by Tracy Wolff
She’s so wrapped up in her own excitement that she doesn’t notice my lack of enthusiasm. I don’t want to burst her bubble, but if this is true, it’s even worse for me than if he was angry at me. Because I don’t want to date Ethan Frost. I want to work for him.
It’s not that I have anything against him per se. It’s just that I don’t want to date anyone.
Oh, Tori’s been after me for years to go out more. To meet some nice guy and do the fun hanging-out thing. She’s even set me up on numerous blind dates—without my permission—then not told me what she’d done until it was too late for me to get out of them. But she doesn’t get it. She doesn’t know that I don’t want to go out with a guy. I don’t want to casually date. And I sure as hell don’t want a relationship.
Just the thought makes me shudder. My own parents’ relationship is a walking advertisement for what not to do, and my own past—the past Tori knows very little about—makes the very idea unfeasible.
The last thing I want to do is deal with being pursued by a man like Ethan Frost. All that money, all that power, all that privilege…just the thought makes my stomach pitch and roll.
She reaches for the card, which has been resting—discarded—on the table for the past hour. “You should totally call him.”
I look at her like she’s insane. Which I’m becoming more and more convinced she is. “I’m not going to call him.”
“But you have to. You should at least thank him for his very generous gift.”
I should, but I don’t want to. Truth be told, I want nothing from him but the internship provided me by his company. Not the blender. Not the strawberries, which I admit are a charming gift. Not his attention. And definitely, absolutely, not the unsettled feeling I got when I was around him earlier. The butterflies in my tummy that were somehow both more and less than simple nervousness, as they came with an awareness of him—and myself in relation to him—that continues to be beyond nerve-racking.
“I’ll drop him an email.”
“But there’s no email addy on the card.”
“Then I’ll write him a letter. It’s not like I don’t know where he works.”
“A letter?” She looks at me like I’m insane.
“Yes. A letter.” I’m warming to the idea. “I can return the blender at the same time. No fuss, no muss.”
“No fuss, no muss? Are you ninety?” Tori looks thoroughly disgruntled. “No offense, but trying not to make a fuss is not the way you keep the attention of a guy like Ethan Frost. Neither is returning his gifts.”
Exactly. My plan is sounding better by the second. “I don’t want Ethan Frost’s attention. I’m not interested in him.”
My roommate lets out an exaggerated sigh as she throws herself into a supine position on the couch. “You do realize that you are the only woman in the history of the world to utter those words. Ever.”
“Surely not. Think of all the lesbians out there.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fine, then. The only straight woman.”
“And yet, somehow, I’m okay with that.”
“All right, all right.” Grabbing her champagne flute, she waves it under my nose. “If I’m supposed to watch you throw away a golden opportunity like this, then the least you can do is keep me well-liquored. Fill ’er up.”
I laugh, because she expects me to. I even pour her more champagne, though part of me thinks she’s had more than enough. But in my head I’m already composing the letter to Juice Guy. Ethan. Mr. Frost.
Yes. “Mr. Frost” will do quite nicely.
Chapter Three
Dear Mr. Frost,
While I am quite touched by the thoughtfulness of your gift, I am unable to accept it. A fine blender such as this—
Dear Mr. Frost,
While I appreciate the thoughtfulness of this lovely welcome gift, I feel it would be inappropriate to accept it. As an intern, I am not to receive any sort of payment—
Dear Mr. Frost,
Thank you for your very thoughtful gift. However, I believe it would be inappropriate for me to accept it. I apologize for any problems this might cause, and appreciate your understanding in this manner.
It was lovely meeting you yesterday. Thank you for going out of your way to make me feel welcome.
Sincerely,
Chloe Girard
Crazy as it sounds, it took me half the night to write the stupid letter to Juice Guy. Ethan. Mr. Frost. Whoever the hell he is. Seeing as how I’m going on about two and a half hours of sleep right now, I don’t particularly care what he wants to be called. Not when I feel like a cast member of The Walking Dead.
