by Emily Snow
"I'd planned to apply at the avionics company my uncle used to work for, but then I came into a large inheritance. Rather than blow my load on a bunch of meaningless shit, I decided to set my sights on more ... interesting pursuits.”
While I’m speaking, her eyes glaze over, and I smirk because I can pinpoint the exact moment her thoughts went south—right when I brought up that I’m good with my hands. She’s imagining them now. In her hair. Ripping away her clothes. On her tits, plumping, stroking, teasing. I’m picturing it too, and I hate that because it means one thing:
I can’t hire Lucy Williams because, while I don’t involve myself with married women, I sure as hell don’t screw my employees. The fling with Michaela ended in disaster, and I’m not prepared to go for round two. Not even with someone as delectable as the woman sitting in front of me.
"Your work is incredible," she blurts out. She rips her stare from my hands behind my head, a delicious pink glow spreading over her soft skin as she looks me in the eye. "I've always wished I was artistic, but I can barely draw a stick figure with even lines."
"You've seen my work?" And she still came to this interview? Am I in the Twilight Zone? She moves her head up and down at my question. Uncrosses her ankles and crosses her legs once more. Christ, there’s that thigh again. If she does that one more time, it’s going to be my undoing.
"I saw the clock on Daisy's desk. It's stunning."
"Ah," I murmur, holding back a laugh as I challenge her gaze. Lucy Williams, with all her research and careful planning, doesn’t know a single thing about my company. I should be offended. Should tell her to get the fuck out of my office. I’m not, and I don’t. "Well, call me a cocky motherfucker for saying this, but the rest is much, much better."
She moves her tongue from side to side between her teeth, and I zero in on her mouth again. This time, I don’t look back up. I love how her voice hitches uncomfortably when she says, "There's nothing wrong with being cocky when you're talented."
"Then good on me for being cocky and right."
"I can only imagine," she starts, slightly out of breath. "I can only imagine how incredible the rest of your work is. How long have you been set up here?"
"Going on three years. I started with five employees, but I had to fire Michaela.” I run my hand over my mouth and lift my shoulders. “This past year has been good to us—really good, to be honest. We’ve been making waves."
She keeps her face neutral, but I can tell she has something smartass to say. Do your worst, love. "You’ve been making waves, but you want more.”
"Isn't that the American dream? More. Better. Bigger?"
She shivers and glances away from me for a second to gather her thoughts. "More, better, and bigger is the human dream, Mr. Exley."
"Jace,” I correct. I want to hear her say my name. Need to hear her say it.
"Sorry, it's a habit."
"One I'd quickly break if you were with me."
“Right,” she whispers. Her movements are short and jerky as she opens her portfolio, and I know I’ve gotten under her skin. I’ve been there before, but I’ve never enjoyed it this much. Never wanted to see how much deeper I can push. I’ve also never had my dick react to her so quickly. She passes a stack of papers across my desk, keeping her fingertips at the edges, so she won’t have to touch me. I accept her letters of recommendation, unleashing a harsh laugh because she snatches her fingers away.
"Germaphobe?" I demand. I was counting on touching her. To see if her skin’s as soft as it looks. "Might not go over well around here, Williams."
She juts her narrow chin out defensively. "I can promise you I'll fit in just right. Even though I've never worked for a company quite like yours, I—"
"If you don't know what you're selling, why the fuck did you apply?" My crass response echoes through her body, and she releases an angry shudder from her nose. "Well, Williams? Or should I call you"—I cast my eyes down to her resume—"Duncan?"
The color drains from her face. "No … it’s Williams now."
I wish I could enjoy learning that—that she’s no longer married—but I don’t. I’m not sorry nearly as often as I should be, but I feel like a rat bastard for goading her, and her hurt expression shoots a sharp wedge right through my chest.
I don’t like that she’s made me feel any more than I enjoy being attracted to her.
"All right, Williams,” I say, softening my voice. “Why did you apply if you don't know what you're doing?”
