He chews the food in his mouth and swallows. “That’s part of it, but also, are you a random hookup type of girl? Am I going to have to worry about introducing you to people only to realize you’ve already screwed them?”
Fuck this asshole! “No, I’m not a random hookup type of girl. I think you’ll be safe.”
“I’m just trying to cover the bases here; no need to take it personally.”
My back straightens. “You know what? Why don’t you tell me about yourself?” This way, I can throw insults his way.
“All right,” he agrees, putting his fork down and wiping his mouth. “I was raised here and at our second home in Malibu. My father, as you know, works with the stock market. Many years later, he ventured out into—”
“Excuse me, but I asked you to tell me about you. Not your father.”
He swallows and I see his left eye twitch—one of the tells that he’s close to biting my head off. “Very well,” he grinds the words out between clenched teeth. “I went to a private prep school where I dominated in academics and sports. I was at the top of my class even though I got mono. And I graduated with honors. From there I went to Harvard, and then to Harvard Law School. The plan was to become a lawyer so I could be hired on at my father’s company, but I was so sick of him and his life that I shunned his offer and ventured out on my own.”
“And by going out on your own, you mean you took your trust fund and started the life you have now, right?” I say motioning around the room with my fork.
He nods slowly. “I did have a trust fund,” he reluctantly agrees.
“So all that talk about working for what you want in life was just bullshit?”
His back straightens. “No! I do work for what I want in life.”
“You do now, but you had a nice, cushy bank account to get you started.”
“Your point?”
“My point is, how do you think you’d be living right now if you hadn’t inherited that trust fund? Would you be living like me in a shitty apartment—wearing clothes you bought from the thrift shop? I mean, you’d be buried in student loan debt. And I bet Harvard would set you back a lot more than my four-year state school—that is, if you could’ve even gotten in without your father’s connections.”
“All right, yes, I will admit that there may be some privilege, but I do work for everything I have now.”
“I’m just saying that the people you think are below you are just the same as you, but they didn’t have a head start in life. They started from the bottom—not already on top.”
“Clearly, we’re not playing nice tonight,” he breathes out, picking up his wine glass.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t get the memo. I just assumed by the shots you were firing my way that it went both ways.”
He pushes away from the table. “I’ll speak with you tomorrow, Poppy. Try to not be late in the morning. You’ll be riding with me and I leave at 6:30 a.m. sharp.” He leaves the dining room and I finally feel comfortable enough to eat.
Four
Matthew
I swear, nothing can aggravate me as much as that woman in there can. Would it kill her to show a little respect? I suppose I was a little hard on her when she was speaking, because I was searching for any way to piss her off. I have to give it to her . . . she did manage to hold her tongue pretty well. Those are exactly the tools she’ll need when she meets my father. I might as well prepare her for what lies ahead.
After getting pissed off at dinner, I go straight to my bathroom to take a steam in my custom sauna before showering. I don’t know what the hell it is about Poppy Russell that drives me wild while simultaneously bringing out the worst in me. I hate that Daniel is right: I treat her like shit because I’m an asshole—an asshole who can’t get her out of my mind. The way she always chews her bottom lip when she’s scrambling to meet my demands, the way she always looks like she half-rolled out of bed . . . something about it just makes me want to bend her over my knee before stripping her naked and worshipping her lithe body.
I’d love to know how she maintains her perfect physique—that tiny waist and those long, lean legs. I lean my head back against the wall as I replay the way she bent over my desk last week. She was frantically mopping up the cup of coffee she’d just spilled on my desk, and instead of being pissed, I couldn’t get past how close her bare neck was to my lips. I inhaled her floral scent and had to physically restrain myself from slipping a hand behind her head and kissing her full, pouty lips. She almost caught me too. She turned around and the look on her face reminded me that I should be angry, so I quickly jumped up and shouted at her. I hate that I’ve played this role for so long that she thinks I actually hate her. I’d give anything to start over, grow some balls, and ask her out. Now she’s my fake fiancée and I need to figure out a way to really sell it.
