Man in Charge, Book 1

by Laurelin Paige

  Seventeen

  I stood at the threshold between Scott’s living room and his balcony and gaped. “This is one hell of a fuck pad.”

  I’d thought his apartment had been high-end. Turned out I hadn’t even seen the best part. The balcony extended the entire length of his apartment with a door coming from the main area and another from the bedroom, and with the size and furnishings, it basically added another functional living space. A round dining table set was positioned in front of a long rectangular electric fireplace, which had been turned on, thankfully, since the night had gotten chilly. Several oversize patio chairs filled the space, most with accompanying ottomans, but the real focus piece was the couch that was big enough to be a bed.

  Considering that the balcony was completely walled off from the neighbors on both sides, I had no doubt the couch had been used as such. It was how I’d use it if it had been mine, anyway.

  “I can’t tell if you’re praising or judging,” Scott said, coming up beside me.

  I wouldn’t tell him there was a third option that involved complicated feelings of jealousy and unworth. “Neither. I’m trying to figure out if this is a booty call or a date.”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “That tells me all I need to know.” It was what I needed to remember too—Scott Sebastian did not do dates. He did sex. Lots and lots of sex, and he did it pretty damn well, probably because he was so practiced.

  I wished the reminder didn’t make me feel so gutted.

  I wrapped the lace shawl I’d borrowed from Kendra’s closet tighter around the rose floral print satin maxi (also borrowed) and crossed over to the fireplace, hoping it looked like I was trying to get warm rather than get away from him.

  It wasn’t that I wanted to be away from him per se. It was that I wanted to be away from my increasingly complex feelings about him, and of course there was nowhere to get away from those. Wherever I went, there I was and all that.

  And wherever he went, there he was, gorgeous and sexy and unattainable. I didn’t have to look at him to remember just how much of each of those qualities he was.

  “I suppose this is when I should deliver my spiel.”

  I turned to look at him and raised both brows in question. I’d sadly never been able to do just one the way Tey did.

  “The spiel where I explain that I don’t do commitment, don’t get attached, this is all fun for fun’s sake, no hard feelings, it’s who I am.”

  It was insane how he could make the after-work look so appealing without even trying. His hair was mussed, his tie gone, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his hands stuck in his pockets all casual-like.

  And yes, right, he’s in the middle of telling me not to fall for him. I should pay attention.

  “But…” he continued, then trailed off.

  “But you realized I already know all of that because of the circumstances under which we met?”

  “There is that. I was going to say but I realized I don’t...want to.”

  I had to force myself to breathe. There were so many ways I could insert meaning into those words. It could also be a well-practiced line.

  More likely it was the latter. “That’s terribly smooth of you.”

  “This time I’m sure it’s not a compliment.”

  I glanced away, unable to take the intensity of his gaze. “I don’t know what it is. A warning to myself for self-preservation.”

  “I can’t blame you. But I wish you didn’t feel that way.”

  He sure knew how to draw my eyes back to him. I studied him this time, looking for any signs of insincerity. I needed proof to show my heart. See, look, you fool, you. He’s rehearsed this. It doesn’t mean anything.

  When I didn’t find anything that confirmed what I needed it to, I decided it was time to get off shaky ground. “I think I’m maybe not ready for conversations that discuss feelings. Is that wine I spy?”

  “There is wine, yes.” He moved to pour it into the glasses already set out on the table that was decked out as though we were at a five-star restaurant instead of his luxury apartment balcony. A long cream cloth covered it. Candles were lit, the wine chilled in a bucket with ice. Stainless-steel covered plates adorned the side buffet.

  Several plates, actually. Was he expecting more guests?

  He anticipated the question. “I didn’t ask about your food preferences, so I had my chef make a few different things.” He handed me my wine glass so his was free to lift up the lids on the various dishes. “Eggplant parmigiana. Lasagna bolognese. Garden salad—seeds instead of croutons in case you don’t do gluten. Grilled shrimp. Caprese.”

  “Will you think bad thoughts about me if I have a little bit of each?”

  “I’ll think bad thoughts about you either way.”

  “I hope so.” My smile broke through without warning. It felt like it was revealing too much, for some reason, so I let it fade. “Italian is a favorite of mine. You chose well.”

  I was probably imagining it, but his cheeks seemed to pink, and I suddenly had the impression that he didn’t normally do this for a woman. That he didn’t consider her tastes. That he ordered for himself and/or to show off.

  At least, that had been my experience with the players I’d dated in the past. No one had ever put this much thought into serving me, not after they’d gotten into my panties, anyway.

  It was a dangerous thought, one I shouldn’t think about too long, so I concentrated on my wine and directed Scott with what to load on my plate instead.

  The food was to die for, every bite better than the last, which was surprising considering how simple the menu was. I probably spent an entire ten minutes complimenting each item—in orgasmic fashion, as Scott pointed out—leaving little need to worry about trivial small talk.

  But then my enthusiasm for the food waned as my belly filled, and silence crept in. Not the awkward kind, just the kind that invited conversation.

  “Tell me about yourself, Tessa,” he said when the quiet had begun to linger too long.

