by Emily Snow
It's not fun having my life so far off-track.
It's just over an hour drive from the bungalow I share with my mother in Worcester to EXtreme Effects in East Boston, so I leave two hours early. I’m still flustered by the texts Tom sent—and I’ll likely spend the rest of the day on edge because hearing from him has such a crushing effect on my psyche—but I concentrate on what I can control. Like I told Mom, the firms I've applied at so far haven't been beating down my door, and I need this interview to go off without a hitch.
Desperately.
The GPS announces that I've arrived at my destination, and I pull my Jeep up to the curb, twisting around in my seat to get a better look at the building as I put my car into park. My lips drag into a deep frown. Compared to WLC's ten-story building in downtown San Francisco or the chic South of Market office space Tom and his business partner leased for Java-Org, the tan structure before me looks more like an oversized garage. Knowing my luck, the person interviewing me will probably have a dip-chewing obsession and coveralls that haven’t been changed in the last week.
The moment that thought crosses my mind, my scalp prickles with shame. I bury my face in my hands and groan into my palms before shoving my hair away from warm cheeks. “Don’t be an elitist bitch,” I tell myself harshly. “Don’t you dare be that way.”
As I approach the building with my purse and portfolio in hand, the first waves of nausea slam into the pit of my stomach. I'm good at what I do, but I've always struggled with getting my foot in the door. I had stressed about my college admission interviews so much my easy-going father confiscated my laptop and copy of Selling Your Skill Set for Dummies just to force me to relax. Dad’s advice before my appointment at Brown, and even when I called him freaking out over the WLC position the year before he died, is still fresh in my mind.
Kick some ass, Lucinda Jane.
Clutching my pepper spray keychain in one hand, I step out of the early January chill and into the warm confines of the company I found on Craigslist. The one I know absolutely nothing about because they have zero web presence, and I only applied to because the sixty thousand dollars a year salary was music to my broke ears.
The part of the building I'm standing in is small—a ten by ten space with filing cabinets lining one side of the wall and a few chairs against the other. A leggy brunette sits in the seat closest to the blue steel door on the far side of the room, flipping through her own portfolio and occasionally sneaking glances at the intricately designed metal clock on the receptionist's desk.
I confidently approach the desk, and the heavily tattooed woman behind it lifts a pair of startling light green eyes from the screen of her tablet. "Let me guess, Client." She rolls her chair backward a few inches, and I try not to stare at her t-shirt that says Fucking Classy. After a few seconds, I open my mouth to correct her, but then she shakes her head and muses, "Ahh, interview."
God, I hope I wasn't ogling her shirt too hard.
"Yes, I'm Lucy Williams-Duncan. I was contacted by Daisy about coming in at two for the marketing position."
“I’m Daisy." Her lips quirk, and she scratches a stylus through her platinum pixie cut as she skims her gaze over my golden yellow peplum dress. "And you, Sunshine, are early."
"A bad habit."
"One I should probably pick up before Mr. E has me sending out invites to fill my own job.” She points to the two empty chairs next to the brunette. "There’s a one-thirty before you, so it might be awhile.”
Before I leave her desk, I tap my fingertip against the face of the clock, shivering at the hard, cold texture. "This is beautiful."
She beams. "We made that here."
Slightly more at ease, I drop my keys into the side pocket of my purse before leaning down to examine the clock more closely. "Ahh, so you design clocks?" I’m already imagining all the aspects of selling pieces like this, and I'm an eighth of the way into a detailed marketing plan when Daisy clears her throat. She blinks up at me.
Several times.
“Yeah … clocks.” Her lips part, but then she crinkles her small nose and drums her stylus against the quote tattooed on the side of her neck. "Among other fun things. Go ahead and have a seat, I’ll let you know when he’s ready to speak with you.”
While I wait to meet the elusive Mr. E, I review my documents. I'm in the middle of re-reading my recommendation letter from the internship I completed before I graduated with my MBA from Stanford, when Daisy sings out my name in a clear alto. I peer up from my portfolio to find her grinning broadly.
