She lets go of her lower lip, which she’s been worrying between her teeth. “So? What do you need from me, Mr. Risinger?”
Oh, if only she knew.
“Really?” she says, finally, as I stay silent. “We’re going to play this game? You bring me in here saying, and I quote, ‘get here as soon as you can.’ Which would lead any reasonable person to expect that there’s…I don’t know, something that needs to be done here. Am I supposed to go on a scavenger hunt?”
I wait just long enough to really let her steam, then I pick up the slushie, that somehow managed to follow me all the way back to my office. “Do you want this?” I ask, as if that’s a perfectly normal conversational step to take. “Because I sure as hell don’t.”
“I…what?” She stares at it, then at me.
“It’s Coke,” I tell her. “I think. No promises.”
“I’m going to take it, on the flimsy hope that you mean actual cocaine,” she says, snatching it from my hand. “Can I help you, or should I just go start sorting the mail?”
The thing is, I don’t want her to leave.
The thing is, I don’t want her to go across town, or even just down the street, looking for the antidote to my unhappiness. I don’t even want her to step out of my office. I want her to sit down here, right here, and I want to say something that will make her smile. I want her to tell me about her family, about whoever made her think she needed to be so devoted and accommodating just to be a worthwhile human being. It’d be looking a gift horse in the mouth, of course, but I have to know. All this time I’ve wanted, needed someone like her, and now that she’s giving me exactly what I asked for, it just irritates me. I mean, where’s her self-respect?
And yes, I’m aware of exactly how shitty of a human being that makes me. Just so we’re clear.
“Sit down,” I tell her, thinking fast. “I’ve got an important meeting in a few hours, and I need to run through some lines.”
“Oh, good.” She plops down in one of the chairs opposite my desk. “For a minute there, I was worried this would be a waste of my time.”
“Sorry, I promise this won’t take long. Then you can get right back to your busy schedule of curing cancer and…what else is it that you do? Oh, right. Work for me.” I pull a pen out of the cup on my desk, realize I don’t need a pen, and put it back, all in one smooth motion. If I can keep up the banter, she’s not going to realize anything’s amiss. Except something is, of course. Something is very amiss.
I don’t need scotch or muffins or corn nuts or Coke-flavored slushies. What I need is her.
You’re happy when she’s here and unhappy when she’s not. You know what that means, Risinger. You’ve known what that means since you were ten years old.
You’re in trouble. You can’t run from this.
Scowling at my inner voice, I pretend to pull something up on my computer. Meghan gnaws on the end of her straw, watching me.
“Seriously, I don’t see how I’m going to be much help for this,” she says, finally. “I’m not a very good stand-in for…Joe Business.”
“Joe Business? Really?” I raise an eyebrow. “Anyway, it’s Josephine Business.”
“Oh, well. In that case. I guess I’ve got ovaries, so we’re all the same, right?”
“A very sharp woman. She’ll try to run circles around me, if I let her.” I look at her pointedly. “I’m not going to, though. I plan to beat her at her own game.”
“Just to be clear, this is a business meeting, right?” Her eyes narrow slightly.
“As business as it gets,” I assure her, with a smile.
CHAPTER SEVEN
MEG
It’s three in the morning, and Adrian still hasn’t come to bed.
This isn’t unusual, of course. But I’m never really okay with it, even though I know there’s a good reason. Some part of the artistic process evidently involves staring at a blinking cursor for eighteen hours at a time, and if I interrupt the process, everything goes to shit.
But still, I hate losing him for so long. I knew that our first few months together were unrealistically idyllic, and I didn’t expect to stay in the honeymoon phase forever. Nowadays, though, it feels like he’s always here, but never really here.
I can’t complain. He left his job at Risinger Industries for me, so this is all he has now. His brain will probably eat itself alive if he doesn’t keep on writing and spinning plots and Facebooking and mapping out plots in his notebooks. I chose to marry a writer; this is my fate.
Married.