"Because I know how to get things sold, and that’s all that counts. At WLC, I marketed everything from electronics to toys.”
The ghost of a smile hovers over my lips. "Toys, huh?"
"Yes, you know the playthings parents purchase for their children." My shoulders shake with silent laughter, and she gives me a confused frown. Fuck, if she only knew. I motion for her to continue, so she takes a deep breath. "Most recently I did branding and spearheaded the launch of an organic coffee company."
"Java-Org," I read from her resume, my brow tugging together because I recognize the name of the company. If it’s the same one I’m thinking of, it’s no wonder she quit. Their coffee is rubbish. "Daisy's ordered their stuff a time or two—the coffee that comes in the green tins, yes?"
"That's the one." She beams with pride, so I swallow the insult I was prepared to hurl at the liquid shit Daisy forced on my unsuspecting employees and myself. "It's been incredibly successful. That's why there's no doubt in my mind I can make your business even better if you let me. For starters, we'd get you a functional website. Not having one is hurting you."
I ponder that for a moment, tapping my fingers to my chin, before I ask, "Why did you leave? If it’s so successful, why would you leave?"
She looks like I’ve just shit on all her hopes and dreams as she peers down at her hands in her lap. "The owner and I had a falling out that couldn't be resolved.”
I imagined she’d say she wanted a change of scenery. Or that she’d tasted her own product and decided to stop peddling shit. I never expected her to admit she couldn’t get along with her employer.
She’s full of surprises today.
"So if I were to hire you, and I pissed you off—and I can almost guarantee I will because I've been told I can be a tosser—"
"A tosser," she interrupts.
"An asshole." I roll my eyes. She knows exactly what I mean because she called me that once, and I responded with a comment that made her flush all over. Just like she’s doing now. "For fuck’s sake, Williams, as I was saying, when shit hits the fan, are you just going to walk out on me too?"
"No.” She doesn’t hesitate to add, "It's a completely different situation."
“And what makes it so different?” My snide undertone gets to her because she jolts to the edge of her seat, her nostrils flaring as she grips the edges my desk.
"For starters, you are not my husband."
Ah, hell. I watch her, studying the harsh angles of her expression and half-expecting her to cry. She’s pissed me off more times than I can count, but I don’t want to see her in tears. My mum cried so much over my prick of a father when I was young that the sight of a woman sobbing still makes me feel helpless.
“And you're not cheating on me with someone we work with. So, with all due respect, I'd say our situation is very, very different."
For a moment, she looks stunned. Like she can’t believe she’s told me so much. Then her shoulders sag, and she squeezes her eyelids together. "I’m so sorry,” she gasps. “That was unprofessional, and it was too much information that—"
"Don't." She starts to speak again, so I interrupt her, holding my hand up. I don’t want her to make excuses for leaving her husband. "I mean it, don't apologize. I'd rather you be honest than give me some smiling, happy-go-lucky shit you’re pulling out of your arse about wanting to try something new. You left because your husband is a miserable piece of shit. That I can understand. And just so you understand, there’s no such thing as TMI.�
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Her hazel eyes fly open. Breathing deeply, she trails her fingers from my desk and returns them to her lap. "Tom is definitely … a piece of work.” Her voice is soft, almost a whisper. “And you're wrong. There is most certainly such a thing as TMI."
"Not in this building there isn’t,” I counter. “Working here, that's all you'll get."
She rakes her teeth over her bottom lip. "Are you telling me I got the job?"
Now that she’s told me Duncan is no longer in the equation, there’s nothing I want more than to hire her so I can make her blush and stutter all day long without the presence of a guilty conscience. That’s also why I can’t give her the job. No fucking the employees, and Lucy Williams is two hundred percent fuckable.
"No, I’m not. I’m just giving you the facts, Williams."
“Oh. I see…”
I walk around my desk, noticing that she can’t take her eyes off me when I sit on the edge. "Let’s say I do offer you the position." I stretch my legs out in front of me, the toe of my boot nudging the leg of her chair. “When can you start?”
