by Regina Wade
Yes. She’s beautiful. Shiny black curls that tumble past her shoulders. Legs that sweep up into the deep navy blue pencil skirt she’s wearing. A thick ass that makes my cock swell in my slacks when she runs away into traffic. Hips for days. Gorgeous tits that press against the front of her shirt, even when it’s covered in her latte. Eyes the color of the sea at sunset.
“I’ll call you back,” I say instead. “I’m nearly in the elevator and then I’ve got interviews.”
As much as I try and set the whole thing out of my mind for the ride to the eighth floor, I really want nothing more than to head straight up to my office at the top of the building and spend the rest of the day figuring out who this woman is. I need to bring her here, see for myself that she’s ok, and then hold her in my arms. It’s an imperative; like taking my next breath.
There are people depending on me, though. So I stride off the elevator and head over to Brenda at the reception desk.
“Good morning, Mr. Addison,” she smiles at me. “The intern candidates are here. I have them separated into groups of five for the first round interviews for you.”
Brenda is great at her job— everyone at SC is. Part of the reason the company works like a well-tuned machine is because I only hire the best people. Right now, though, I’m not listening to her. My eyes are glued to the hallway, where a curvy brunette is making her way out of the women’s restroom. She’s dabbing a paper towel ineffectually at a coffee stain on the front of a button down shirt tucked into a navy blue pencil skirt. Her teeth are gnawing away at the plumpness of her bottom lip in a way that’s sure to leave not a trace of her deep red lipstick behind.
“Brenda,” I keep my voice low and even, despite the sudden roar of blood in my ears. “Who is that?”
“Oh.” She sounds somewhere between bamboozled and smug at the appearance of the woman of my dreams. “She’s one of the candidates.”
Brenda shuffles the stack of resumes in front of her for a moment before pulling one out and handing it to me.
“I had her in the last group, but I can let her know she doesn’t quite fit in here if you’d rather—”
I hold up a finger, stopping my receptionist.
Brooklyn Jones. Senior Business Major at UCLA.
When I look up again, she’s standing in front of me, her blue eyes wide and her lips slightly parted in shock. Clearly, Brooklyn Jones was not expecting to see the owner of the company at her internship interview when he nearly ran her over half an hour ago.
“No, thank you,” I reply to Brenda without taking my eyes off of Brooklyn. She’s even more beautiful up close. In that moment, I know without a shadow of a doubt I’ll never let her run from me again. I’ve never been a big believer in fate before, but clearly this is meant to be. “Please let the other candidates know we’re terribly sorry, but we will have to reschedule their interviews.”
“Wha— Sir?”
Ignoring my secretary, I take a step closer to Brooklyn. Her chin tilts up a bit to look at me head-on.
“Mr. Addison,” she starts, voice quavering.
“Miss Jones,” I nod back at her with a small smirk. “Follow me. Let’s get your interview started.”
Chapter 4
Brooklyn
I work all night, I work all day. To pay the bills I have to pay. Ain’t it sad. And still there never seems to be a single penny left for me. — Abba, ‘Money, Money, Money’
Beau’s office takes up the entirety of the top floor. The floor to ceiling windows showcase breathtaking views of both the mountains and the sweeping ocean beyond.
The furniture is sleek and modern; the kind that oozes class and money without being ostentatious. I’m pretty sure the solid slab of his ebony desk alone is worth more than I could get for my kidneys on the black market.
Which is, of course, where I’m going to have to turn when this is all over. Because there’s no way in hell this is going to end well. When I walked out of that bathroom, full of renewed hope and determination, and walked right into Beau Addison for the second time in one day, I felt every single one of my dreams flitter away into the California sunshine outside.
“Can I get you anything? Coffee?” Beau asks, not a trace of irony in his voice from where he’s seated in the massive leather chair behind his desk.
Why he brought me up to the penthouse floor to conduct this— interview? Interrogation? — I’m still unsure. What’s more surprising is that Beau doesn’t seem upset.
“Um. No thank you, Mr. Addison.” I settle down in the plush seat he indicates, across from him.
“Beau, please,” he says. He’s going over my resume, perusing the letters of recommendation stapled to the back with apparent interest.
“Mr. Addison— Beau,” I try again, still feeling a little like I’m in the middle of a lucid dream. “I wasn’t aware that you conducted the internship position interviews personally.” I give him a small shake of my head before meeting the giant pink elephant in the room head-on. “And I owe you a giant apology for this morning. I was in a rush to get here on time. My last bus was terribly late and I was worried I wouldn’t make it.”
He sets the small stack of papers aside.
“Don’t apologize, Brooklyn.” Something about the way he says my name sends a slow shiver up my spine. “We wouldn’t be here otherwise. Tell me about yourself.”
In the sunlight filtering in through the windows, his eyes are green jewels, mesmerizing.
“I’m a senior at UCLA. I grad—”
“Brooklyn,” Beau stands up before I can finish. He comes around to sit at the edge of his desk in front of me. This close, I can see the intent way he’s looking at me. He holds up my resume. “Where you go to school, what a great student you are. Your grades, volunteer work— I can read all of that here.”
He sets the stack of paper aside. The look intensifies, those pine green eyes dragging across every inch of me. When they zero in on my own gaze, there’s something fierce and intense in them that nearly takes my breath away. It’s like he takes up all the oxygen in the room with his very presence.
“You’re either wearing someone else’s shoes, or those are hand-me-down Stella McCartneys,” he goes on when I don’t answer. His voice is quiet, steady. “Your heel doesn’t quite reach the back. So clearly this interview meant a lot to you. You cleaned off that briefcase the second it hit the ground. You took three busses to get here and even though the last one was late and you nearly broke your neck,” the corner of his lip quirks up in a small smile then, “you still managed to make it early.”