Every time the word pops into my head, I smile a little.
I still play with the rings on my finger. I’m not sure how long it’ll take me to get used to wearing them, but for now, they’re still a novelty. Adrian seems to have adapted to his very well, like he’s been wearing it forever. Every once in a while, I notice it while he’s typing. It’ll catch the light, glinting, and remind me of how far we’ve come. We’re connected - we always have been, I think, and the marriage certificate and the rings and all the trappings of marriage are just the way we’ve chosen to let the world know about it.
That one’s mine.
It still makes me giddy, if I really think about it. Married. Married. Married to Adrian Risinger, the world’s worst boss, the world’s best lover, an absolutely gorgeous man who is actually proud to have me by his side.
Proud. Of me.
He holds my hand, winds his arm around my waist, kisses me, in public. He brings me to formal dinners and charity auctions, and just stands by, grinning, while I ask famous designers why they don’t have a plus-size line. After a few glasses of champagne, I’m ready to take on anyone. I’m not sure which one of us enjoys it more, but one of these days, I figure I might actually get through to one of their thick skulls, and actually be able to buy something decent off the rack for once in my life. Either way, it’s good for entertainment.
These days I look in the mirror and I see something different. I’m still me - but I no longer feel like a project. My thighs touch because they want to. The fading marks on my stomach are battle-scars from a war against myself, that I should have stopped fighting long ago. For once, I am no longer being encouraged to shrink, to make room for everyone and everything else. I’m taking my place in the world. Although my body’s grown a little stronger, a little leaner, now that I actually have the time and energy for self-care, I’m growing in another way entirely. My mind and heart are expanding to fill the role of Adrian Risinger’s wife, his lifelong partner, his support system, everything he needs. I had years of practice, and I feel well equipped for the job.
Or at least, I used to. These days, the deeper he retreats into his writing cave, the more I start to feel slightly helpless. There’s nothing I can really do for him, except make sure that he stays hydrated and eats occasionally and takes a shower from time to time. It’s not that different from crunch time at the old office, except I now have a lot more weapons in my arsenal to make him relax.
Hmm. Maybe I can convince him to come to bed, after all.
I get up, and retrieve one of his dress shirts from the back of a chair. I think he just wore it recently for a couple of hours when an old business contact wanted to meet up for lunch, but it smells like him. I can fasten exactly one button, just barely, around my waist - but that’s just right for the desired effect.
I follow the glow from his office down the hall, until I reach the doorway. He’s just staring at the screen again, eyes scanning over the words he just typed, trying to figure out how to continue.
“Ryn?” I say, softly.
He makes a small noise of acknowledgment.
“You need to sleep.” I come up behind him, laying my hand on his shoulder. “Come to bed, babe.”
He lets out a heavy sigh. “I’m not tired,” he insists.
Right.
“Come on.” I rest my chin on the top of his head, letting my arms drape over him. “It’s lonely in there.”
His gaze wanders to my
arms, draped in his sleeves, comically over-long on me. “Is that my shirt?”
“Nah, some other guy’s.”
“Smart ass.” He reaches for my hand. “I’m sorry I’ve been…you know. Lost in my own world lately.”
“Just lately?” I snicker. “It’s fine, I just…it’d be nice if you touched down to earth every once in a while.”
“I know,” he says. “Once this book’s finished, I’ll be back to normal. Normal-ish. But tonight, I really have to finish this. I’ve been putting it off forever.”
He can probably feel my whole body sag with disappointment.
“Tomorrow,” he promises. “After dinner. Get ready to apologize to your boss for your inappropriately revealing work outfit.”
“Inappropriately revealing, huh?” I repeat, smiling. It doesn’t quite make up for going back to an empty bed tonight, but it’s close. “I think I might be able to dig something up.”
“Good girl.” He leans forward, and I pull myself upright. “Now, get yourself back to bed. You need to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for work in the morning. All those stray cats aren’t going to save themselves.”