She starts to answer, but she hesitates and thinks for a moment. "I can start a week from now, on next Monday.” It’s another lie because she’s got that wild look in her eyes, the kind that only comes from desperation. She can start now, and I wonder what the hell had gone so wrong to make someone like Lucy Williams this hard up.
"Perfect." I push up from the desk and gaze down at her, my mouth turning down as I take in her expression. I can’t hire her. Hiring her will be bad for business—bad for my cock and state of mind—but Christ, she looks beautiful staring up at me with wide, hopeful eyes. "Thank you for coming today, Williams—”
"Lucy." She frowns. I’d like to kiss it away—just to see if she tastes as incredible as she smells. "If I'm supposed to call you Jace, please feel free to call me Lucy."
"I prefer Williams," I say. She bobs her head obediently, and my fingers spasm because I want to trail them through the black hair swinging around her breasts. "I've got a few more interviews between today and tomorrow, but I'll make my choice by Thursday."
"That sounds great. I'll look forward to hearing from you." She’s so shaky that when she stands up, she almost collides into me. I could get used to the scent pouring off her body. My sheets could get used to it. More reasons why I can’t hire Lucy. "Thank you for the opportunity, Jace."
I offer her my hand. “Pleasures all mine, Williams.” She looks down at the Roman numeral tattoos on my knuckles for so long, I finally groan and pull her hand in mine. She’s soft. Soft and silky, and she does awful, delicious things to my cock when her breath catches.
How many times have I thought about touching this woman?
How many times have I wondered what her fingers would feel like wrapped around me, stroking and squeezing until I reach the point of no return?
Too many, and now that we’re skin to skin, it’s a sin this is the first time I’ve touched her.
"I'll let you know my decision by Thursday.” Pulling away, I flex my fingers then shove them into my front pockets, so I won’t reach out to her again. For a moment, we stand in complete silence—Lucy with her eyes lowered to the floor and me with my face furrowed into a deep scowl. The second she looks back up, I flash my eyes to the door. The sooner I get her out of here, the better. “Ring Daisy if you have any questions.”
She blinks, but then takes a step away from me, swaying slightly in her high heels. "I will, thank you." Grabbing her purse and folder, she walks to the doorway, her shoulders sagging. "And if you need anything from me, please feel free to call or email."
I give her a half-smile. "I will, Williams."
I watch her leave, and I can’t stop staring at her ass. I shouldn’t hire her. She’s a distraction. She doesn’t know a fucking thing about what we do here, and if she did, she wouldn’t have strutted in my office talking about clocks and other bullshit. She’s a know-it-all. One that will claw her way under my skin faster than any woman I’ve ever met. It was her bitchy comment ten years ago that put me on this path to begin with, and I’ve never forgotten it.
That last thought makes me pause.
I was never the brightest in our class, but Lucy’s comment and smug little grin at graduation had given me the kick in the arse I needed.
Maybe I should return the favor.
At the very least I can call her references.
And if I do hire her, she won’t last a day, and my problem will solve itself.
THREE
LUCY
I wish I could say I'm surprised, but when the week creeps to a close, the only job-related calls I've gotten are from Tom, who continues to chide me about leaving San Francisco. It royally sucks to scratch yet another opportunity off my list, but like Jamie always says, it is what it is. I'm disappointed—my mother was so hopeful after I came home Monday night and let her know EXtreme Effects wasn't some crazy Craigslist sex scheme and that I knew the owner from school—but I feign nonchalance whenever she asks if Jace has called.
"You'll hear from him today," she's assured me several times, her voice still brimming with confidence whenever I say he hasn't gotten in touch with me.
And every time, I smile and hunch my shoulders, feeling a little more like a failure. A little closer to becoming a Bingo-playing cat lady. "Maybe. If not, it's probably for the best."
I don't tell her how I'd started off the interview wrong when he told me I looked well. I mean, how the hell does one respond to that?
You were a dick in school, but I like your beard—love it, in fact.