  I blinked at him in horror. “I’m having sudden flashbacks to every awful Match.com date I’ve ever been on. Why would you ask such a banal thing?”

  “I was attempting to differentiate between a date and a booty call. Though, you must clarify—is there still booty involved in your version of a date?”

  “As long as it doesn’t involve generic conversation starters like tell me about yourself.”

  His laugh turned my insides to jelly. “I guess it’s obvious now that I’m more skilled at getting to know women in the biblical way.”

  “Oh, it was obvious before.”

  There was potential to turn the talk dirty from there, and I wouldn’t have minded in the slightest.

  Instead, Scott became somber. “I really do want to know you, though, Tessa. I’ll try better to make it as painless as possible.” He thought for a second. “What’s Tess short for? Theresa?”

  Ah, fuck. We were really doing this. It occurred to me that the whole reason I was into the love ‘em and leave ‘em types was specifically so I wouldn’t ever be forced to talk about myself.

  This question wasn’t hard, though. “Terese.”

  “Terese Turani.” He said it like he was savoring the taste, the same way I’d savored the eggplant parmigiana. “Is there a middle name?”

  “Nope.” I almost left it there. Then I kicked myself. If he was going to make the effort, I could as well. “My father was Iranian, and middle names aren’t a normal part of the culture, and I don’t think my mother cared enough to argue it.”

  I saw the moment it clicked, the oh-so familiar realization of yes, that’s why I get an ethnic vibe about her. I’d gotten it all my life.

  “Iranian,” he said as the dots connected. “Shomâ Fârsi sohbat mekunid?”

  Now that was new. Usually, only other brownish people tried to engage in the language. Never one of the white guys. “I have no idea what you just said, but I’m guessing it was Farsi, and whoa, th
at was extremely hot.”

  “I asked if you speak Farsi, which is about the only phrase in Persian that I know. Sorry to disappoint.”

  “Do you know other languages?”

  “Spanish. German. Some French.”

  “Then still extremely hot.”

  His foot wrapped around my ankle under the table, as though claiming it as his. “How about you?”

  “Oh, I’m extremely hot as well.”

  “You don’t need to tell me.” His eyes drifted to my bosom. I imagined the dress was more revealing on me than Kendra since she wasn’t quite as busty as I was. I’d chosen it for exactly that reason.

  The heat behind his gaze said Scott approved.

  “But I meant languages.” Apparently he didn’t approve enough to abandon the “getting to know you” dialogue.

  I decided it was time to change the setting.

  Setting my cloth napkin on top of my dish, I stood with my wine glass and headed toward the couch/bed. “I speak English, obviously, and I’m not the worst at Spanish, but I’m nowhere near able to converse in it.”

  As I’d hoped, he followed. “We could practice.”

  “Not if you want to get laid.”

  “No Spanish then.”

  I smiled triumphantly, then sat down and arranged myself into what I hoped was an inviting pose. Seduction hadn’t been necessary so far with Scott. It felt a little strange to have to try.

  I needn’t have worried. He stretched out in the spot I wanted him, right next to me, propping himself up on his side, his entire body angled toward me.

  I would have thought the new seating arrangement would have ended all serious talk. I was wrong.

  “So your father was Iranian, but you don’t speak any Farsi—not a good relationship with Dad?”

  I took a sip of the cabernet to buy me time to decide how to respond. I didn’t have to answer. I could distract him instead.

  Weirdly, when I’d swallowed, I found I wanted to talk about it. “He and my mother were never married. They sort of did the common law thing for a minute, but they broke up when I was four. Besides sending child support, he was never the best at staying involved after that, and then when he got married later on it was like the string was cut altogether. As though it was an either/or type of deal. Like he had to choose between her and me, and he chose her. I haven’t spoken to him since. I think I was twelve?”

  “I’m sorry. That must have been hard for you.”

  I shrugged like it hadn’t hurt as much as it had. Like it didn’t still hurt. “My mother married the year before I graduated high school. A little late for a father figure, but he’s a good man. He fills the role well enough.”

  I regretted it as soon as I’d said it. Not because it wasn’t true—Bruce was a good man, and for all intents and purposes, he did fill the role of what I imagined a father should be. He’d taught me to change a tire and balance a checkbook. He gave the “respect my girl” speech to my prom date.

  But that wasn’t all the truth. It had been hard for me to be fatherless—envying friends who got to go to daddy-daughter dances, always feeling as though no matter what I did or accomplished, I had failed at keeping the interest of the one man that should have been easiest to win over.

  It had been hard, too, to be inextricably tied to a culture that I knew absolutely nothing about. Sure, I could have learned about Iran on my own, but that wasn’t the same as learning it from someone who lived it.

  Wanting for some reason to share more, I chose that to expand on since it was the easier thing to admit. “It would have been nice to have someone to talk to about the experiences that come with having a Persian name and Persian coloring. Someone who could relate, I mean. Like, I get pulled out of every airport security line for a ‘random’ pat-down. And every time someone hears Turani they have to ask about my ethnicity. Which is also a weird thing because I’m white, right? But I’m also ‘other,’ and there’s no box to mark it on any of the forms, so where does that leave me? Minor inconveniences. I’m not complaining that I’m treated unfairly. It would just be nice to have someone in my life who has the same experiences.”

