by Jana Aston
Sandra isn’t easy. By any definition. And then there’s Sawyer. I don’t think he’s fucking around with me about staying away from her. His opinion doesn’t dictate my life, but how far do I want to push this? Is a quick fling with the alluring Miss Adams worth pissing Sawyer off? Not really. When it ends will she be okay with seeing me every day at work? It’s never been a problem for me before, but I find myself thinking that Sandra isn’t like my normal workplace tryst.
I’m pulled from my thoughts when I hear my name called out, the sound loud against the marble flooring of the Ritz-Carlton lobby. I eye the elevator that’s just opened before me and wipe the annoyed expression off my face before I turn around. I was seconds away from the safety of the party—surrounded by people. Now I’m stuck alone with whoever is yelling for me when I already know that I’m not interested. My feelings are confirmed when she adds, “Yoo-hoo, Gabe,” as I’m turning. Jesus Christ. Yoo-hoo? Is this chick serious?
I turn and find it’s not one woman, but three. I don’t normally get hit on in threes, but I can’t say it’s never happened. Do I know the woman who’s calling my name and waving? I think I’ve seen her before but I can’t place her. It’s probably someone from advertising. That entire group is so fucking annoying. Do I know any of these women? I smile my friendly smile and glance at the two women she’s with. A pretty girl with auburn hair and a knock-out blonde. No, not a knock-out blonde. Fuck me, that’s Sandra, a barely dressed version of Sandra. Fucking hell.
They reach me and Sandra introduces me to the other two: Sawyer’s girlfriend and the girlfriend’s friend, I’m told. I’m not that interested in introductions, not when Sandra’s wearing a goddamned skirt a good eight inches shorter than anything I’ve ever seen her in. She’s wearing a blazer over it, bare underneath. It’s buttoned, but there’s enough skin exposed that I know if I slipped my hand inside to cup her tit I’d find she’s not wearing a bra. Fuck, now that image is in my head.
“So you came alone?” Everly asks, interrupting my contemplation of Sandra’s clothing, or lack thereof. She’s nosey, this one. I’m going to venture a guess that she’s a bit bossy as well.
“I did,” I reply and watch as she has some unspoken conversation with the friend, Chloe, conveyed by a glance and a shrug. Fascinating creatures, women. I’m not sure what they’re agreeing or arguing about but I don’t really give a shit. How have I never noticed how long Sandra’s legs are? She’d have no trouble wrapping them around me and hooking her heels together.
“What is it you do, exactly?” I pose the question to Everly. I know she doesn’t work at Clemens, my memory returning to me that I have seen her once before, in an elevator with Sandra wearing a guest badge. She seems a little on the young side though so my curiosity is piqued.
“Who the hell knows,” she says, throwing up her hands. “I’m graduating in May, I haven’t figured it out just yet.”
A college student? I almost laugh out loud. Fucking Sawyer. What is she, twenty-one, twenty-two? And he gave me shit about Sandra being young? Hell, Sandra must have four years on this girl.
The elevator stops on two and Everly doesn’t waste a second grabbing Chloe and ditching us, so that I’m left alone with Sandra, which I appreciate, so a point for Everly.
A waiter passes with a tray of champagne flutes. I grab two and hand one to Sandra. She says thank you then promptly stares into the glass, sucking her bottom lip between her teeth. I’m not sure where this shyness comes from. If it’s because of me, or if it’s her default setting. “I like your skirt,” I offer by way of conversation. Nice, dickhead.
“Oh.” Her eyes fly up to mine, down to the skirt and back. “It’s not mine. Everly made me change.”
Hmm. Everly’s not so bad.
“Well, it works on you,” I say, and her cheeks flush at the compliment. “Perhaps you should keep it and wear it to the next quarterly meeting,” I tease, like a goddamned idiot because her eyes widen and her gaze returns to the glass in her hand.
“Don’t worry, I would never wear something so inappropriate to the office.” She shakes her head, gaze down.
Fuck me, this girl. She evokes something in me. I want to take this weight of shyness off her shoulders. I want to strip her bare, run my hands over every inch of her until she abandons the blushing and begs me for more. I want to touch her everywhere, find out what makes her back arch and her toes curl, to see what she looks like when she comes. For me.
