by Sierra Hill
My admin assistant’s voice jumps back at me over the crackle on the line. “Yes, Mr. Jensen. I’ll get on that right away. And also, remember that your new intern starts today. She’s scheduled with you at noon after her orientation with human resources.”
I groan and the headache that was just under the surface begins to unfurl and explode into full-blown pressure.
Fuck, I don’t have time for this. I depress the button again.
“Can’t you move her to a later time this afternoon? Maybe send her down to see Dante in design first?”
Before she even gets the words out, I know what she’s going to say. That’s why I love Sheila. She looks like she’s your garden-variety grandmother, but she can knock even the biggest fashion designer on their ass.
“No can do, boss. Your afternoon is already full of your board meeting prep and a catered lunch has been ordered for delivery so that you can get to know your new intern personally. And there are already copies made of the projects you assigned for her to work on over the next six weeks. There’s no room for rescheduling or for argument.”
I groan, irritated that she’s so damn competent. “Fine. But do me a favor and while you’re at it, can you restock my mini fridge with some more LaCroix and Heineken?”
She sighs and asks knowingly. “Have you opened the fridge this morning?”
I swivel around in the desk chair and open the fridge behind me. Well, goddamn. That woman needs a raise.
“Anything else, boss?”
I click on my laptop and see the email I’d requested from Dow with the projections is already in my Inbox.
“No. Nothing else, Sheila, except what would I do without you?”
She chuckles. “I don’t know. Keep asking yourself that as we get closer to my annual review.”
My assistant ends the call and I lean back in my office chair, bought directly from a specialty shop in Sweden, and close my eyes. It’s only Monday and the week seems to be progressing at a snail’s pace but already spiraling out of control.
After the argument I had with my dad this weekend about the future of the company and his stake in it, the pleading voicemail I received from my ex-wife Tiffany requesting additional financial support this month, and the delayed shipment of next year’s spring line, I’m at wit’s end.
Not that I don’t know how to handle stress, because most of the time I thrive on it. It’s what has kept me going even during the leanest of times when my business was in the red and looking like it would go belly up. I’ve fought tooth-and-nail to keep this company afloat since I took it over from my dad two years ago, finding ways to compete against giants in the industry. It’s been tough, something that business school never really prepared me for, but I’ve persevered. Sometimes even having to be ruthless in the pursuit of success.
My life since I walked the platform to accept my MBA has been all about the business, with every waking moment focused on finding ways to improve the bottom line. Learning and incorporating new methods of systems engineering, design, and manufacturing to capitalize on – always reinventing the process and changing strategy for the sake of the business. Regardless of what it meant to my personal life.
That one-track mind, however, has led me to a pretty solitary life. I do find time to socialize – mostly through industry functions and events – and I also love to travel and be outdoors. The single life works for me and I’ve found I don’t want a relationship at this point in my life.
To say that my single-minded business focus was the contributing factor to my failed marriage of less than a year, is an understatement. And it’s the clear reminder to remain at arms-length from any women who want a relationship out of me.
Which reminds me of the beauty I met Saturday night and that goddamn kiss that kept me up half the night thinking about her.
Too bad I couldn’t use my skills to close the deal with her. Although I certainly did try.
I made the decision to introduce myself as Jensen, for the sheer fact that my full name in the L.A. fashion scene is well known. The use of my last name didn’t seem to draw any hint of recognition from Brooklyn, so it felt good to proceed under the umbrella of anonymity.
We each had a drink and progressed into a natural and easy conversation. It was refreshing to talk to Brooklyn who is smart and witty with a vague hint of innocence. I couldn’t stop zeroing in on her eyes. In the past two years, I’ve dated some really beautiful women, many of them models or aspiring actresses. They come a dime a dozen in this town. It was honestly rare to come across someone not in some form of the Hollywood business.
About an hour into it, our conversation seemed to venture into flirtatiously hot sexual innuendo, with frequent brushes of our knuckles or the light touch of her palm on my bicep when she laughed at something I said. The only obvious next step was to take it back to my apartment and continue the exploration.
But that’s when she abruptly ended it, apologizing for having to leave, but that she had to get up for an early morning. I’d been more disappointed than I should be, and quickly worked to remedy that with our walk.
And then I kissed her.
And holy fuck, it struck a match to my already burning arousal and doused it with kerosene which only turned it into a flaming bonfire of sexual tension.
Just thinking of her now sends blood pumping to my cock, so I pick up my phone and send her a text.
Hello gorgeous. Just thinking about you. I hope to see you again soon.
I wait, flipping through some non-urgent emails that await my response and the ping of a message response has my hands flying to the phone, grabbing it and nearly flailing it across my desk.
Who dis?
I stare at the screen, my brows furrowed in confusion by the response. What the hell?
I type out a frantic reply.
Jensen. From the bar. We shared a kiss. This is Brooklyn, right?
The dots appear and then disappear as I anxiously hold my breath. Maybe she’s just punking me and this was all a rouse and a joke to get a laugh. She did have a pretty cute sense of humor.
But it seems the joke’s on me.