Well, he’s right about that. I’ve been putting in longer and longer hours at the animal shelter since I was laid off from my last job, the one I took after he fired me. It’s still just a volunteer basis, but Shelly, the owner, has been talking about retiring for years. I have no idea if she’s actually going to do it, but if she does, I have a feeling I’m next in line.
It’s rewarding work, but draining. We have more volunteers than ever now, and the place is thriving, but on quieter days, I find myself starting to get overwhelmed with the futility of it all. For every box full of mewling kittens someone brings in to us, found in a parking lot or under a bridge, there are dozens more that nobody ever finds. When I used to volunteer just a few hours a week, it really felt like I was doing good work and making a difference. Now that I see how much goes on behind the scenes, all I can think about is how much I’m not doing.
Sighing, I punch my pillow a little to try and make it a little more comfortable. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the pillow. I’m just in a bad mood, and it’s making everything feel like a bed of nails.
Oh well - tomorrow ought to fix it.
Three Years Ago
"So just quit." Lacey pokes the cherry in the bottom of her glass with a swizzle stick. "You'll find another job before your savings run out."
"Savings?" I repeat. "Are you kidding me? I haven't even paid off my student loans."
She gives me a sympathetic look. Sometimes, I really hate Lacey. But she always pays for drinks, and she can be pretty fun when she's not scolding me for my financial irresponsibility.
"Seriously, though," she says. "At least start applying. You're definitely never going to get out from under him unless you find another job." She snorts a little. "Sorry. Freudian slip."
"Yeah, right." I throw back the rest of my vodka tonic. It's disgusting, but at least it's relatively low-carb. Not that it matters. I could eat nothing but lettuce for a year, and I still wouldn't be Mr. Risinger's type.
Not that it matters. I mean, maybe he’d treat me better if he wanted to fuck me. I doubt it, but I suppose anything’s possible. But Lacey's giving me some kind of look like she thinks she's got it all figured out, and that irks me.
“I’m not sleeping with him,” I point out.
“Why the hell not?” Lacey grins. “He’s hot.”
“How do you know?” I demand.
“I can tell by the way you talk about him that he’s hot. You get all flushed.”
“I’m drinking.” Of course, if I wasn’t blushing before, I’m definitely blushing now.
“You’ve always drinking. You only get flushed when you talk about him.” She grins at me, meaningfully.
“I’m not ‘always drinking,’” I protest.
“You are when we hang out.”
“Yeah, well.” I gesture to the bartender. “Actually, as it happens, you’re wrong. He’s a complete troll.”
“And you are a terrible liar.” Lacey fiddles with her straw. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter. You have to work out that frustration somehow. I bet he’d be game for it.”
That one just makes me laugh. “Right. He’s a fucking billionaire, I’m sure he’s really interested in somebody like me.”
“You never know.” She shrugs. “Could give it a shot, if you weren’t so scared.”
“You first,” I tell her. “Seriously. I’d rather die. That’s not hyperbole.”
I take another sip of my drink.
“Ms. Burns,” comes a voice from behind me.
I almost choke. Turning around slowly, even though I already know who it is, I breathe a silent prayer that he heard exactly none of the conversation I was just having.
“Mr. Risinger?” I reply, tightly, as Lacey starts to snicker uncontrollably.
He produces something from his pocket, then sets it down on the bar with a soft click. “You left this on your desk,” he says. He’s not smiling at me, but he’s not frowning, either. I can’t really read his expression, which is much more unnerving than obvious anger or mockery.
I look down at the bar, and see my ID badge sitting there.
“Oh. Uh…” I glance back up at him. “Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t mention it.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I was passing by. Steve said it’s your favorite watering hole for Friday nights.”
Et tu, Steve?
Oh, well. He probably revealed it under duress. Mr. Risinger can be pretty good at getting information out of people, when he throws his weight around. But the real question is, why’d he feel the need to bring it here himself? I don’t believe for a second he was just “passing by.” Not in this neighborhood.