"The other chick's interview ended early, so he's ready to brighten your day with his … sunny awesomeness."
I can't tell if she's being serious, so I simply nod. Holding my leather binder to my chest, I brush my other hand down the front of my yellow dress, smoothing the wrinkles out of the woven fabric. "Thanks, should I—"
She points over her shoulder, to the blue door behind her desk. "Go through there and take a left. He's in the office at the end of the walkway. And watch out for metal on the floor. It's a mess back there!"
Thankfully, the metal disaster seems to be contained in the workshop on the other side of the walkway, where two men in welding masks are working, the sound of The Weeknd’s “The Hills” booming from an overhead sound system as sparks fly around them. I reach E’s door and draw in a sharp breath to calm my nerves before I knock softly. Although it’s already half-open, Mom got on my case so many times about bursting into rooms unannounced when I was a child that knocking first is a habit now.
"Come in, Ms. Duncan."
My toes curl inside of my lucky pumps. That voice, with its long vowels and clipped consonants, is just a bit breathtaking. I’ve always been a big fan of accents. I grew up with a Vietnamese mother and a father from Mississippi, and the voice on the other side of that door deeply satisfies my auditory fixation. It's Americanized, that's for sure, but there's a British undertone there.
I wonder if the face and body attached to a voice like that does it justice.
“Miss Duncan?” he repeats, sounding a touch irritated. “You’re wasting your time and mine just standing out there.”
I square my shoulders and press forward.
And my heart immediately slams into my throat.
The man behind the metal desk is looking at his laptop screen, his eyes narrowed and his lips worked into a concentrated frown. I can only see him from the waist up, but I quickly hate my body's reaction to the blue flannel shirt shoved up to his elbows and the unruly chocolate brown hair and stubble.
"Give me just a second, I’m going to—" Lifting blue eyes from the screen, his deep voice catches. He stares at me for an awkward pause, stunned. Rubbing long fingers tattooed with Roman numerals over his chin, he inclines his head to one side. I hold my breath, praying and hoping and wishing for a miracle that’s clearly not going to happen because his scowl transforms into a grin.
He knows me.
He remembers me, and my heart sinks from my windpipe, inch by inch, as I realize another interview has just bit the dust.
Here’s the thing about most overachievers, even those who’ve fallen from their high perch: they all have that one person. The one who made their high school existence a little more stressful. That one person who was, despite his constant asshole-isms, the object of her secret fantasies. That one person who was the opposite of everything she aspired to become because he gave zero shits.
I was twelve the first time I laid eyes on my person.
It's sad that I remember the moment clearly, but in my defense, he came to our class toward the end of the school year, and I'd just celebrated my birthday three days before his late May arrival. We had the same homeroom teacher, Mr. Collins who taught Social Science, and as they talked at the front of the classroom, I was entranced by his soft, chopped accent and the way he combed one hand through his dark hair.
He's doing that now, only he’s not speaking.
The last time I saw the man in front of me w
as ten years ago. He had complained that my salutatorian speech was "too fucking long" and that he had parties to get to and vaginas that needed his undivided attention. I had responded boldly, telling him that I'd see him at our reunion—if he could put down his bong and whoever he was banging long enough to make it.
And now, I'm standing smack dab in front of Jace Exley, asking for him to give me a job.
Heat pulses down my spine as he flicks his steely blue gaze over me, raking in all five foot six inches—five foot nine with the heels. I've filled out since the last time we saw each other. I have hips and breasts and a butt now, and I nixed the short black bob that made me look older than my mother years ago.
Still, for a moment, I feel like the flat-chested girl who wanted to punch him in his stupidly rugged face every time he said, "pull the stick out of your arse, Williams."
"Lucy Williams." Jace steeples his fingers over his mouth and leans back, giving the impression of a man used to getting his way. To be honest, I have no doubt that’s just what he is. "Never thought I'd see you again, and I sure as fuck didn't think you'd walk through my door, but please ... sit down.”