Your flannel shirt and muscles and tattoos make my mouth go dry. Do you happen to have water to help with that?
Jesus H. Christ, you grew up beautifully. Epically.
I also don’t let Mom know that I’d said things that are too personal, too painful, to mention to many of my friends, much less to the man dangling a job over my head. And I certainly don't admit that, when I say Jace's silence is for the best, I'm being honest. Multiple times I've found my fingers wandering over the hand he held in his, skimming the path his calloused, Roman numeral-tattooed fingers made as he pulled away. It's not the same effect—not even close—but it leaves me lightheaded nonetheless.
By the time I meet Jamie in Boston for drinks on Friday night, I'm agitated. Not with Jace but with myself for thinking of him too many times and checking my phone every five minutes. For wiggling into this shitstorm.
"You've been nursing that thing for at least half an hour, woman." My best friend's melodic voice snaps me out of my thoughts. I look up from swirling my cocktail straw around my mojito and checking my phone for the eleventy-billionth time. Jamie’s brown eyes are pinched into a scowl. "Are you all right?"
"Job woes." I hit the home button on my phone again, just in case, but I have zero new notifications—nothing from Snapchat or Facebook, and certainly not any missed calls or texts. Christ, I’ve fallen so far that I don’t even have new Candy Crush updates. "This week has been total shit."
"Don't even get me started," she mutters. "One of my patients took a dump on me this afternoon."
I’m floored at the stars in her eyes and the silly grin playing at the corners of her mouth. "You know, most people don't smile when they talk about literally getting shit on."
“He was cute.” She shrugs. “It didn't take much to forgive him."
"The baby fever is strong with you," I say wryly. She toasts to my sarcasm and tosses back her shot of tequila, her curly bun flopping backwards then forwards. She'd apologized for what she called her "messy-just-left-the-hospital-and-got-dressed-in-a-car" appearance the moment she swept into the bar, but with her flawless golden brown complexion, long-lashed dark eyes, and pouty lips, Jamie makes disheveled look effortlessly beautiful.
"You know, I keep telling myself I'll meet Mr. Right soon." She eye humps a man in a business suit in the wide mirror behind the bar as he passes by. When she’s no longer able to ogle his reflection, she twists i
n her seat to stare, her brows curving in appreciation. "And as soon as that ring is on my finger, we'll get down to the baby making. Lots of it."
"Then we'll be here, and you'll cry about how two or three babies whizzed on you." And knowing my luck, I'll probably still be jobless. Because Tom's an ass that refuses to let me move along for some reason that blows my mind. He doesn’t even want me, so why keep going out of his way to make things so difficult?
"Did you know you're more likely to have multiples after thirty?" Jamie grabs an olive from the tiny cup the bartender had brought for her and pops it in her mouth. I make a face, wondering how she can eat the damn things like they’re candy. “Hormone levels increase and all that good stuff.”
“Scouring medical journals again, Nurse Armstrong?” She nods, and I resume stirring my drink. "You know you’re not thirty yet, right?"
"But I'm getting there. Quickly. Two more years to go and if I'm lucky, I'll have twins." She signals the bartender by lifting her empty glass and one finger. He nods and winks, and it’s apparent she’ll get the next shot and a cup of olives on the house. "Two birds with one stone, you know?"
"Sounds like something I've heard your mom say about you and Bella."
"Where do you think I got the idea from? If you bring up the subject of kids to Bells, on the other hand, she breaks out in hives. Literally, hives all over the place. She told Mom and Dad the only grandkids they're getting will spring from my lady parts. Dad wasn't impressed because she said vagina—and you know how he is about that word—but my mom said she'd come around."
I snort. "No, she won't."
"I know, right?" She cups her hand around my glass, probably checking to see if my drink has gotten warm from all my stirring, then drums her fingertips on the counter. "I told Mom she's got the wrong twin in mind because Bella's stubborn as hell. She avoids the maternity ward and the nursery like they’re the home base for the zombie apocalypse.”