“Sandra—” I begin, but I’m interrupted by a hand on my arm.
Eileen slinks her arm around mine and Sandra takes a step back, as if she’s the one intruding. Before I can say another word, Sandra mumbles something I can’t even catch and gives a little wave as she walks away, leaving me alone with Eileen.
“You looked like you needed saving,” Eileen purrs, dropping her grip on me and winking, as if we’re co-conspirators.
“Did I?” I respond, not caring if my expression is filled with the boredom I feel. Eileen is beautiful, I know that logically, even if I’m not feeling it. She’s tall and blonde, similar to Sandra, yet more polished. Her hair is filled with platinum streaks I’m sure are meticulously reapplied every four weeks. Her skin is bronzed with the hint of a holiday spent somewhere tropical and her figure implies she tends to it daily. Her makeup is applied with an expert hand. She’ll probably offer herself up to me before this conversation is over. Yet I’m distracted by a girl with honey-blonde hair I’m positive she was born with and soft curves that interest me far more than anything Eileen can create in the gym.
What surprises me though, as I look at Eileen, is that she would have interested me once. She’s exactly my type; maybe I’m just having an off night? I keep my eyes on Sandra while Eileen chats away, watching as she disappears into one of the game rooms with the Chloe girl. My thoughts are interrupted when Eileen asks if I’m listening to her. I’m not.
“I’m sorry, what were you saying?” I ask her, finally looking at her for the first time in minutes.
“I was asking if you wanted to grab a drink later.” She places a hand on my arm again as she asks. Do women always touch me when they flirt? I’ve honestly never noticed before. It’s only caught my attention recently because Sandra doesn’t touch me.
The party ends after midnight and there’s a fully stocked open bar, so I’ll take the invitation to grab a drink later for what it is—an offer to take her home. I decline in a way that won’t embarrass her then excuse myself and head to the bar. I need a drink and this champagne shit isn’t cutting it.
I’m waylaid before I make it ten feet. Too many people who want a minute, to introduce their dates, to wish me an early ‘Happy New Year.’ I remind myself that this party isn’t about me, it’s for the employees, a thank you for another great year. Sawyer’s been throwing this party for years. We started off with the traditional pre-Christmas parties and found them stuffy and time-consuming during a period where everyone is already stressed for time. We quickly transformed the annual holiday party into a New Year’s Eve blowout, encouraging employees to bring whoever they wanted and to have a good time at our expense. It’s good to be rich.
I finally make it to the bar on the far side of the room, the one set up outside the two event rooms that’ve been transformed into gaming spaces. Big-screen TVs hooked to all the latest in video entertainment, partygoers duking it out to a variety of games. Sandra went inside a few minutes ago, again with Chloe by her side. I consider following them in but decide against it, grabbing a drink instead. I’m not going to jockey for Sandra’s attention in the bedlam of the game room. I wonder if that note from the quarterly meeting was a joke of sorts? She’s a bundle of contradictions, I think as Hilary from the licensing department slides up, immediately touching me with one hand and the neckline of her dress with the other. I recognize it for what it is, a subtle invitation. When did I become so jaded?
Everly eyes me from twenty feet away, Sawyer’s arm wrapped around he
r. She eyes Hilary too, and I can see the annoyance on her face from here. I’m not sure what that’s about but I don’t have to wonder for long as they’re headed my way.
Sawyer introduces Everly to Hilary before asking me if I saw the last Flyers game. We’re deep into the raving over Schenn’s last faceoff when Everly interrupts.
“How long have you two known each other?” she asks, suspicion in her tone, glancing between me and Sawyer.
“Since Harvard,” I reply. “Roommates,” I add.
“Uh-huh,” she replies, eyes flicking to Sawyer for a brief moment before she smiles big and pulls a cell phone out from somewhere. “Oh!” she exclaims. “Oh, my!” Her eyes widen and her hand flies up to cover her mouth, which she’s dropped open in pretend shock. She cannot be serious.
