by Cynthia Sax
Nothing he receives is certain. I dictate what I do, say, eat, and wear. I decide whether or not we have sex. I can decide to give him no orgasms, not to kiss him back, not to touch him. He doesn’t curtail my freedom at all.
Because Nate didn’t craft our agreement to control me. I hold the papers against my chest. He was ensuring he didn’t disappoint me, guaranteeing my expectations would be met, trying to make me happy, to take care of me.
And I hadn’t even taken the time to read it.
My phone buzzes. I glance at the screen. I’ve received a meeting request for next Tuesday at five o’clock with Mr. Blaine, the CEO and founder of Blaine Technologies. The subject is mentoring and the meeting reoccurs once a month for a year.
I accept, of course. I may be rash and reckless and completely heartbroken, but I’m not an idiot. Having Mr. Blaine as a mentor is the equivalent of winning the lottery for any entrepreneur.
I’m his wife’s friend. That must be why I’ve landed these highly coveted meetings. He heard I was working on a project and wishes to help.
A small voice inside me whispers bullshit. This voice, originating from the region around my heart, knows Anna hasn’t arranged these mentoring sessions.
Three minutes later I receive another invite. This monthly after-hours meeting is with the chief marketing officer, a man whom I’ve only met once in my life. I accept, stunned by my sudden popularity, and the voice inside me grows louder.
Anna, my friend, has baby brain. She wouldn’t have arranged this second meeting. She doesn’t care enough.
Only one person on the planet cares this much. He knows what this project means to me and he promised to fix everything. He always keeps his word.
As I accept one meeting I receive a request for another. By ten o’clock I have monthly meetings set with almost all of the executive team. I also have no doubt about who is driving this activity.
Nate calls me, his number appearing on my phone’s small screen. I shouldn’t answer. My emotions are exposed, my soul vulnerable. But I can’t not speak to him, can’t forgo this opportunity to hear his voice, maybe for the last time.
“Camille speaking,” I answer, striving for a professional tone while my heart pounds in my chest.
“This is Nate,” he says. There’s a long gut-twisting pause. “I never listen to hip-hop. I don’t know any of the songs.”
He called me to talk about music? I shake my head, confused. “I’ll send you my playlist.”
“I’d like that.” There’s another long stretch of silence. Papers rustle and a chair creaks. “A couple should know each other’s favorite songs.”
A couple? My hands tremble. “I thought you ended our relationship.”
“I ended our agreement, not us, never us,” Nate clarifies. “I want us to have a normal relationship.”
He never ended us. My heart squeezes. He wants to spend time with me, be my lover. “Nate, love, we’ll never have a normal relationship.” I smile, dazed by his revelation. “I grew up on a hippie commune. I’m a hacker, a former Goth girl. I have green hair and a tattoo and multiple piercings. I don’t know what normal is.”
Nate chuckles, the sound low and deep. “I don’t know what normal is either. And I don’t want normal. I want you. I want you to choose to be with me.”
“I always chose to be with you.” I cradle the phone against my face, wishing I could touch him. “I consulted my heart, not the contract, when I made decisions.”
The line goes quiet. Nate wants a normal relationship. We could start with a normal conversation. “If you don’t listen to hip-hop what do you listen to?” My bet is on classical. Nate seems like a Beethoven type of guy.
“I listen to country.” He surprises me.
“Country?” I laugh, unable to picture my sophisticated executive wearing a cowboy hat and boots. “Why?”
“I like the lyrics,” Nate explains. “The singers talk about real life, real emotions.” We yap about music, TV shows, movies, neither of us having much time to indulge in either of the latter. The topics are intentionally light, steering away from more serious issues. I tease him about his eclectic tastes, his not caring about popular opinion. He likes what he likes, screw the critics, and I love that about him. I love him.
We finally end the call. I glance at my phone’s screen and blink. An hour has passed. I gingerly navigate the hard gravel, the stones digging into my bare feet. Nate cares for me. The hot sidewalk sears the tiny wounds on my soles. He might not love me, but I know he cares for me.