Twenty-seven drafts. That’s how many versions of the stupid letter I wrote. Somewhere around number sixteen, I almost gave up. Almost said to hell with the whole thing. That’s when Tori threw in the towel and went to bed and I almost did the same thing. But I couldn’t see myself dropping the blender off at his office this morning without at least a small note attached, so I persevered. Five sentences in six hours. It has to be some kind of world record—of the ridiculously awful variety.
Needless to say, I’m skipping my morning workout today. As tired as I am, I’d probably fall asleep on the stupid treadmill and end up killing myself.
I plan to arrive at work thirty minutes early. I figure that will give me time to get to Building One, where the CEO’s office is, deliver the package, and make it to the second floor of Building Three, where my office is, with plenty of time to spare. But it turns out all the extra half hour I gave myself did for me was strand me in traffic. So by the time I get to work, I have only ten minutes to deliver my package.
It could wait for lunchtime, but I’m determined to get it out of my car and my mind. Then I can move on with the day and I won’t have to think about Juice Guy—Mr. Frost—anymore. His office is on the top floor of the building, which means waiting forever for the elevator since I don’t use stairwells by myself. Ever. Normally, elevators don’t bother me, but with only eight minutes to spare, I know waiting for one will mean I’m cutting it even closer.
So I try to take the stairs, even open the door and start to go in. But even that has me breaking out in a sweat, all the bad memories from years ago at boarding school swamping me. Nope, can’t do it. It’s definitely the elevator for me.
When I finally emerge onto the fifth floor, I walk straight off the elevator into a lush—dare I say opulent—waiting room. I don’t have to read the sign on the wall to know I’ve found the CEO’s office. Overstuffed couches, thick carpeting, expensive art—all done in rich autumnal golds and reds and browns. Even the coffee and side tables are dark, heavy wood instead of the glass and chrome you find in most offices these days. I have to admit I find it interesting that one of the foremost tech guys in the world has an outer office filled with antique furniture.
Not that it matters, except it’s another contradiction. Surf bum versus tech genius. Juice Guy versus CEO. Antiques collector versus visionary. Against my will, I’m fascinated. The part of me that’s determined to understand how things fit together wants to scatter all the different pieces of him out in front of me, then watch closely as I put them back together so I can see—really see—how they all line up. How they all work together.
Not that I’ll ever get the chance. After all, I’m here to return a blender. Anything else is completely out of the question.
The reception area is manned by an attractive older woman, one whose stern look says she could take on the devil and win—and probably already has. As I approach, she looks down her nose at me, no mean feat considering she’s sitting down and I’m almost five-nine. It’s a good look, one that I vow to practice until I can successfully imitate it. I’m sure at some point in my career as an intellectual property attorney a look like that will come in handy.
“Do you have an appointment?” she asks when I stop directly in front of her desk. Not once does she look at the large box in my arms, which I think shows admirable restraint considering it’s not
every day people carry giant blenders into the CEO’s office with them. Then again, what do I know? Maybe Ethan Frost really does send Vitamixes to all his employees—in which case, I look even more stupid trying to return it than I already think I do.
“I don’t have an appointment. But—”
“Mr. Frost doesn’t see anyone without an appointment.”
“I understand that. But all I want—”
“You’re free to leave a message with your name, number, and what business you’d like to see him about. I will pass the message on. If he’s willing to see you, you’ll receive a call in twenty-four to forty-eight hours to set up the appointment.”
She delivers the whole speech in a perfectly polite tone, but it manages to get my back up anyway. Maybe it’s because of the way she’s looking at me—like I’m just a bug buzzing around the esteemed Mr. Frost—or maybe it’s because she assumes she knows what I’m going to say before I say it. I get that she’s the first line of defense between the public and one of the most revered CEOs on the planet, but really, he’s just not that special.