Which reminds me: I need to get her a ring. And unfortunately, it has to be a real one. One look from my father or grandmother and they’ll know it’s fake and that this whole thing is a sham. But can I even trust her forgetful ass with a $20,000 diamond? Probably not. She’d probably lose it and say that her nonexistent cat ate it. Then she’d turn around and ask me for money to pay for its pretend surgery to retrieve it. No doubt, the vet from Joke’s-on-You clinic wouldn’t be able to recover it, and I’d have an imaginary cat worth $20,000.
While I steam, I keep coming up with ways to torture her. She definitely needs some fine-tuning if I expect her to pass my father and grandmother’s harsh judgments. If she thinks I’m judgmental, she hasn’t seen anything yet. I guess I could spoil her with a spa day so she’ll be more apt to listen to my other suggestions. Maybe that’ll help soften the blow when I tell her she needs a few etiquette lessons. She needs to know when to use the small fork and how to butter her roll before I can present her to my family over dinner. My future looks better and better. She’ll be tortured by everything, and I’ll be amused—watching her pay me back for all the suffering she’s put me through.
I stand up and shower after my steam. I get out, dry off, and pull on my silk pajama bottoms. Walking back into my room, I see it’s only going on 9 p.m. I decide to have a nightcap before bed, needing something to calm my nerves due to having her in my house. Not only does she tease me by simply being present, but I’m also on edge—worrying she’ll burn the place down with a scented candle or some shit. That reminds me . . . new rule: no candles in my house.
I head to the kitchen and pull the bottle of scotch from the cabinet. I take down a glass and pour in the liquid before tossing it back and deciding on another. I pull out my phone, tempted to send a text to my best friend, Foster, to see if he wants to go grab a drink. It’s been five minutes of her living here and I already need to get out. I decide against texting Foster and grab the bottle of scotch. As I’m pouring my second drink, she steps into the kitchen and we both freeze when our eyes land on each other.
She’s wearing a long, oversized T-shirt that hangs down to her mid-thigh. I can’t see any shorts beneath, and that nearly makes my dick jump. Her auburn hair is long and dark—soaking wet as it hangs down on either side of her face. Her face is free of makeup, but her lips look plump and her eyes are almost doe-like.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize you were in here. I was just grabbing some water before bed.” She points toward the fridge.
“Help yourself,” I insist. I step to the side, taking the bottle and glass with me.
She rounds the island in the center of the kitchen and opens the glass door of the fridge, taking out a bottle of water. I can’t help but notice the way that shirt rides up slightly when she reaches for the bottle. She closes the fridge and turns to leave, but stops at the doorway. She turns back to face me, her eyes downcast. “Sorry about dinner tonight.” She shakes her head once and squares her chin. “You’re just really good at pissing me off.”
I smirk. “Ditto,” I agree. “Good night, Poppy.” I raise my glass to her and she turns and leaves me alone, staring after her ro
und ass as it sways back and forth under that thin piece of material.
She’s going to fucking kill me. If not with her words, then with her body I’m not allowed to touch.
Sleep comes easily, but it’s not dreamless. She takes up residence in each dream, forcing her way into my head—almost like I’ve forced my way into her life. The dreams start out looking a lot like the time we’ve spent together: arguing and fighting over whatever stupid issue is at hand. In the first dream, we fight over our living arrangement. In the second dream, we fight over who’s preparing dinner, which I find extremely weird since I have a chef. Slowly but surely, the dreams begin morphing into something else entirely. The fighting stops and a friendship grows. That friendship blossoms into love, which leads to her sleeping in my bed with my arms around her, holding her close to my body and feeling relaxed as I breathe in her scent.