I enter the office building. The cool air blasts my heated cheeks. The equally chilly floor tiles soothe my aching feet.
“Walk with me.” Mr. Henley, the big brutish head of cybersecurity, appears out of the shadows and matches my stride, his scarred face hard, his suit, shirt, and shoes as black as night. He doesn’t walk casually with anyone. He’s stalking me for a reason and that reason isn’t good.
I’m in trouble. Again. “Mr. Henley.” I suspect not wearing shoes violates Blaine Technologies’ rigid dress code. We enter the elevator. I press the button for the legal floor. Mr. Henley presses the button for his floor.
“Due to security concerns I don’t normally mentor anyone outside of my department,” Mr. Henley rumbles.
I nod, knowing this information. When I first joined the company I had brazenly asked him to mentor me, and did some extremely stupid things to try to impress him, almost losing Kat’s friendship in the process. Mr. Henley had turned me down cold, threatening to fire my defiant ass.
“But as your mentorship request comes from Mr. Lawford, I’ll make an exception,” the scary executive concedes. “I owe him a few favors and this is the first time he has collected on one.”
Mr. Henley owes my strong and silent man favors. I gulp. Nate constantly surprises me, keeping me challenged, excited, head-over-heels in love with him. “Do many of the executives owe Nate favors?”
“Yes.” Mr. Henley’s dark eyes gleam. “We all owe Mr. Lawford favors. He’s a good man, Camille, and he cares for you. Try not to break too many of his rules.”
“Many of his rules need to be broken,” I mutter, Mr. Henley’s insights secretly thrilling me. “Do you truly think he cares for me?” I ask.
“A couple of months ago an urgent business issue arose. I tried to talk to Mr. Lawford about it in the parking garage.” Mr. Henley shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “He said he’d meet with me at eight o’clock, told me he had an elevator to catch.”
“I was taking that elevator car,” I share. “Nate wanted to see me.” He has cared about me for months, before we touched, before we kissed.
“I’m aware of that,” Mr. Henley says dryly. “I suggest you find your shoes.” The elevator doors open. “And remember that the cameras in the elevators and the shredding room are fully functional.” He steps out of the car.
Nate and I had sexual encounters in both places. I grin. We must have given Mr. Henley’s security team quite a show.
Chapter Thirteen
* * *
AS I ENTER my shredding room office, the soothing scent of mint fills my nostrils, a fragrance I will forever associate with Nate. The lush green herb is set on my desk. Its shiny white pot matches my executive’s black-and-white kitchen.
A folded piece of fine white card stock leans against the plant. Nate’s distinctive handwriting flows in heavy black ink across its surface.
I humbly request the honor of your presence for lunch.
Twelve noon.
My office.
No RSVP is necessary.
Nate
I trace the words and smile. This wonderful man is courting me, quirky crazy Camille Joplin Trent. He’s making one of my secret dreams come true.
I access Nate’s schedule, prepared to set up the appointment for lunch. This isn’t required. He has already blocked the hour, today, tomorrow. My heart skips a beat. Forever. Ten years from today’s date there’s a meeting labeled Lunch With Camill
e on Nate’s busy timetable.
The default for executive meetings is private, with only the participants having access to the details. Nate has designated our lunch dates to be public. Everyone in the company will see he’s spending this hour with me.
Forever.
He loves me. And I love him. I know what he needs, what will make him happy. I spend the next thirty minutes painstakingly changing our contract by hand, tweaking every clause using the green pen Nate gave me. My Iceman needs this agreement, needs this structure, as I need the freedom to rebel, to express my emotions, to be me. I embrace and love this part of him.
Mr. Henley sends me a recurring meeting request. I’ll accept it later, my focus now on my relationship with Nate. I can’t change the world without him. We’re a team.
I clip the pen to the first couple of pages of the amended contract, hug the document to my chest, and exit my makeshift office, humming as I move along the hallway. A strange calmness falls upon me, a sense of rightness.
I should be freaking out. With this new agreement I’m committing to Nate forever, establishing rules I’ll be forced to follow, setting expectations I’ll have to fulfill. The crazy thing is I want to follow these rules. I want to fulfill Nate’s expectations of me. I want forever.