  I shook my head, realizing the fault in the desire. “Of course, my father was born and raised in Iran, is much darker than me, has the accent, and practices the culture. His experiences are probably nothing like mine.”

  “But it would be nice to know.”

  “I guess it would be nice to know him period.”

  Scott ran his hand lazily down my torso, over my hips to my thighs and back again. “I don’t know. If he’s anything like my father, you may be better off not knowing him.”

  “Not knowing your father would mean not knowing this life.”

  “Would probably be worth the exchange.”

  His touch was distracting, but not so distracting that I didn’t catch that he was looking for sympathy. Now this was like the players I’d met before. “Is the rich, white boy boohooing about his rich, white life?”

  “Hey, that’s a little unfair.” His hand stopped its journey, but it settled on my hip so I didn’t mind too much. “I acknowledge that I’m privileged, yes. It doesn’t mean that every day is all jet planes and champagne. I don’t get everything I want. I have obligations that feel oppressive.”

  “Such as?” It was hard to believe he really knew oppression. The glimpses I’d had into Kendra’s life seemed to show that money might not buy everything, but it sure bought freedom.

  He didn’t even have to think about it. “My job, for one. If I’d wanted to be a doctor or a lawyer or an entertainer, I would have been disowned. The only choice for me was to go into the family business. My path has been laid out from the day I was born, whether I agree or not. SIC is the source of any money I hope to inherit, and that means I have to ‘put in the time,’ according to my father. So here I am, VP of image and outreach, which was not my first choice. Not even my tenth choice. But it’s my title because PR is where my father wanted me, so now I’m stuck there until he decides I’m worthy of something better.”

  I could see it would be hard to walk away from the lifestyle he’d gotten used to, but if he did, he’d still probably be better off than most people I knew. In other words, he still had a choice.

  I had a feeling bringing that up would be too confrontational for a first date, though, and definitely off limits for any booty call.

  I chose another aspect of his speech to remark on. “Careful. My degree is in PR.”

  His eyes widened as if he realized something he hadn’t before. “That suddenly makes sense.” He seemed to tuck that thought away and changed gears. “My degree is in business, and I’m not dismissing public relations as a career. I’d maybe even enjoy it in another situation. It’s one thing to sell a company or a product that can bring good into the world or make lives easier or provide entertainment. It’s another to have to convince people that the man behind the company is not a complete piece of shit, contrary to the evidence.”

  That did sound icky, and it occurred to me that his life might be more complicated than I gave him credit for. “I’m lucky that I get to sell things I believe in, I suppose.”

  “You are.”

  His hand began its sweep again, up and down, sending goosebumps scattering down my arms. His eyes darted to my breasts. To my lips. I wet them in anticipation.

  Then, just when I thought he might lean in, I drew back. “What did you mean that it makes sense that I’m in PR?”

  “You work with Kendra. She has the same degree.”

  The mention of my boss made my body tense. I threw back the rest of my wine, then twisted to set the glass down on the ground. And so that I wouldn’t have to look at him when I responded. “Yeah. That’s how we met, actually. Georgetown. We were in the same class.”

  “Impressive. I was forced to go to Columbia since Dad insisted I be able to intern for him at the same time.”

  That drew my head back so I could give him an incredulous stare. “Now you�
��re crying about Columbia?”

  “I’m not crying about anything. I’m telling you my life.”

  “Fair, fair.”

  “So you met Kendra at school, and that’s how you ended up working with her?”

  My skin felt itchy, and I was restless. I wanted to stand up and walk away—from the topic, from the anxiety of my untruths, from the vulnerability of sharing. But like before, I knew they weren’t things I could escape.

  So I stayed. “We were friends first,” I said carefully. “Teyana too. The three of us were thick as thieves the whole time we were there. So after college, when I was desperate for a job, and Conscience Connect was up and running, Kendra offered me a position. I think it was her way of showing she cared.”

  “It’s very Montgomery to throw money in place of feelings.”

  “I’ve learned that about her.” I’d used that excuse to justify her actions time and time again. She knew how to write a check. She didn’t know how to truly love. Her heart was in the right place, she just didn’t know how to show it.

  Sometimes I blamed myself for that. I’d thought I could change that about her somehow.

  “I take it you aren’t close anymore?”

  “Business relationships change things,” I said.

  “Not always, but yes. Sometimes they do.”

  It was an invitation to say more, and part of me wanted to even, but I couldn’t get into that with Scott. I’d have to explain my real relationship with Kendra, confess that I was just her errand girl rather than someone she trusted to share the real work. We were already on dangerous grounds just talking about her at all, especially when I had so little to go on about his own association with her.

  My brow furrowed. “What about you? How well do you know Kendra?”

  “Uh.” His hand dropped from my hip, making him feel like he’d moved a million miles away. He ran it through his hair. “Our parents are...friends. It doesn’t seem the right word considering how superficial their interactions are, but I think that’s how they would label the relationship.”

  “And your relationship with Kendra is also superficial?”