by Cynthia Sax
And this bothers him. I place my left palm on my lonely executive’s upper thigh. “She might not speak to you, but she can’t stop you from speaking to her. Eventually you’ll wear her down.”
“As you wear me down.” He covers my hand with his.
“Exactly.” I beam, squeezing his leg. “I’ll carry my phone. If you need any more tips call me.” I flounce out of his car. He won’t call me during his lunch with his mom, but he’ll be thinking of me. I stalk toward the bank of elevators.
“What should I talk about?” Nate matches my shorter stride.
My fiercely independent man is asking me for advice. I glance up at him, warmed by his trust. “Is there a topic that drives your mom crazy? That she has a strong opinion about?”
“My father.” Nate frowns. “But that topic will have a price tag associated with it.” He bumps his body against my arm.
I slide my hand into Nate’s larger palm. He folds his fingers over mine, gripping me tightly. “No, you shouldn’t talk about your dad,” I agree. “The topic should be general, like politics or fashion or celebrity marriages.” I pause, rethinking this suggestion. “Well, maybe not marriages.”
“That topic will cost me money also.” Nate’s lips twitch.
Everything costs Nate money. We stand in front of the elevator doors, holding hands, our images reflected in the mirrored surface. Neither of us pushes the button.
Nate shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “If you attend this lunch with me I’ll double your fees for this week.”
I gaze at him, stunned by his offer. “You want me to meet your mom?”
Nate winces. “I know dealing with my parents isn’t in our agreement, but . . .”
But he wants me to attend. Being the rebel I am, I need to hear the words he won’t say. “You don’t have to pay me. Finish your sentence and I’ll say yes.”
My stubborn man remains silent, his jaw jutted.
“If you don’t say the words I’ll make other plans for lunch.” I push him as I always do, wanting more, wanting everything.
Nate widens his stance, as though bracing for a physical attack. “I need you by my side.” He lifts his chin, daring me to judge him.
He needs me. “I’d love to have lunch with you and your mom.” I pat his chest, savoring his solidness. “It’ll be fun.”
“Appointments with my mother are never fun.”
“They will be now.” I swing our arms and we gaze at the closed doors, waiting for an elevator that will never come, the button remaining unpushed.
Moments pass, our connection deepening, tightening, the air around us thick and heavy with emotion. I don’t move, don’t speak, content to be with him, the man I suspect I love.
“Thank you.” Nate finally presses the button. His expression is grim.
“I’ll be on my best behavior,” I promise. I won’t mess this up.
His eyebrows lift. “Have I ever seen this best behavior of yours?”
I roll my eyes. “At the last quarterly meeting I was well behaved.” The doors open and we step inside, our fingers remaining linked.
“That’s because you were ill.” He selects our floors.
I had been ill. I smile, thrilled he’d noticed. The red digital numbers change. Our images reflect on the mirrored walls. My green hair is loose, framing my face, and the black leather suit hugs my body, accentuating my pale skin. The overhead lights shine on Nate’s blond hair, his tan golden, his gaze fixed on me, his eyes dark with emotion.
I slide in front of him, take his wrists, and draw his arms over my chest, wrapping them around me. “Hold me, lover.”
Nate obeys my command, pulling me into his physique and clutching me tightly, resting his chin on my shoulder. He’s no longer the unapproachable Iceman, and I’m not the defiant rebel child. We’re a couple: real, imperfect, right.
“I have an important meeting.” His chest rubs against my shoulder blades.
“I know.” I suspect I know Nate’s schedule better than he does. “I have coding on the data-sharing project to complete.” I wiggle my ass and he groans. “We’ll find the time to touch later.”
“We do have a month.” His voice is quiet.
“We have a month.” The elevator doors open and I don’t move, not wanting to leave him, to spend one second of our remaining time apart.
Nate releases me. “This is your floor.” He places one of his palms on my back and pushes gently, propelling me into motion.
I walk away from him, not looking back, knowing if I do I’ll run to him, cling to him, forgo the independence I’ve always valued. The office buzzes with quiet conversations.
