by Emily Snow
I square my shoulders. "You know what? There’s no doubt in my mind I will, so maybe I should say it now: Thank you, Mr. Exley, for always being the definition of professionalism." The sarcasm dripping from my voice sends Gwendolyn's light brows shooting straight up, but I pretend I don’t see that as I narrow my hazel eyes at the smirk he gives me. Right now, I could smack that look right off his gorgeous face and wouldn’t feel a tingle of remorse.
“Something else I excel at, love?”
“Hmm.” Oh yeah, I really am seconds away from decking this guy. I cast him a smile that feels like it cracks the corners of my lips. "I'll see you on Monday.”
While the rest of my weekend is tame, I still find myself thinking of Jace at every turn. He's there, occupying my thoughts when I pick at my breakfast the next morning, shoving my bagel from one side of the plate to the other with a butter knife. A sick, twisted part of myself can't help but wonder if he’d taken another woman home last night after he shot me down. Maybe Michaela or some other gorgeous creature he'd never have to see again since there are so many other bars he can grace with his perfect beard and cocky grin.
Would he be eating breakfast with her right now? Would he touch her again after they were through and taste her ... everywhere? Hell, if it’s Michaela, maybe they pulled out their welding torches to work on new sex machines before they went for round ninety.
I choke on my coffee, drawing a deep scowl from my mother who asks if I'm getting sick. I tell her I'm not, but she still suggests I take a Dayquil before I leave for the gym.
And then Jace is on my mind when I return home from doing the one thing that relaxes me. I’m covered in sweat from my workout but still just as tightly wound because I’d passed by the rack of weight-lifting belts and clips at the gym and had immediately thought of metal waist cinchers and the wicked blue gaze of the man who designs them. As I shower, trailing the soap between the hollow of my throat and between my breasts, I ask myself what would’ve happened if I had refused to accept his bullshit about trying hard not to act on his thoughts. If I had, maybe I wouldn't be alone in a shower right now, frustrated and seconds away from opening that drawer of playthings, as he had called it.
"Fuck," I whisper aloud. "Fuck you so hard, Jace Exley, for making me feel like ... this."
I finish my shower quickly, and when my eyes settle on my nightstand drawer as I search for something to wear, I release another aggravated breath. Then, I curse Jace again just for good measure and turn my back to the set of drawers.
I can still see it in my dresser mirror, though.
Shit.
Once I'm dressed in a ratty old sweatshirt and a pair of leggings with a bleach stain on the right thigh, I find my mother in the laundry room. She's carefully sorting through the clothes like she did when I was a kid--she has a strict system where she only washes the same color together, and she still gives me a hard time about my own three load method: permanent press, gym clothes, and pale colors.
"Do you still want to work on the attic today?" I ask, leaning against the doorway and watching her check the pockets of her jeans for any loose change or tissues. When she finds neither, because she always empties her pockets before she dumps her clothing in the bathroom hamper, she shakes the denim vigorously and tosses it in the washer.
"Only until four or five. I have dinner reservations tonight, and I'm leaving at six." I wait for her usual invitation—her you should come with me, Lucinda Jane, so you won't be lonely—but that doesn't happen. I cup my elbow and tap my fingertip against the center of my lips. Mom blanches. "Why are you looking at me like that?”
"Do you have a date, Mother?" I ask, and for the first time today, I feel an authentic grin work across my features.
"I'm fifty-five," she says. As if to demonstrate her age, she feigns stiffness as she bends over to grab another pair of jeans from the laundry room floor. "I'm too old for dates."
"Yes, well, let me rephrase that: Is your dinner plans with a man?" She cuts her eyes at my question, which automatically gives me my answer.
"It's not what you think," she scolds, flushing, and I hope it’s exactly what I think.