I press the button for the elevator once and the doors open, the elevator gods rewarding me for my restraint. The car is empty and the trip is express, the only stop being the finance floor. I don’t have time for second thoughts.
Not that I have second thoughts. I’m more certain about this, about us, than I’ve ever been about anything.
I exit the elevator car. Gladys is seated at her post. She glances down at my bare feet and sighs. “Mr. Lawford is expecting you, Miss Trent.” She places her palms on her desk and pushes her plump body out of her chair. “I’ll bring you to him.”
I raise my eyebrows. “That isn’t necessary. I know the way.”
“That is necessary.” Gladys walks along the hallway and I follow her, matching her slower pace. “Mr. Lawford has designated you as a tier-one guest. Tier-one guests are escorted to his office. They have unlimited access to him. If you need to speak to him and he’s in a meeting, you can call me and I’ll locate him.”
I’m designated as a tier-one guest. This is how important I am to Nate. “Whoa.”
“Yes, whoa.” Gladys smiles. “Mr. Blaine, our CEO, is the only other guest Mr. Lawford has designated as being tier one.”
I’m on par with his boss. Nate loves me. I know he does.
The floor is quiet. I catch glimpses of faces, Nate’s employees furtively watching us as we walk toward his office. Gossip spreads like wildfire in an office. I stand straighter. Everyone will know how much Nate cares for me.
We approach his office. The door is closed. “I’m canceling Mr. Lawford’s meetings for the day.” Gladys pushes her glasses up on her nose. “He’s a good boss, Miss Trent. His team would do anything for him, and we want him to be happy.”
“That’s what I want too, Gladys.” I summon a smile, determined to meet this new challenge.
“I know.” The receptionist raps her knuckles on the door. “Mr.—”
Nate swings the door open, his presence sucking all of the oxygen out of the space, leaving me breathless. “Thank you, Gladys,” he rumbles. “That will be all.” He doesn’t look at his receptionist, his gaze fixed on my face.
His black suit, white shirt, and black tie are immaculate, his collar and cuffs stiff and perfect. His golden hair is darkened with moisture, as though he has recently showered. There’s no shadow of stubble on his defined jaw. I inhale. He smells delicious, fresh and sexy and overwhelmingly male.
Nate is studying me closely, his expression hungry, warm, no trace of the Iceman in his handsome face. “You came.”
“I haven’t come yet.” I speak softly, conscious of the ears listening to our conversation, wishing for only him to hear me. “But I’m hoping you’ll rectify this problem.”
Nate’s lips lift, his pale gray eyes glimmering with unspoken promises. “I’ll add it to our list.” He guides me into his office and closes the door behind me.
A table for two has been set up in front of the windows. “Is this the best seat in the house?” I tease. The tablecloth and china plates are pure white, the silverware shines, the crystal wineglasses sparkle, and the electric candlesticks flicker.
“Our meals will arrive soon.” Nate takes my left hand, lifts it to his lips. “I thought we’d talk first.” He turns my hand and presses a kiss into the center of my palm. My fingers tremble. “Get to know each other more.”
He’s opening all of his doors to me. “Or we could negotiate first.” My voice is husky. “And then have wild crazy make-up sex.” I press my body against his, giving him the contact I know he craves.
Nate hardens, his eyes darkening. “Camille.” He slides his hands down my back, leaving a trail of decadent sensation.
“We should talk first.” I tear myself away from his sexy physique. He needs the structure of our agreement as much as he needs my touch. “I amended our contract.” I wave the papers.
“I asked you to shred that damn thing.” My sexy executive scowls. “You’re not my whore; you never were, and I won’t tolerate anyone insulting you, hurting you.”
“Good.” I saunter to the guest chair, swaying my hips. “Because I hurt myself enough as it is.” I lift my right foot, showing him my sole.
“What did you do?” He rushes toward me. “You’re bleeding.” He drops to his knees, carefully encircles my ankle with his fingers and examines my foot. “Sit,” he commands, his voice allowing no refusal.