Liar. The little voice inside me is back, but this time I’m flatout refusing to listen to it. Especially since last time all it did was get me into trouble. So I wait for the receptionist to pick up her pen and message pad and then say, “I don’t need an appointment with Mr. Frost.”
She sighs heavily. “Everyone needs an appointment if they want to see—”
Completely fed up by this point, not to mention very aware of the minutes ticking away, I cut her off by dropping the blender on her desk with a resounding thump. “I just want to return this to him. There’s a note attached, but I’m sure he’ll know who it’s from. Thank you.”
I turn and walk away before she can say anything else. As I wait for the elevator, I’m conscious of her eyes on me and I try not to fidget as precious seconds and minutes slip away.
By the time eight o’clock rolls around and I am officially late for work, I’ve had it with waiting for the elevator. Though I’m sick to my stomach at the thought of taking the stairs, I’m even sicker at the thought of showing up any later to work. This is so not how I planned to impress my new boss.
The fear of making an ass of myself and somehow losing the internship is what finally gets me moving toward the stairwell. It’s broad daylight in one of the most reputable companies in the country. There’s no place safer for me to take the stairs, so I need to stop being a baby and just do it.
I’ve made it down one flight of steps—a task which is much easier today in my sensible navy pumps than it would have been yesterday in those ridiculous Louboutins, thank God—when I hear the stairwell door above me slam open. Though I know it’s ridiculous, know I’m completely safe, ice skates down my spine anyway. Freezes me in place for what feels like endless seconds.
Panic twists up inside me, makes my breathing quicken and my heart beat faster. It’s what I need—I start moving again, jogging down the stairs as fast as I can without looking like an utter lunatic.
But whoever is in here with me is moving even faster than I am. I can hear his shoes slapping on the concrete steps, know he’s gaining on me. He’s getting closer and closer and the fight-or-flight response goes into full effect inside me now. As images of the past bombard me, every instinct I have is telling me to run, to forget dignity and get the hell out of here as fast as I possibly can.
I listen, start running full-out now, my purse dangling from numb fingertips as I race for the ground floor. Maybe I’d do better exiting onto the second floor, but it’s early still, the back halls nearly deserted. The lobby is my best bet. If I can just get there—
My heel catches on the edge of one of the steps and I trip, go flying. I’m about six or seven steps from the bottom of the staircase and I know if I go down, it’s going to hurt. Not to mention give whoever’s chasing me the chance he’s been looking for.
Desperate to stop the fall, I claw at the railing, try to catch myself. I miss, the cool railing slipping through my fingers. I feel a bump, followed by a sharp pain in my hip. But I’m too busy trying to avoid injury to pay much attention. By now I know I’m going to fall, so I attempt to brace myself. Hunch my shoulders and try to tuck myself into a ball, like my self-defense instructors taught me.
But before I can hit the ground, a strong hand grabs my arm, stops my descent in midair. It’s the guy who’s been chasing me. I just know it. And while logic insists that I have nothing to fear from the man who just stopped my fall, the specter of my past is all around me. Clawing at me. Choking me. Destroying the peace of mind I’ve worked so hard for.
I’m frantic now, so crazed with fear that everything but instinct goes straight out the window. I lash out, try to kick him even as I’m still dangling over the stairs.
He blocks my kick, then yanks me toward him with his other hand. He keeps pulling until my feet are back on the step—and I’m wrapped in his arms, my back to his front.
I’m surrounded by him on all sides now, the hardness of his chest and stomach and thighs pressing against me even as his scent works itself into my consciousness. He smells like the ocean on a wild, storm-tossed day. Like moonlight on the open water. Like rain falling through leaves. All that with an underlying, barely discernible, hint of blueberries.
Suddenly I know who’s holding me, even before he growls, “Damn it, Chloe. Stop fighting me. I’ve got you.”
Juice Guy. Mr. Frost. Ethan.