I look at Sawyer to gauge his read on this little show; he looks amused but not surprised. I’m guessing theatrics are a regular part of time spent with Everly. She’s a hell of a lot more entertaining than his usual dates, I’ll give him that.
“Sandra isn’t feeling well,” she announces. “Headache,” she adds with a little shrug of her shoulders and a glance at her phone before turning her attention on me. “Gabe, could you drive her home?”
Well, I didn’t see that coming. A grin slips out before I can stop it; Sawyer’s eyes narrow on me, so I cover my mouth with my hand before moving it to rub at my temples in contemplation.
“Sure, sure,” I agree, trying not to smile again. What a little schemer Everly is, and well, okay, I officially like her. If I have to pick between Everly and Sawyer, I’m Team Everly.
I say goodnight and head into the game room to collect Sandra. It’s loud as fuck in here, and I have a brief thought that Sandra might have an actual headache until I spot her sitting on one of the sofas set around the room for the event. Her head is bowed, bottom lip between her teeth listening to something Chloe is telling her. If I had to hazard a guess I’d say she’s giving her a pep talk.
Again I find myself curious about this girl. I’ve had two offers for sex in less than an hour but Sandra has to be convinced to leave with me? I know those sex quiz answers were hers, but maybe she’s into a fantasy version of me and finds the reality lacking.
They stop talking as I approach, Chloe patting Sandra’s bare knee. I stop directly in front of them, so Sandra is forced to tilt her head back to look at me. Her lashes flutter against her cheeks and her pupils widen. Enough of this shit. I’m not misreading the situation. She wants me.
“So let’s go,” I say, eyes on hers. She nods and stands; I want to hold out my hand to help her, walk her to the car with my hand on her back, but I’m conscious of where we are, surrounded by co-workers. So I turn and walk, leaving her to trail behind me until we reach the elevators. We pass Sawyer and Everly on the way out, Everly beaming smugly while Sawyer shakes his head and mouths, No. Dick. I’m tempted to flip him off but again, mindful of my surroundings, I ignore them both and keep walking.
“I’m sorry.” This is from Sandra—the first words she’s spoken—while we’re standing outside waiting on my car.
“For?” I ask, not having any idea what she’s talking about.
“For making you leave the party early. I’m sorry. I, um, Everly…” She’s babbling now.
“It’s not a problem,” I say, adding a smile that’s known to get me whatever the fuck I want.
This girl really has no clue.
That party is the last place I wanted to be.
Five
Sandra
The valet pulls up in a sleek sedan. It’s a pearly white, spotless even in winter. I find myself wondering if Gabe gets it washed daily or if it stays this clean by magic. Gabe opens the passenger door for me and I slide inside, immediately realizing that a short skirt becomes even shorter when sitting. I tug the hem down and lock my knees together as Gabe circles the car and climbs in behind the wheel.
I think he’s looking at my bare legs. He’s silent, his head tilted in my direction. I squirm a little in the seat and rub my palms over my exposed thighs.
“Cold?” he asks.
“I’m okay,” I reply, but of course I shiver a little as I say it. I move my hands to pull my coat tighter, which leaves my legs exposed again, so I drop them to my lap and fiddle with the hem of my skirt.
“There’s a seat warmer,” he says, pushing a button with a laugh. I’m not sure if he’s laughing at my lie about not being cold or laughing at my obvious discomfort over the length of my skirt. Then he moves the car into drive and asks for my address before I can give it any more thought.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, after giving him my address. “I know it’s a little out of the way.” I live about seven miles from the hotel, not far, but not close. The area of Philadelphia I live in is more residential, less downtown high-rise. It’s not as trendy as Center City, but it included parking and made me feel safe. It was a good transition for me when I moved from Delaware two years ago, and I liked it so I renewed my lease.
“It’s not a problem,” he says, pulling the car into traffic. The car is silent, save for the click of the turn signal while we wait to make a left turn onto John F Kennedy Boulevard.
The silence is making me crazy, and I almost blurt out that he smells nice, but rein it in before I embarrass myself. “Your car smells nice,” I blurt out instead. Wow, my conversational skills are stellar. “I mean, your car is nice. What is it?” I ask in a rush.