TWO
JACE EXLEY
I didn’t think I’d ever see her again.
Lucy Williams.
No, Lucy Duncan.
She’s married now. It was bound to happen. Even with her smartass mouth and know-it-all attitude, she was always a stunner, but goddamn, the years have been good to her. I let my eyes travel over her body, slowly, because I don’t give a fuck if she notices.
I start at her legs.
Whenever she used to ride my ass—she was good at that, good at pissing me off—I imagined wrapping them around my waist and riding her. Those legs are longer than I remember, leading up to full hips that make my fingers twitch to grasp them and a tiny waist I’d like to clutch too. Her tits are still perky, perfect, but she’s not hiding them under one of those baggy ass sweaters she was so fond of. That yellow dress leaves little to my imagination, and her breasts strain against the fabric with silky black hair falling over them.
I have a thing for long hair—the more there is, the better because I like having something to hold on to—and between that and her hips, Lucy Williams-fucking-Duncan has plenty to grip.
It’s a shame another man’s digging his fingers into her hair, tilting her head back until her long lashes flutter over round hazel eyes. Making her lips part just enough for her to say, “More,” before he ruins that sweet pink gloss of hers with his tongue and cock.
Clearing my throat, I lower my fingers from my mouth, gesturing them to the empty seat across from mine. “Sit down,” I repeat in a voice that’s gone rough from the images in my head.
“Yes … okay.”
Her legs are wobbly as she perches her ass on the edge of the chair in front of my desk. I want her to look at me, want to see her skin light up beneath my attention, but she doesn’t. She traces her gaze over the monogrammed letters—LJD—on the edge of her leather folder like it’s the first time she’s ever seen her own initials.
That’s fine with me. I’ll make her look up sooner or later.
"It's been a long time." She sucks in her flushed cheeks at the mockery lacing my tone. I wonder if she remembers the last time we saw each other. She must because she just blinks and sways slightly in her seat. “You look … well.”
Hell, she looks better than well. With legs that go on for days and tits that were made to touch, she’s the sexiest thing that’s ever stepped into this building. Breathing her in is torture because she smells like warmth. Warmth, vanilla, and a hard, noisy fuck.
I bet she’d taste just as good as her scent.
My cock twitches at the thought, and I groan at the effect the presence of this woman has on my little brain. I don’t have a hard time getting soft curves and sweet scents into my bed—well, their bed because I don’t like to take women back to my place, don’t like the sense of attachment it gives them—but I have rules. I don’t do married women. I never have, and it’s not a trend I plan to pursue. That was my father’s MO, and although I never formally met him, I decided long ago that his drive for success is the only inherited trait I want from the git.
I gaze across the desk at Lucy, wondering when she’ll speak. “Ms. Williams?”
Startling at the sound of my voice, she darts her eyes from side to side. I bet she’s trying to come up with something witty. She was so quick to run her mouth in school I’m disappointed it’s taking her so long to get on with it. “Thanks,” she says carefully. “It's good to see you again Jace—I apologize—Mr. Exley."
Fuck me running, she’s lost that touch of smart aleck that made her so aggravatingly endearing.
“You had it right the first time.” Closing my laptop, I shift around in my chair, and the chuckle I release bows her tight body forward. "There’s no need to call me Mr. Exley.”
“You’re interviewing me,” she whispers. “Of course I should call you that.”
I can’t deny that it’s deeply satisfying to see her lips wrap around those words since she’s the last person I ever expected to come to me for a job. I’d be a fool not to get some pleasure out of this. The last time she saw me, she’d all but written me off as “Most Likely to Knock Up Everything in Sight Between Prison Stints.”
Suppressing the harsh smile the memory draws from me, I shrug. “I’d prefer Jace. I can't be that much older than you. A year or so—"
"Two. I skipped a grade and you failed a year before you …” Trailing off when her eyes connect with mine, she flinches at how superior she just sounded. She squeezes her glossy lips together and nervously tucks her hair behind her ears. "I could be wrong, though. About the age thing.”