Growing up, it was never a secret that my father was the only man my mother had ever been with—after all, she had drilled it into my skull when she gave me the keep-your-legs-closed talk. My parents had met when my father was based at Camp Castle, and my mother was working in Seoul to send money home to her family. Dad always said it was love at first sight. Even with her reserved demeanor and his larger-than-life personality, they had built a lasting marriage and had given me a happy childhood. They'd wanted more children and when that hadn’t happened for them, they had doted on the one daughter they had. I had grown up admiring their relationship, wanting the same for myself and ending up with the first person that told me he was in love with me.
Running my fingers through my wet hair, I clear my throat and Mom looks up at me. Her lips worry together. "For what it's worth, I think it's good you're doing ... not what I think ... with a gentleman friend." She's always saying she doesn't want me to be alone, but I don't think she's ever stopped to consider herself. After Dad died four years ago, she claimed she would never be with another man because she didn't want to dishonor his memory. He wouldn't see it that way, though, and he'd want her to move on.
He loved her too much not to want her to be happy.
She offers me a tentative smile as she gently lowers the washer lid. Dipping her head slightly, she murmurs, "Thank you for your blessing."
Although we don't bring up her plans again over the next five hours while we go through boxes in the attic, filling large black contractor bags with clothes and old blankets to give to charity, we have plenty to talk about. She tells me about how irritated her friend Cynthia was last night after she won twice at Texas Hold 'Em—a game my father taught her shortly after they got married—and she asks me how work is going.
We've been so busy cleaning that I, fortunately, haven't given Jace much thought since that moment of utter weakness when I considered opening my nightstand drawer. My smile slips and Mom's brows drag together.
“Everything okay?” She neatly folds a white sweater and stacks it on top of several others. "You having trouble at work?"
I shake my head, but she doesn't look convinced. Easing down on the pink beanbag chair that I used to lounge on to read by my bedroom window, I give her what I hope is a convincing smile. "We've been very busy this week," I say, which is the truth. Valentine's Day is right around the corner. While I've been collaborating with Andi on our website and with various resources to secure new promotional opportunities, the guys have been hard at work fulfilling kinky orders for the international day of love.
"You should have said something," she admonishes with a tight frown. She folds another sweater, and I'm surprised it doesn't tumble over the rest of the stack when she places it at the very top. "I wouldn't have asked you to help me if I knew you were tired—"
"My brain is tired," I quickly rush to assure her. This is yet another truth. My brain is exhausted from all the stressing and debating over one Jace Exley, and it's becoming bothersome. I need to put him out of my head and get back to strictly professional thinking.
Even if that hasn’t happened once since I walked into his office the day of my interview.
"My hands and body"—I wiggle my fingers as I climb to my feet and approach a box labeled Lucy's Toys—"are definitely awake."
"Hmm, if you say so." She returns her focus to her sweaters. We work in silence for a few minutes, with me occasionally pulling the string of an old toy or hitting a power button to ensure something is still in working condition and Mom humming "Cheek to Cheek." I'm in the middle of dropping an armful of Barbie dolls into a contractor bag when she clears her throat.
I glance up to see her lightly pinching the skin at her neck. "What's wrong?"
"You get paid next week?"
It's something I've been anticipating since the moment Jace o
ffered me the job and before I knew precisely what I would be pitching, and my nod is a bit more enthusiastic than I intend. "Why? Do you need me to give you something toward—”
She rubs her throat more vigorously, lifting her other hand to stop me. "No, no, nothing like that. I just remember you said you wanted to look for a place of your own."
"Yes, that’s right."
"I was just thinking that maybe it would be best if you just stayed here longer. To save up your money." I raise my eyebrows, so she shifts her gaze to a pair of pink and white Converse tied together at the laces and sitting at the top of a box of shoes. Judging from their size, they must have belonged to her because I had inherited my father’s large feet. "You're not bothering me."
When I moved in with my mother two months ago, my only goal was to get the hell out and into my own place as quickly as humanly possible. But hearing her asking me to stay lessens my resolve.
"Are you sure this is just about saving me money?” I say, trying to keep my tone light and teasing despite the lump that’s formed in my windpipe. “I’m beginning to think you love having me around, even if I do lose my phone and keys every five minutes and I make a lot of noise when I flush the toilet in the middle of the night.”