Suddenly I’m furious, so furious that it overshadows the fear of being held so intimately. Of course it’s him. Why wouldn’t it be? The universe seems to have decided that if I’m going to make a fool of myself, he’s going to be there to watch it.
Then again, if it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t have been in any of these stupid situations to begin with. I sure as hell wouldn’t be in this damn stairwell right now, after having nearly plummeted to certain injury. It also means I wouldn’t be standing here, my body pressed intimately against a virtual stranger’s while every nerve I have stands at attention and my heart nearly beats out of my chest.
“Can you let me go, please?” I jerk against his hold, try to wrench my elbow from his grasp. Again, not the smartest move, but I need him to let me go. When he touches me I feel all kinds of things, things I don’t have a clue how to deal with.
But Ethan’s having no part of my bid for freedom. He holds me firmly, painlessly, as he guides me down the last six steps until we’re on the landing that opens to the lobby. Only then does he relinquish his hold and step away.
For long seconds he doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. I know he’s waiting for me to look at him, know he’ll wait all day if he has to. But I don’t have that luxury, so finally—reluctantly—I turn to him. “Thank you for catching me,” I say.
I also want to tell him it’s his fault I was falling in the first place, but I think I’ve done enough to alienate the man in the last twenty-four hours. No need to actually beg him to fire me. Besides, now that I know who was pursuing me on the stairs, my whole headlong flight makes me look a little too much like a basket case for comfort—even without explaining where my phobia comes from.
But then he says it for me. “It seemed the least I could do, since I was the one who made you fall.” He eyes me critically, looking for I don’t know what. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? It looked like you banged your hip against the railing when you started to tumble.”
“I don’t think so.” But now that he mentions it, I do feel an ache in my right hip that wasn’t there before. Wonderful.
I push at the sore spot a little, bite my lip to keep from whimpering when pain radiates out from under my fingers. So much for those self-defense classes I’ve invested so much time and money in over the last couple of years. What do I do the first time I’m in a sketchy situation? Panic and forget nearly everything they taught me.
Ethan’s watching me closely, so closely that I know he sees
me flinch. His eyes darken to near black and he growls, “Let’s get you some ice.” For the first time I see the CEO and not the surf bum, and it has nothing to do with the expensive Italian suit he’s wearing.
Then his hand is back, only this time it’s not grabbing my arm. It’s resting in the center of my lower back as he gently propels me forward. I’m uncomfortable with him so close, with the heat that radiates through him and into me and with the sudden possessiveness of his hold. As a rule, I don’t let men touch me there. It’s too personal, too intimate. Ethan should be no exception.
Except he is, because I don’t step away. Don’t shrug him off. Instead, I let him guide me to the stairwell door, even wait pliantly while he opens it.
I’m limping a little, and he must notice, because he stops. Eyes me sharply. “Can you walk or do you need me to carry you?”
“Seriously?” I roll my eyes at him. “It’s a bruise. I think I can handle it.”
He doesn’t answer, just waits for me to pass through the doorway ahead of him. When we get to the lobby, I start to head for the front door—a glance at my watch says I’m already five minutes late reporting for work—but he stops me with a look. “You need ice.”
“What I need is to get to my office.”
“I’m sure the legal contracts department will survive without you for ten minutes.” He guides me across the lobby to the front desk, where two security guards are supervising the scanning of employee badges as people arrive for their workday. “Jose, Ms. Girard injured herself in the stairwell. Could you please get her a bag of ice?”
The bald security guard all but leaps to his feet. “Sure thing, Mr. Frost.” He turns to me. “Are you all right, Ms. Girard?”
“I’m fi—”
“She tripped, banged against the railway. Nearly fell down the stairs.” Ethan speaks over me, and it gets my back up all over again. I spent most of my life being ignored by my family. No way am I going to put up with it from him, too. He might be my boss three times removed, but the vibes rolling off him today don’t feel like employer-employee to me, any more than the ones yesterday did.