I sit down, bemused. He strides to the small bar fridge near his desk, extracts a bottle of water, and returns to my side. “There’s a reason our dress code requires shoes,” he grumbles, wetting his handkerchief. “I’ll ask Gladys to buy you some flip-flops. Until then you aren’t walking anywhere.”
“How will I get around?” I smile, his overreaction confirming my suspicions. He loves me. He must. “Will you carry me wherever I want to go?”
“Yes, I’ll carry you.” Nate carefully dabs the soft white cotton over my skin, his blond head bent, his gaze focused on his task, on me. “And I’ll take care of you.”
“Because you love me.” I say the words he won’t.
“I don’t know if I love you.” Nate turns his attention to my left foot, his touch gentle and caring. “Because I don’t know what love is,” my brutally honest executive confesses. “I’ve never felt like this before. When you’re hurt I want to kill whoever caused you pain. When you’re sad I want to hold you. When you’re disappointed I want to fix the problem.”
“Like you fixed my project issues, lining up the mentors for me.” I pet his perfect hair, the strands short and silky. “What else do you feel?” I push him for more, needing to be certain, to have no lingering doubts.
Nate gazes up at me, his eyes gleaming. “All you have to do is look at me and I feel powerful and alive, as though there’s nothing I can’t do. My world is warmer, brighter, filled with joy and laughter. I belong as I’ve never belonged before.”
“You fit.” My voice cracks. He nods. “That’s love, Nate.” I smooth his eyebrows. “That’s how I feel about you.”
He neatly folds his handkerchief, the white square now black with dirt, and places the fabric on a corner of his desk. “Expressing love isn’t a Lawford strength.” Nate’s lips flatten. “I don’t know how to be the man you deserve.” He cups my bare knees, his palms rough and warm. “I don’t know how to earn the right to someday be your husband.”
He wants to marry me. I struggle to control my emotions. “That’s why we need an agreement.” I hand him the contract. “It’s merely a place to start. If a clause doesn’t work for us we’ll amend the agreement, try something different.”
Nate stands and leans back against the desk. He fans the paper once, twice, three times, the pages fluttering. Silence stretches and
anxiety builds within me.
“You eliminated the per diem payment,” he finally says. “Good. We don’t need that clause. I’ll always take care of you, Camille.”
I can take care of myself. I open my mouth to protest.
“Because I want to take care of you,” Nate adds. “Forever.” His gaze meets mine. “I require forever, Camille. You’re the type of woman a man, once he loves, will never be able to release.”
He wants forever. This is how much he loves me. “Those are my terms also.” Emotion chokes my words.
“Then we have a deal.” Nate turns to the desk, unclips my pen, flips to the last page, and signs our agreement, scrawling his name across the white linen paper.
“You should read the contract first, know what you’re signing,” I advise.
“I trust you.” Nate faces me, leaving the contract on the desk. “And I love you. I’ll read it later, learn how to care for you properly.” The desire in his eyes curls my bare toes.
“I’m sorry I gave you the finger.” My chest tightens with love, with need.
“You have no reason to be sorry. You warned me if I ever disappointed you, you’d give me the finger and curse me out.” Nate’s lips lift. “And you did exactly what you promised. You were so angry, so passionate, so unbelievably sexy. I was hard as a rock all morning.”
I drop my gaze. His erection strains against the fabric of his dress pants, the visible proof of his passion drying my mouth. “That must have been uncomfortable during your meetings.” I lick my parched lips.
“Gladys canceled my meetings.” Nate discards his suit jacket, stripping slowly and sensuously, his predatory gaze fixed on my face. “She said I wasn’t acting like myself.” He drops his tie on the carpet.
“Was that the truth?” I unfasten my jacket and peel the leather away from my skin, freeing my breasts.
“No. For the first time in my life I was acting like myself.” Nate flicks the top button of his dress shirt, deepening the exposed V at his throat, his skin golden against the crisp white cotton. “But she was right to cancel my meetings. I don’t want anyone else to see me like this. You’re the only person I trust with my soul.”