Her head is bent and her black bob partially shields her face, but I still make out the ghost of a smile quirking her lips. She lifts her slim shoulders slightly and softly confirms, "I like your noise better than Tony and Gaga's."
THIRTEEN
LUCY
“Hey, hold on for a second. I have something incredible to show you, Sunshine.”
The moment I get to work on Monday morning, shivering with my hands shoved deep in the pockets of my quilted coat because the weather is absolute shit this morning, Daisy stops me at the workshop door. She gives me a fluorescent pink, heart-shaped Post-It note with a name and number written in neat, rounded print. "Allene at Body Talk left a message for you over the weekend," she says excitedly, clasping her hands together behind her platinum blond head as she bounces on the heels of her tall lace-up boots. "Do you have any idea how much I love her show?"
Folding the note in my palm, I meet her smile with a grin of my own. "Almost as much as you hate John Mayer?"
"Exactly. Are you working on getting ad space on her program or..."
I hoist my laptop bag higher on my shoulder. During my research into all things sexy, I had stumbled across Allene's show. It comes on every weeknight from six to nine—which is kinkily ironic—and for the last week and a half, I've shunned my usual pop stations in favor of tuning in on the way home. I had contacted her last Thursday with a request to discuss ads and a possible interview with Jace. Her radio station is based out of Albany, which is only a few hours drive from Boston.
When I tell Daisy this, she lets out a squeal of approval.
"Jace’s always hated the idea of interviews, but I give zero fucks because this will be amazing for business. Allene is huge." She plops down in her chair and rolls it back toward her desk, not seeming to notice that my expression has gone from excited to apprehensive in a matter of seconds at her revelation about Jace's aversion to interviews. It’s not like he’s ever mentioned that tidbit about himself to me. "You, my friend, are rocking it."
I let out a shaky laugh. She might not be saying that after Mr. EXtreme curses me out for seeking out Allene without first getting his approval. "We'll see what she has to say, and of course I’ll have to talk to Jace."
"Well, keep me in the loop. And seriously, coffee and pastries are the key to Exley’s dark heart.” She scrunches her nose and tilts her head from side to side. “Well … unless you’re into all that other stuff.”
“I’m not,” I say frostily, snapping Daisy’s gaze up.
“I didn’t think you were, Sunshine.” She smiles, but I can tell it’s taking an insane amount of effort for her not to laugh out loud. “I was just voicing my thoughts.”
Embarrassed, I promise her I’ll let her know the second I hear back from Allene then I take off toward my office. Once I power on my laptop and place my frozen excuse for a healthy lunch in the break room freezer, I put on my best I-have-big-balls face and approach Jace's office right down the hallway.
The door is partially closed, but when I give it a few light taps, it creaks open. I swallow hard at the sight of the woman with Jace. Her long legs are crossed toward him and red hair cascades down her back as she throws her head back, laughing at something he's said. It takes me a few moments to place who she is—after all, the last time I saw her, she was totally nude and not in a black dress that molded perfectly to her curvy body—but my throat goes dry when she looks behind her and arches her brows.
It’s Sonora. The cuffed redhead from Mr. B’s swinger party. And her ass is parked right on my boss’s desk.
Dammit, what the hell is she doing in here?
Jace looks around Sonora, his expression mirroring hers as he rubs his hand over his beard. "Ms. Williams," he acknowledges.
"I'm sorry." I shift my hazel eyes between the two of them, and a smirk crosses Jace’s bronze features. What have I walked in on? God, why the hell does my chest hurt when I ask myself that? Folding my fingers together, I take a breath and stiffly say, "I wanted to talk to you about something before I followed up with a prospect, but I can come back--"
"No need." She shimmies off the desk, trailing one hand over the back of her dress, making sure she adjusts the fabric over her ass in a slow and sensuous manner. Her other arm is in a sling, and I can't help but stare at it. "I was just taking off."
"Behave yourself, Nora," Jace tells her as she walks toward the door. I step out of her way, the side of my body banging into a filing cabinet.