I pass the low-talking brunette assistant from four rows down. She gazes expectantly at me, her lips parted and her brown eyes bright. Determined to behave, to fit in for once in my life, I skip my usual morning greeting and say the expected nothing. Her eyes dim and her mouth closes.
She acts as though I’ve disappointed her by conforming, by following the department’s unspoken rules. Confused, I march toward my desk, slamming my heels against the floor.
“Green,” Miss Yen hollers.
I change direction, enter my boss’ office, and claim the nearest guest chair. “Intern Green reporting for duty.” I salute her.
“Can the sarcasm.” Miss Yen stands behind her desk, clad in a black suit, her hair twisted into a knot at the base of her neck.
“As you know there is a strict rule about working on personal projects during company time.” She doesn’t look at me. “If an employee is caught working on a personal project, she can be dismissed immediately.” Her lips flatten.
Freakin’ hell. I tense. Someone ratted me out. “I can explain.”
“Don’t explain anything.” Miss Yen holds up one of her hands. “Let me finish.” I close my mouth. “We also have a mountain of files to shred.”
I groan. She’s locking me in the shredding room, taking away my Internet access. This is worse than being fired. I won’t be able to answer e-mail questions about my project or add any lines of code.
“In order to use the full capabilities of the new high-tech shredding machine we’ve ordered, Mr. Henley has boosted the connectivity in the room.” Miss Yen lowers her size-zero ass into her black captain’s chair.
I frown, confused. My tight-lipped boss doesn’t share unnecessary information. Why is she talking about the room’s connectivity?
Does she want me to use that connectivity? I stare at her.
“The machine will arrive next month,” Miss Yen adds. “And you are to spend all of your time until then in the shredding room. This is your sole project, do you understand?”
I tilt my head to one side, unsure whether I do understand. It sounds as though she’s telling me to hide in the shredding room, to complete my stealth coding there. “Are you saying I can work on my—”
“I’m saying nothing more,” Miss Yen snaps. “Gather up your things and move into the shredding room. I don’t want to see you at your desk.”
I stand and smooth down my leather skirt, my thoughts spinning. Is she giving me permission to work on my project full-time? “I—”
“Don’t make me repeat myself, Green.” My boss’ beautiful face hardens. “I’ve spent enough of my valuable time on this issue. I’m expecting results.”
She’s expecting my project to be successful. Warmth fills my soul. Miss Yen has invested her limited time arranging this opportunity. She believes in me. “Thank you, Miss Yen.”
“Thank me by doing some work for a change.” My boss turns toward her computer screen, dismissing me.
Chapter Eight
* * *
FOUR HOURS LATER Nate leans against the door frame of my new office, his arms crossed, his expression cool and contained. “The view in here has improved.”
“Ha.” I’m draped over my desk, my leather-clad ass in the air, as I plug in my phone charger. “I’m still working out the bugs.” I straighten. “But what do you think?
” I glance around myself with pride.
The desk, chair, computer equipment, and other office essentials were already in the room when I arrived, their existence erasing any lingering doubts I had about Miss Yen’s intentions. I arranged the makeshift office quickly and dedicated the rest of the morning to my project, openly answering my phone and replying to e-mails, no longer worrying about anyone overhearing me.
“I think you need one of these.” Nate places a green fountain pen on my desk. None of his pens had been green. My chest warms. He bought this gift especially for me.
“It’s beautiful, lover.” I skim my fingers over its barrel. The gold nib is exquisite and the engraving is fine. “Thank you.”
“The person with the pen holds all of the power.” He gazes across the small space, his eyes unfocused and his lips flat.
“A pen signs checks,” I add quietly, now understanding their significance. He collected eighteen pens representing the eighteen years his dad paid child support, having control over him, over his mom.
Nate nods.
“I’m keeping the pen, I’ll always treasure it, but I’m returning the power. Power isn’t a hippie need.” I press my body against his, regaining my solemn executive’s attention. “We’re all about love, peace, and freedom.” I swivel my hips, teasing him. “Be free with me, Nate. Cast your material things aside.” I throw my hands back and fall.