Her body is on top of mine, kissing my neck as she frees me from my pants. Burning heat greets me as she slides down my length, wrapping me up in her taut body. My hands find her hips as her tongue tangles against mine. I can already feel my release rising to the surface and making itself known. She lets out a breathy moan that has me coming undone in ways I never have before. Just as my release rises to the surface, my alarm clock goes off and my eyes pop open.
I’m breathing hard and my forehead is peppered with sweat. I look down my body to make sure she isn’t actually there, even though I know it’s impossible. The bed and the room are completely empty of everything but me. I drop my head back down onto my pillow and work to control my racing heart. After a few seconds of letting that dream slip away, I shut off the alarm and push myself out of bed, going directly into the bathroom to shower for work.
I’d hoped that the shower would help my body relax from the uneasiness of that dream. However, I find myself more and more aggravated. I’ve always had an itch for Poppy, but we’re so different that most of the time, the need for her is forgotten under a bed of arguments and irritation. I was hoping that bringing her into my house and forcing her to play this role would only help that need get pushed further back in my mind. Unfortunately, all it did was bring her to the forefront. Based on that dream, my need for her has only grown. I can no longer ignore that itch. My head dips forward, allowing the water to wash over it. I try pushing all thoughts of her away, but my body betrays me. I’m aching and ready for release. Even with the discipline and control over my own body and mind, I can’t force it down—not even with thoughts of baseball and granny panties.
With a sigh of disappointment, I take myself in hand, working from the tip to my shaft as quickly and aggressively as possible. I try to keep my mind clear as I take care of this problem before it turns into a problem I have all day long. But my self-control is clearly slipping, because even though I started out clearheaded, I’m soon only thinking of her and that dream. I remember her heat as she lowered herself onto me. I remember her hot, soft body pressed against mine, the way she kissed me with so much power and passion, and the way her fingers threaded into my hair—pulling it as small gasps slipped between her lips and mine. It doesn’t take long before I’m emptying myself on the shower floor and letting all my irritation wash down the drain.
A pang of guilt eats at me, but mostly, it’s the aggravation I feel regarding this whole mess. I wonder if Daniel was right. Do I only want her because she’s the only one I can’t have? If that’s the case, then why can’t I have her? I mean, look at me. I’m a young, wealthy, good-looking, healthy guy. Any woman would be proud to have me in her bed for an evening. But with Poppy, it isn’t about the money or power. I wonder what it is that drives her. What is it that she finds attractive in a man? Surely there’s something I can offer.
I dress and step out of my room, going to the dining room for coffee and breakfast. I sit at my usual seat and pick up the paper while my house manager, Jane, pours my coffee and fixes my plate.
“What would you like today, sir?” she asks as she dumps creamer into my cup.
I glance at the selection on the table. “I’ll take some eggs, fruit, and oatmeal please.”
She fixes a plate and places it in front of me as I scan the paper.
My attention is pulled away from my paper when movement catches my eye. I turn my head and find Poppy walking into the dining room, dressed and ready.
“Well, maybe you can be on time after all,” I tease.
She offers up a small smile. “I tried.” She shrugs carelessly.
“Please, sit and have some breakfast. We still have a few minutes before we have to go.”
She moves to the same chair she took last night and begins making her plate as Jane pours her coffee. “This is crazy. All of this food is for you?” she asks, bringing a piece of bacon to her mouth and taking a bite.
Oh, what I wouldn’t do to be that piece of bacon right now. I nod. “For us.”
“This is wasteful. They cook like this every morning?”
“They do.”
“So what happens to the leftovers?”
I frown. She worries about the silliest things. “It’s not wasteful, I have them cook this much because they take it to the homeless shelter over on 53rd.” I can see the shock on her face. “Didn’t know I had a philanthropic heart, did you? Hard to probably see past all that prejudice you have against the wealthy.” I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself.
She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “You should have them donate all that crystal to the homeless as well.”
I snort. “And what would the homeless need crystal for?” I know what she means, but I’m just goading her.
