her pining after someone else, even if that someone is technically me, is unacceptable. I want Leila to want me. Byron Schaffer. CEO of Solonay. So where does that leave me? A choice. Continue the charade or end it.
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