“It’s a Tesla,” he responds, with a quick glance my way.
“Nice.”
“Thanks.”
Well, this is going well. I cross my legs out of habit and it hikes the skirt damn near to my crotch. Gabe clears his throat as I hastily uncross my legs and yank the skirt back into place, glad he can’t see my cheeks flush in the dark car. Holy shit, he must think I’m throwing myself at him. As if I would ever do that. No. If a man is interested in me, he’ll let me know.
And Gabe Laurent is never going to be interested in me, not really. Not at all, probably. He’s almost a decade older than me. He’s almost my boss—close enough, anyway. He’s gorgeous. Like, ideally gorgeous. And he just broke up with a model. I sigh. Gabe’s a stupid fantasy, nothing more.
“Everything okay?” Gabe asks, presumably responding to my sigh. “How’s your headache?”
Oh, right. My headache. Thanks, Everly. “Oh, it’s okay, thank you.” Wait, did I just admit that I don’t have a headache? “I mean, it’s still there, obviously. Headaches don’t just disappear, unless you take an aspirin. Which I did. So, you know, it’ll be gone soon.” OMG, stop talking! So I do, and the car falls into silence again.
“Did you have a nice Christmas?” I ask a moment later, trying to defuse the awkwardness of this car ride. He shrugs, and I feel stupid for asking. It’s none of my business. I don’t even know who he spent Christmas with, or where he spent it. I know he’s from Ohio—he mentioned that once, over a year ago and I committed it to memory. He went to Harvard, same as Sawyer, then moved to Philadelphia after graduate school to help Sawyer run the company. But beyond that I don’t know much; I don’t know how much family he still has in Ohio, if any.
“I visited the family for a few days. It’s always good to go home.”
“In Ohio?” I ask, and immediately wish I could retract it. I shouldn’t know he’s from Ohio, he’s literally mentioned it one time, and, well, he wasn’t even speaking to me. I overheard it. It’s official, I’m pathetic.
But he doesn’t seem to notice my stalker question because he replies no, that his parents retired to Savannah a few years ago and he went down to visit them.
“What about you? Did you have a good holiday with your family?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Are they local?” he asks, because you know, he’s not stalking me so he doesn’t have this information tucked away.
“I’m from Delaware. The Newark area,” I answer, naming a city that’s about an h
our from Philadelphia as my phone buzzes and I scramble to open my clutch, grateful for the interruption. It’s Everly.
Home yet?
No.
How is it going?
Awkward.
Huh, really?
Terrible.
But you’re almost home?
Probably five minutes.
“Everything okay?” Gabe asks as I stuff the phone back in my clutch.
“Yeah, fine. Thank you. My turn is coming up, take a left on Presidential.”
He nods, but doesn’t say anything.
“The seat warmer is nice,” I offer. I need to shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up.
We’re stopped at a light and he glances down at my bare legs on his heated leather car seat and smirks. “I would imagine so,” he says.
The light changes and I direct him to my apartment. He pulls into a space in front of my building and puts the car in park.
“Thanks again, thank you. For the ride.” Nice babbling, Sandra. “Okay, thanks!” I add and throw the car door open, slamming it shut behind me. I make it to the front of the car before I hear a second car door slam and see Gabe moving to the front of the car as well.
“What are you doing?”
“Walking you to your door,” he says, with a smile. “It’s late, and dark,” he adds, glancing around.
Of course. Of course he would do that. I nod and start walking, his footsteps solid and reassuring behind me. The sidewalks have been salted due to the cold weather and my heels crunch over the granules as I walk. My bare legs are freezing and I’m really missing the pants I was wearing when I left home. I reach my door and dig out my key.
“This is me,” I say, shoving the key into the lock. I turn and find him standing there, hands in his coat pocket, silent. Um, what else am I supposed to say? He cocks an eyebrow, even more adorable with his glasses on, but says nothing. It feels like a million years of awkward silence pass. What is he waiting for? Oh, I should thank him. “Thank you for walking me to the door,” I say, thumbing behind me. “Okay, thanks. Goodnight,” I add, then slip inside and shut the door.