I wasn’t at no bar last night. And this is Clyde. I don’t know any Brooklyn. You got wrong-numbered, bro.
My head spins perplexed at this odd response. This must be a mistake. Maybe I typed in the wrong number myself. But no, that’s not it because Brooklyn was the one who entered her number for me in my contacts.
Realization hits fast and hard, a baseball bat to the balls. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. Ever.
I was duped. Given the wrong number so I could never contact her again.
The knowledge of this possible fact is more than I can handle today, with a raging headache that won’t let up and a packed schedule. I don’t have time to mull over the implications right now, but I rummage through my memory at the two-hours I spent with Brooklyn Saturday night and the connection we seemed to have. We did have a connection, didn’t we?
Fuck, now I’m second-guessing and talking to myself, as well.
I slam the phone face down on my desk just as Sheila knocks on my door.
“Mr. Jensen, your lunch and intern have arrived.”
I shift forward in my chair to stand up, straightening my semi-loose tie and grabbing my suit coat from the back of the chair. I angrily shove my arms through the sleeves and button up the jacket, feeling oddly upset about this turn of events. I roll my shoulders hoping to ease the tension away as the door opens.
Sheila strides in first carrying a tray of covered food and glassware in her hands, my new intern following closely behind.
My muscles string tightly and I’m still antsy as I try wrapping my head around what just happened to me. I was jilted and that feeling sits like a rock in my gut. I want to pummel something, mostly myself for being such an idiot. Why didn’t I test out the number in my phone before she left? I should have called her, using the stored number, to make sure it was correct.
&nbs
p; Maybe it was all just an accident and she mistyped the sequence of numbers. That happens. And we were both affected by that kiss and she was possibly equally distracted as she typed.
Or the flipside to that scenario. She just played me for the fool.
Anyway, none of that matters, I tell myself, as I prepare for my meeting with my new intern, Peyton Burke. While I did review her resume and application before our meeting, I was out of the country in Milan when she originally interviewed with HR and some of our other senior staff members. They were able to Skype with her before an offer was prepared and sent.
I look down again at the file in my hand and reread her name. Peyton Burke.
A senior at ASU studying Fashion and Digital Design Culture program at the Herberger Institute for Design and the Arts. She sent in an essay on high fashion and retail sales in the digital age. It was compelling enough to place her at the top of the list, which is why our HR director, Jessica Yu, hired her for this six-week internship.
My eyes track Sheila, who smiles and nods at me, placing the lunch down on the board table. I give her a corresponding smile of thanks as she passes by me again. That smile remains on my face until my gaze returns to the door and lands on my new intern who is standing in the middle of the doorway looking white as a ghost.
Something akin to a lightning strike happens in the space of a moment.
I look down at the name on the file again and then back up at the intern, who wears a look of shock and surprise just as great as mine.
“Brooklyn? What are you doing here?” I ask, stupefied to see the woman I kissed now standing in my office.
She looks a little different today, dressed in a more professionally elegant flare, but still daringly gorgeous in a light gray jacket, white blouse and a black pencil skirt. She sports a pair of fashionable turquoise glasses that balance daintily on the bridge of her nose. And her full mouth is painted a bright red, just like Saturday night. The lipstick I later found on the collar of my shirt.
The same red lips I kissed and devoured and went to bed wanting more, dreaming about kissing her again.
She takes a small step forward, wobbling a bit on her black heels, and then stops, extending her arm out in greeting.
“It’s Peyton. And please, let me explain…”
Chapter 5
Peyton
Let’s just call this what it is. A clusterfuck of major proportion that I brought upon myself.
Had I not been bored to death from sitting alone in the new efficiency apartment counting away the hours, surrounded by all its drab gray furnishings and modular canvas art strewn across the walls, I wouldn’t have listened to Brooklyn’s advice and gone out.
But I did, and then out of nowhere came Jensen who distracted me with flirtatious conversation, his charming easy-going style, and incredible kisses.
I shameless flirted with a man who I knew was older than me, exuded more confidence than me and was far outside the scope of my league. And now I realize just how far that distance extends.
He’s my freaking boss. Mr. Brody Jensen.
And he is none too happy to see me at the moment.
The anger, disappointment and disbelief in his expression right now tell me how very wrong I was to give him a false identity and wrong number. And now that I’ve screwed everything up, I have to deal with the consequences of my actions, hopefully, find a way back into his good graces.
“Peyton.” His voice is roughened by bitterness and his eyes are cold and brittle, searing into me as if he just learned I’m a puppy killer. “Funny, I was under the impression your name was Brooklyn. Why is that, do you think?”
I straighten my spine, hoping my taller posture will make me seem more reliable and self-confident even though I’m shriveling on the inside under his scrutinizing gaze. He’s waiting for my explanation that I’m not sure I can give without potentially derailing my entire internship.
How do you tell your boss that you really enjoyed the way his kisses made you feel, but that you lied to him and gave him a wrong number so he could never see you again?
“Mr. Jensen, please. If you’ll give me a chance to explain. I didn’t mean—” I begin to stammer but am immediately shut down.