He hooks his arms around my waist, catching me. “You’re crazy.” He gives me one of his small smiles. “And we’re late for lunch.”
“Yes, lunch.” I straighten. “I’m starving.”
“You’re always starving.” His eyes glint.
“I have a healthy appetite . . . for everything.” I hold Nate’s hand as we walk down the hallway. My coworkers stare at us, the whispers swelling in waves of sound, gossip spreading. I don’t care. I have a parent to meet. “What will you do if your mom doesn’t like me?”
We enter the elevator. “She won’t like you.” There’s zero doubt in Nate’s voice.
“What?” I blink, temporarily stunned speechless by his honesty. “Why? Because I have green hair, multiple piercings, don’t fit into her white-bread-eating world? She can suck my—”
“She doesn’t like anyone,” he adds.
“Oh.” My righteous rage oozes from my bones and I frown. “Your mom has to like someone. She loves you, doesn’t she?”
Nate says nothing, his face darkening.
“She wouldn’t have lunch with you if she didn’t love you.” I move closer to him, brushing against his body.
“These lunches have a price.” His voice is soft.
He pays his mom to see him? I tilt back my head and gaze up at him, not hiding my disbelief. Nate reaches into his jacket and shows me a thick white business envelope.
I squeeze his hand. “You’re paying me also, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. Money has no bearing on emotions.”
“It has no bearing on your emotions. You’re a hippie.” Nate’s eyes glitter. “Not everyone grows their own herbs and wears the same suit until the fabric dissolves.” His smile returns.
I narrow my eyes. “Are you mocking me?”
“No way, man.”
I swallow my laughter, captivated by this playful side of my serious executive. “Do you want me to tell you off? Because I will and it won’t be pretty. I know some foul words.”
“I realize that.” He chuckles. “I heard your singing this morning.” The elevator doors open, and Nate leads me into the underground parking lot. The stagnant air smells of exhaust fumes and Mother Earth’s tears. “I enjoyed the dancing also. I’d pay money to see that.” He opens his car’s passenger door.
“There’s no need to pay more money.” I sit down. “The singing and dancing and telling off are free, part of the many services I offer.”
He shuts the door between us, moves to the driver’s side, fills the sedan with his big body and crisp clean scent. “Don’t ever change, Camille.”
“I don’t plan to change.” I gaze at him, his casual comment tugging at my heart, making me want to believe in him, in us, in tomorrow.
I can’t believe. Our contract only lasts a month. I can’t ever forget that.
Nate drives with a grim determination, as though he’s trekking into battle, his shoulders stiff and his back straight. The houses become bigger, the streets cleaner and better maintained, the colors brighter.
“Don’t worry. Your mom will love me,” I declare.
Nate’s gaze slides to my face and then returns to the road. “You’ve set unreasonable expectations for this appointment.”
“I’m not saying she’ll declare her undying devotion during the entree.” I laugh. “I’d settle for her simply agreeing to contact me.”
“She’ll disappoint you.”
“You’re underestimating me, Nate.” I place my hand on his thigh and rub my fingertips into his muscles, massaging him, excited by this new challenge. “I’ve accomplished the impossible before.”
“If anyone can do it you can,” Nate murmurs, his faith in me buoying my spirits even more. He turns the car into a small street. Baskets of flowers line the sidewalk. Fine metalwork decorates the always-lit streetlights. Women with big hats, bigger sunglasses, and tiny dogs sit on restaurant patios, drinking coffee and talking on cell phones.
Nate parks in front of one of these hoity-toity restaurants. A doorman opens the door for me, holds out a gloved hand, helps me out of the vehicle. The neatly dressed young man lifts his gaze to my green hair. His smile doesn’t flicker.
The restaurant patrons aren’t as professional as the doorman. They stare at me, hiding their moving red lips behind finely manicured fingers, the sun’s rays reflecting off their perfect nail polish.