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Uh, sell it, obviously, and actually put the money to good use instead of letting it collect dust.”
“Would it kill you to just eat and not argue?”
“Would it kill you to put that wealth and power to good use?” she throws back, and for once, I’m speechless.
My mouth opens to reply, but it snaps shut and my jaw flexes as I shake my head. “Jane?” I call.
She quickly appears in the doorway. “Yes, sir?”
“Per Poppy’s request, would you and the staff mind packing up the crystal and putting it up for auction at Christie’s? Donate the proceeds to the shelter, please.”
“Uh, um, no sir, I guess not,” she finally gets out.
I look back at Poppy. “Happy now?”
She smiles. “Very. See, that wasn’t hard, now was it?”
Five
Poppy
It didn’t take long for me to fall into a deep sleep in that big, fluffy bed. But even in my sleep, Matthew’s presence haunted me. It’s getting harder and harder to avoid my attraction to him. But in my dreams, he doesn’t talk or act the way he does in real life. In my dreams, he’s nice, polite, charming, and outgoing. So when he tells me I’m beautiful and pulls me against him, I don’t fight him. I kiss him. The soft kiss turns heated, and before I know it, he’s throwing me up against the wall and kissing his way down my body. His lips are hot against my neck, nearly burning a trail to my lower belly.
His hands push my dress up my thighs as he falls to his knees, bringing his mouth to my drenched sex. I feel his hot tongue slip between my slick folds as my breathing picks up. My entire body hardens as he’s pushing me closer to the edge. Just as my release rises, my eyes pop open and I let out a groan.
I find myself overly irritated from the dream. I’m pissed at myself for letting my unconscious mind go there—having dream sex with a man I loathe. I’m mad that my body is now on high alert and needs to be worked over and reset. But most of all, I hate that I wish it were real. I wish I could feel his body moving against mine. I hate that I’m jealous of all the women who have gotten to take what they wanted while I’m stuck denying my attraction to him. And I hate that he isn’t the man from my fantasies—a man who’s caring, giving, and easygoing. And even though I know all of this, I hate that I can’t control the way my body reacts to him.
I throw bac
k the blankets and go to cool off in the shower. My alarm hasn’t even gone off yet, but I’m too frustrated to sleep any longer. My body feels tense and sore—like I didn’t relax a moment last night. I have a dull headache, probably from overthinking that dream, and I feel irritable, like I can’t quite get a handle on my mood today. That will probably make the day go by that much more slowly, and there’s no doubt it will cause some fights between us.
After washing off, I climb out and get started on my hair, makeup, and getting dressed. I get ready remarkably fast and find myself pacing the floor in my room. I wanted to be late again today as a way to get to him, but there’s nothing for me to do in here, and the smell of breakfast is too good. It lures me out, and I find him sitting in the dining room.
I make my bowl of oatmeal topped with fruit while Jane pours me a nasty cup of coffee. “Would it be too much to ask for a glass of orange juice?” I ask her sweetly as she sets down the carafe.
“No problem at all. One moment, please.” She leaves the room.
“Not a coffee person?” Matthew asks.
I wrinkle my nose. “I can’t stand the stuff. For one, I’m not big on drinking hot stuff, but I also can’t stand the overly-sweet or bitter stuff anyway.”
Jane is back and setting a glass on the table.
“Jane, from now on, Poppy will take orange juice for breakfast, not coffee.”
She offers a bow. “Yes, sir.”
I give him a small smile as a way to say thank you, but I find this whole setup weird. His life is so different in comparison to mine. I’m not used to bathtubs deep enough to drown in, someone waiting on me hand and foot, and finding that the clothing I left on the bathroom floor has been magically laundered and put away. I’m used to sniffing the clothes on the floor to see if they’re clean or dirty, using paper plates in order to avoid washing dishes, and actually having to get up and do things for myself.
Breaking up with My Boss: An Enemies to Lovers, Office Romance (Love You Forever Book 4) Page 3