He lifts a hand for me to stop. “Save it. It doesn’t matter. In fact, your deceitfulness likely saved us both from a potentially damning and uncomfortable situation.”
Because this isn’t uncomfortable enough.
I purse my lips together and chew on the corner of my mouth, watching as he pulls out a leather chair from under the conference table and slides into it, directing me with a gesture to do the same.
I take a seat, smoothing down my skirt, noticing the way my hands shake nervously. At least my voice hasn’t betrayed me all that much. Trying to act as natural as possible under the circumstances is a sign I should win an Oscar award. I fold my hands together on my lap and wait for him to take the lead.
His head bends down to read what appears to be my file, taking several moments before he shuffles through the pile and hands me a sheet of paper.
“This is my company’s mission statement, our core values and company history.”
I accept the document, which shakes a bit in my grip, and follow along.
“As you’ll see, Peyton, Jensen’s Men’s Fine Clothing and Design was founded by my grand-father, Walter Jensen in 1945 and has been in business through several generations. I recently took over as President and CEO, and as such, I want to continue in the tradition that has been passed down from Walter to my father and now to me. The foundation of this company is steeped in the type of employees we have on our team. Honesty. Integrity. Loyalty.”
Each of his last three words are barked out in militant boot camp style precision. Left. Right. Left. I feel like I should drop and give him twenty as a penance for my mistake.
He abruptly stops and barks out a humorless laugh. With my pulse hammering in my throat, I lift my gaze to find him staring at me. Technically, he’s staring at my mouth like he wants to punish it with his own. I can’t help licking my lips with the sweep of my tongue and then biting down hard enough to draw blood.
“Fuck it, I do want to know,” he says sharply, slapping the file down on the table and jumping to his feet, turning to face the window. He slams his hands inside his pants pockets and continues, no longer facing me. “Why all the dishonesty and deceit? Why did you give me a fake name and have me texting someone named Clyde?”
“Clyde?” I croak because I have no idea who he’s talking about.
He sniffs at the air contemptuously, swiveling his head over his shoulder and raising a dark eyebrow.
“Yeah, you know the one. The guy I texted and asked out on a date thinking it was the hot woman I met named Brooklyn. The woman I thought I had made a connection with. Whose kiss I couldn’t get out of my mind. Apparently, I was just conned to look like a fool. Is that something you do often? Use your sexual charms to get men off and then dump and run?”
I close my eyes and tip my head down in shame. “We did have a connection. I felt it, too.”
“Bullshit.”
The fierceness of his response has my eyes snapping open again. I see he’s turned toward me now, but hasn’t moved from his spot at the window.
“Running off like a Cinderella and giving me false digits so I can never get in touch with you doesn’t exactly spell out ‘I want to see you again.’”
Something inside me suddenly turns defiant. A bold, strong goddess comes hurling out from the depths of my soul. “Well, you didn’t give me your full name, either, Brody Jensen. You’re not totally innocent here, either.”
He shrugs a flippant shoulder. “Jensen is technically my name. I didn’t lie about who I am.”
“I beg to differ, Jensen. Also known as CEO Brody Jensen.”
He ignores that snide remark and exhales a sigh.
“Listen, Mr. Jensen—”
He waves his hand. “Just call me Brody. Everyone else does except f
or Sheila. She’s formal like that. Unless she’s yelling at me, then she calls me Boss.”
I nod, accepting this small peace offering he concedes to give with a small small. “Okay, Brody then.”
I lean forward, placing my elbows and forearms on the table, clasping my hands together.
“Please, Brody. Look at this from my angle. I’m a single young woman in a new town I’ve never been, where I don’t know a soul. And I also don’t frequent bars to pick up men. But I was anxious about today, so I went out for dinner and a drink. And then you happened. You made me nervous – but in a good way,” I add, my finger swirling a pattern on the polished wood table.
“I was very attracted to you, but I knew I couldn’t explore it further. I’m only here for a short time and I want to put all my energy, time and focus into this internship. It means everything to me.”
Brody extracts the other hand from his pocket and rubs the back of his neck. His silver watch glints in the sunlight that streams through the blinds of the windows. I take note of a few leather bracelets peeking out from under his shirt sleeve. He seems to consider this for a moment as I have a chance to really look at him in the daylight.
He looks like he could model his own men’s fashion designs and clothing. Tall and lean, probably an inch or so over six feet. His shoulders are well-defined under the suit jacket that fits him like a glove. Like it was made just for him. Probably because it was.
There’s a hint of beard growth over his sharp jawline, an early five o’clock shadow that has returned quickly after his morning shave. His dark hair looks soft and feathers across his forehead in a manner that proves he runs his hands through it during the day when stressed or concentrating hard on something.
And his eyes. In the low-light of the bar, they were the color of his barrel-aged whiskey. Today, they look lighter, a warm pool of melted chocolate.
The eyes, now trained on me, that appear to be softening toward me, as if coming to some sort of truce and acceptance.
“I can appreciate your position, Brook – I mean, Peyton. I just wish you would’ve been truthful instead of making me feel like a chump. That doesn’t happen often.”