"I doubt you are." I fold my hands over the copy of her resume on my desk. She zeroes in on the tattoos on my fingers, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. I’ve thought about doing that a time or two—sucking on her lip. Her mouth always drove me insane and kissing it until she was speechless seemed like the only way to deal with her.
"Like I told you, I'd rather you call me Jace. After all, we were schoolmates and you’re interviewing for a job at my company. It’s what I want from you, understand?"
My voice breaks the spell my fingers have over her. She snaps her hazel eyes to mine. "Sure ... Jace."
"That's a good girl." She draws in a sharp gasp. It takes all my self-control not to grin because she’s probably never been called that—a good girl. I’m oddly proud to be the first one to do so. “So, marketing?”
"Yes, marketing."
"I would've pegged you as the medical sort." She was always good at science and math and had loved rubbing her A’s in my face. I had been more interested in burying my face in her A, but I’d never pursued more with her. Too uptight. Too untouchable. Too Lucy, even if she was hot. I stroke my chin with my thumb and forefinger then drop my hand to my desk. “You know, physician, scientist, evil pharmaceutical CEO—something like that.”
With her hand to her chest and scrunched expression, she looks offended. Good, let her be. “Marketing better suited me," she responds coolly. “I’m good at talking and promoting my work.”
“You always did enjoy moving that mouth, Williams.”
Instantly, she licks her lips. I can’t help it; I stare at the path her tongue makes, needing to see more. Just because her last name has changed over the last ten years doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the slope of her mouth or the way it opens to form a surprised O. Rubbing the hand on her chest up and down, from the curve of her breast to her collarbone, she exhales.
"I … marketing is why I enrolled in business school after I got my bachelors in sociology.” Her voice goes weak on the last few words, but she straightens her spine, jutting her tits out, and continues, “I found I had a knack for advertising after I promoted a play on campus.”
“What play?”
She swallows hard. Then feeds me a bullshit lie. “I don’t remember.”
I’d bet my business and savings it was The Vagina Monologues, but she’s too damn politically correct to say the dreaded V-word in an interview.
“Sure you don’t.” Rapping my fingertips lightly on my metal desk, I review her resume. She sits in silence, her expression more and more uncomfortable every time I glance up to look at her. Uncrossing her long legs, she gives me a glimpse of the inside of one creamy thigh, but she quickly crosses them again, this time at the ankles.
Yet another shame.
Thighs like hers—firm and soft that smell like the perfume that’s a fucking distraction—deserve attention, and I hope Duncan’s giving them plenty.
I tug at the collar of my flannel, forcing myself to look at her resume. Talking up her many achievements is the easiest way to avoid focusing on the path between her legs that makes me wonder what’s beneath that yellow dress.
"Bachelors from Brown in 2008, MBA from Stanford in 2010,” I read aloud. I lift my brows. Has she spent her entire life in college since we left school? “What Brainiac sorcery is this? We graduated in '06."
She stretches her plastered-on smile. "I did the dual enrollment program, so I came out of high school with my associates degree."
"Impressive."
"Thank you." It sounds more like a question than a statement. Her eyes dart around again, and then she bends forward, her tits pushing together just enough to reignite my reaction to her.
Fuck.
“This,” she starts, giving me the same confident look she used to give our teachers when she was sucking up. I brace myself for the Lucy Williams Experience. "Your business, that's impressive."
I bask in her compliment—because I’m a cocky arse who loves praise. Stretching back in my chair, I link my fingers behind my head. I’m sure she doesn’t give two shits about my history, but she’s in my business. She’s going to listen to what I’ve got to say. "I did the welding program at Middlesex. Nowhere near as illustrious as all this”—I nod down at her resume—“But I was always good with my hands, and I did well. I met all of my current employees while I was enrolled there.”