I press my fingertips into my palms, concealing my blunt unpolished fingernails, not wishing to give the women anything else to mock. Nate hands his car keys and a folded bill to the valet and joins me on the sidewalk, taking one of my hands, linking our fingers together.
A beaming doorman holds the door open for us and we enter the restaurant. The tables are spaced far apart, every seat filled by men in dark suits or women in sleek fitted dresses. The tablecloths are white, the silverware gleams, and the crystal dazzles. Delicate white orchids sprout from round black pots. A tantalizing hint of spice lingers in the air, teasing my nostrils.
The restaurant is tasteful, stylish, and clearly a regular haunt of Nate’s. As he guides me through the space patrons and employees greet him by name and gaze speculatively at me.
“They think you’re a rock star,” he murmurs, leaning closer to me as we walk. “They’re expecting a show.” He puts his arm around me, publicly claiming me as his lunch date.
“I never do what anyone expects.” I thrust back my shoulders, pride fusing my spine. With Nate I’m not a freak, a target of scorn. I’m a rock star, a woman to be envied.
Nate splays his fingers over my hip, his hand warming the leather, warming me, and leads me to a secluded corner of the restaurant. The table is beautifully set for three, the lighting low and the atmosphere romantic.
“This is very cozy,” I comment. Nate holds my chair and I grin as I sit down. “I thought we were having lunch with your mom.”
His eyes gleam. “This is the best table.” Nate claims the seat beside me, pressing his leg against mine, reestablishing our physical connection. “And my mother will be joining us.” He reaches inside his suit jacket as if to seek reassurance that the envelope hasn’t escaped. “I have something she wants.”
His mom wants money, her payment for spending time with him. “You have something I want also.” I slowly lower my gaze, openly admiring his broad shoulders, firm chest, big hands. “Lover.” I linger over the endearment, relishing each syllable.
“I’ll give that to you later,” Nate promises. “If you’re good.” He pours white wine into my glass.
“Oh, I’m never good.” I dip my finger into the liquid and rub
the rim of the glass round and round, making the crystal sing. “I’m a naughty, naughty girl.” I lean toward him, speaking softer. “Don’t you know that?”
“I had my suspicions.” Nate drops his gaze to my lips. “You—”
He turns his head, his spine straightening. “She’s here.” Nate’s face hardens and his expression cools. I shiver. He’s the Iceman once more.
A woman’s voice grows louder. Her tone is bored and her greetings are insincere. This must be Nate’s mom. She knows everyone and likes no one. I fidget in my seat, eager to meet her, to face this challenge.
“Viola.” Nate stands, his emotions concealed by a protective layer of ice.
Viola? I scramble to my feet. He calls his mom by her first name?
A tiny woman with Nate’s golden hair and chilly demeanor traipses toward us, her painfully thin body clad in a winter-white skirt suit. My anticipation builds as she approaches. Nate’s subzero super shield is thin and penetrable. His beautiful mother is cold to the bone, her blue eyes hard and brittle.
“Nathan.” There’s no affection in her voice. “Do we have to continue with this dreary lunch business?” She waves her gloved hands, maintaining her distance from her son. She doesn’t kiss him, doesn’t hug him, doesn’t touch him. “I had to cancel a manicure with Frederick and he’s impossible to book.”
“Let me guess.” I force my smile. It’s game time. “He’s the best.”
“Of course. I only deal with the best.” Nate’s mom looks me up and down. Her top lip curls. “You’ve brought a guest with you,” she addresses her son, ignoring me. “How trying.”
“I know I’m trying,” I quip, my smile becoming genuine. She’s a worthy opponent. “I’m Camille, Nate’s lover. Should I call you Mom?”
“No, you should not.” She gazes around her. A waiter stands by the wall, his expression blank. No one else is situated near us. “Since you insist upon talking to me, my name is Viola.”
Nate’s eyes glitter as he pulls out her chair. My new buddy, Viola, sits primly, her back straight, her body rigid, her lips pursed with disapproval.