So much for my big balls that were going to get shit done today.
"Always, E," she responds, tossing her hair over one shoulder and reminding me of Jessica Rabbit. "And I'm sorry again about the wrist.” She strokes her good hand over the white sling and sighs. “I know you needed it, and I hate to let you down."
Jesus H Christ. She’d let him down when he needed her hand? What was she planning to do with the damn thing?
“I’ll figure it out.” He grants her a sympathetic look, and she laughs—a beautiful, sexy, throaty sound that makes me think of Lauren Bacall in my favorite scene from “How to Marry a Millionaire.” Sonora shrugs on a stylish white trench coat that flares out slightly at the waist.
“I’m sure you will,” she says softly. Her gaze flashes to mine just before she steps out onto the walkway. "It’s wonderful to see you again, Ms. Williams. I hope you’re keeping Jace in line, he can be a real pain in the ass."
"I’m trying," I say, but she's already walking down the walkway, her black, five-inch pumps clicking a staccato beat on the concrete floor. I drag in a harsh breath before I return my focus to my boss. His elbows are rested on his desk and he steeples his long fingers to his mouth, but all I can think about is Sonora’s hands and what he’d wanted to do with them. I can almost guarantee it was filthy, hard, and wet. "I really am sorry, I--"
"Sit down, Williams."
He motions to the seat across from his, but I clench my fingers around the cold edges of the filing cabinet behind me, continuing, "Daisy gave me a message from a satellite radio show host this morning, and then she said you don't like interviews. I figured I'd speak to you before I returned the call. If I had known you had someone in here, and that—"
"Sit. Down," he orders again, this time his voice an octave lower. I glare at him as I stalk across the narrow space separating us and lower my ass to the seat. "Don't apologize for doing your job. It’s what I want from you. Now, what is it you wanted to ask of me?"
I want to tell him that I'm not apologizing for doing my job but for interrupting him and ... Sonora's hands, but I decide to avoid going there. It's none of my business, I say to myself. Just like his relationship with Michaela has nothing to do with me. What he does with other women shouldn’t matter one. Little. Bit.
&nbs
p; Straightening my back and giving him my best attempt at a professional, I-don't-give-a-damn-whose-hands-you’re-into expression, I tell him about Allene's show and my ideas for getting her on board with EXtreme.
His attention wavers several times while I’m speaking, and I feel a wave of irritation claw down my spine when he glances at his computer screen for the eightieth time just as I finish. "You know," I say in a dangerously soft voice, tapping my fingers anxiously on the edge of his desk, "I really can come back when it's a better time and you have a moment to pay attention."
He lifts his eyes from the screen, his lids lowering partially as he regards me. "Believe me, Williams, I heard everything you said."
"Okay then, what do you think?"
He starts to shrug his wide shoulders, but then he pauses. He drops his attention to my hands. And he just … stares. When I cease my drumming, and link my fingers, his brow furrows in irritation. “Don’t stop,” he says, but I don’t make a move to obey him. “Fuck, Williams, do you ever listen?”
“When you’re eye-humping my fingers?” I say through my teeth because if I open my mouth any further, the sigh I’m desperately holding back will slip out. “Jace—”
“Shh, love, and let me look.”
He slides as close as possible to the other side of the metal desk and bends his head over my hands, locks of his dark hair brushing my knuckles as he carefully traces his gaze over my rounded, blush-painted fingernails and the length of my fingers. Beneath his stare, every part of my body clenches—from my hands that are suddenly trembling to the very center of my core. When he backs away, stroking his bottom lip with his thumb and forefinger, there's a gleam in his eyes that tangles the pit of my stomach into a deliciously perplexed knot.
“Jace, what the hell are you doing?”
"Hold your hands out in front of you,” he says in a harsh voice that spreads goose bumps up my arms and across my chest. He trails his thumbs along the insides of my wrists, and that sigh I was trying so hard to hold in pushes past my lips. Only now, it’s a moan. “Put your wrists together."