He’s not scolding me for being careless, although maybe that’s supposed to be implied. I can’t possibly tell. He’s still just standing there, kind of glancing around him, like he wants to say something but he’s not sure how to put it into words. Which is crazy, of course. He’s Adrian Goddamn Risinger, he’s never at a loss for the right words.
“Well,” he says, finally. “I’d buy you a drink, but it looks like you already have company.”
“Hi,” says Lacey, with a little wave. She can’t stop grinning. “Nice to meet you, finally.”
Shut up, shut up, shut UP.
“Have a good night,” says Mr. Risinger, nodding at each of us. “Ladies.”
“Well, that was weird,” I mutter into my drink as he disappears. Lacey can no longer contain herself, and she bursts out laughing.
“The only thing weird about that is why he hasn’t managed to stick it in you yet,” she howls. “Oh my God, did you see him? Did you see his face? He was totally hoping you were going to be all sad and alone and vulnerable and he could just come in and sweep you off your feet. I know that look when I see it. Every single one of my ex-boyfriends has pulled that shit at some point.”
It takes all my self-control not to throw my drink at her. “Are you for real? Why don’t you go write some fanfiction about it? Christ.”
Lacey just shrugs. “I just call it like I see it. That man wants to put every part of his body on your body. He probably stole your badge when you weren’t looking so he’d have an excuse to stalk you. He is dying of thirst, Meg. I swear to God.”
“You’re drunk,” I tell her.
“Yes, but perceptive.” She spins around on her stool. “Hey. Hey - BARTENDER!”
She’s full of shit, obviously. But still, it is strange. Why would he bother to track me down? What’s his game?
I’ll probably never know, because I’m certainly not going to ask.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ADRIAN
Oh, fuck. Fuck. Fuck me.
There are times in my life when I still like to pretend I'm in control. That I actually have something like free will at my disposal. That I am not, in fact, ruled by a woman who just needs t
o quirk her eyebrow a certain way to bring me to my knees.
It's not going well at the moment.
She's wearing black stockings, held up by just a hint of garters that I can see under her skirt. Her skirt would be somewhat office-appropriate on certain types of women, but on her, it's basically indecent. I understand it's a very real social problem that some women's bodies are considered, by nature, to be more sexually charged than others in the exact same outfits, but fucked if it doesn't also give me a hard-on that could be tracked via satellite.
Her blouse is crisp white, innocent, tiny and midriff-baring. And I realize that's still a struggle for her, accepting that I love the parts of her body that she finds imperfect.
"Come here," I tell her, softly. "I'm not going to fire you, Ms. Burns."
She lets out a shaky sigh. "Thank you, sir. I'll just...I'll just go home and change."
"No." I shake my head, gesturing her closer. "There's no time for that today, Meghan. I'm afraid you'll just have to work the rest of the day dressed like that. But before you do, I need you to take care of a serious problem."
She swallows hard. "What's that, sir?"
I snap my fingers. "Kneel."
"Um..." She stares at the carpet between my feet, where I'm pointing. Pretending she hasn't done this a thousand times. "Sir?"
"You heard me." I lock eyes with her and we're both trying hard not to smile. "You've made a grave error in judgment, my dear, and now you need to deal with the consequences."
"Error in judgment?" she whispers, taking a hesitant step closer.
I smirk. I can't help it, but at least it sort of fits. "Did you really think you could get away with wearing something like that? Are you trying to get my attention, Ms. Burns? Am I neglecting you? Don't you get your cost of living increases? Haven't you been properly recognized for your contributions to this company? Or is it something else you're after?"
I lean forward, slightly, as she draws close. I want to grab her and kiss her but it's not right for this game. "Well, you wanted my attention. You've got it now." Casually, I let my hand drop to my lap, lightly gripping the outline of my erection through my pants. "You see?"
His Secretary: Undone and Unveiled (The Complete Series Collection) Page 34