My pulse is galloping. I wonder if he can hear the blood rushing in my head because it’s so loud it nearly drowns out the deep melody of his voice. Nobody has ever looked at me the way Beau is right now, much less looked into me like this.
“Tell me about you, Brooklyn.” He crosses his arms and waits for me to answer his question again.
“They belong to my roommate.” I stretch one leg out, letting the admittedly slightly too big pump dangle off my stockinged foot. Willa let me use a pair of her heels when she saw the terrible selection of TJ Maxx specials I had to work with. “I was hoping they’d hold out until I got my first paycheck. Sometimes faking it till you make it is the best you can do.”
There’s an arc of lightning behind his eyes as I quote his own book at him. Beau looks down to my outstretched leg.
“I know you hear this a lot,” I go on. “But working for you is a dream of mine I’ve been working since I was a kid— literally— just to be able to make it to this interview someday..”
Beau takes his time digesting my words. He looks impeccable in his designer suit. The coffee on my shirt isn’t the only thing that sets our fashion choices apart. Beau’s clothes are tailored, fitted to his broad shoulders and the impossibly long length of him. The longer I look at him, the worse I feel about myself. It’s like getting smaller and smaller in my chair, until I wish I could just disappear altogether.
“Thank you for bein
g so honest with me,” Beau smiles. “I’m sorry, I won’t be offering you one of the intern positions today, Brooklyn.”
The edges of the room dim around me. I don’t even know why I’m surprised. Why anyone would consider hiring someone dumb enough to nearly get themselves run over by a two hundred thousand dollar car?
“Well, I appreciate you making the time to see me,” I start to stand up, willing my voice to stay steady and the tears to stay inside until I make it outside.
“However,” Beau goes on smoothly over me. “I would like to hire you for another position. I have an opening for a personal assistant. I’d like you to start immediately.”
It takes a moment for his words to sink in.
“I’m sorry. Wait— what? I— Why?” I realize it’s the wrong response to being offered a dream job. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime. But after the way everything in the world has gone wrong today, I can’t help but wonder what the actual fuck.
Beau stands up then too, brushing the front of his black slacks before giving me an easy grin.
“Let’s just say you made a hell of a first impression.”
Chapter 5
Beau
Some boys slow dance, some boys romance. That’s alright with me. If they can’t raise my interest then I have to let them be. — Madonna, ‘Material Girl’
A couple hours later, I’ve got Brooklyn buckled up in the shotgun seat of the same car she threw herself in front of this morning. Once we got her paperwork straightened out, I told my newest employee that I needed her to come with me to pick up a few important things for the office.
It’s the truth, too. Just probably not what she expects.
“The inside is a lot nicer than the front bumper,” Brooklyn offers me a teasing smile from the passenger seat. “More comfortable, too.”
I have to laugh at that. It’s nice to see her more relaxed, a sparkle in her brilliant eyes. I want to see her like this every day for the rest of our lives, with all the tension around her eyes melted away and a relaxed smile curving the corner of her full lips.
She whistles softly a few minutes later as we cruise beneath the Addison Blvd offramp.
“Must be nice to have a whole street named after you.”
“The street is named after my grandfather,” I correct her with a smirk of my own. “The Addison Library is named after me.”
“I know.” She says it so matter-of-factly that it nearly catches me off guard. “I know a lot about you and your company. I made a point to know as much as possible.”
This time, when Brooklyn looks at me, there’s a flush of color in her cheeks. It makes my cock swell in my pants, even as my heart trips over itself. I’ve known her for one morning, but I’m already certain there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for this woman
“That must sound weird,” she goes on. “Here I am— Born poor and desperate to get my name on a street sign. But I knew I’d meet you eventually, knew I was going to end up working for Someday Came.”
“It doesn’t sound weird or desperate, Brooklyn.” I reach across the space between us in the car, giving her knee a small squeeze. There’s a palpable exchange of electricity at the brief contact of skin. “It sounds like fate. And a woman who knows exactly what she wants out of life. There’s no shame in being born poor, nothing wrong with ambition. You’re a hard worker. We won’t stop with a boulevard. We’ll get your name on anything you want.”
The smile she gives me in return is worth doubling her salary— before we’ve even settled on one. Brooklyn was so excited to be hired, she hasn’t even asked what her pay is yet. It’s as if the experience of working and learning what she’s always wanted to is enough.
Just one more reason I love her.
Where the hell did that thought come from?!
The rest of the trip passes in easy conversation. It’s easy to forget that nearly sixteen years stretch between Brooklyn and I. She’s witty and smart, fun and quick with a fast comeback and easy banter for every topic.
By the time we’re pulling into the parking lot at the Malibu Village, I’m more relaxed and energized than I remember being in a long time.
“Beau?” she cocks her head at me as I come around to open the passenger door. “What kind of office supplies are we picking up at a high-end mall, exactly?”
“I said necessities, not supplies,” I hold up a finger to denote the importance of paying attention to details. “And the Village is an outdoor shopping experience, not a mall.”
Brooklyn rolls her eyes at me, clearly not sold by the mere presence of a beachfront meditation center and natural juice bar alone. Guiding her past the custom hat shop and surfboard store, I lead the brunette bombshell towards a standalone boutique near the edge of the boardwalk.
“Dangerous Curves?” Brooklyn reads the elaborate scrollwork on the marquee before turning back to me with narrowed eyes. The look is hot enough to smolder— a lesser man would no doubt be reduced to ash right here on the palm-lined sidewalk.
“Did you bring me out here to Little Orphan Annie me?!” she hisses at me. I can almost see the coffee on her shirt start to steam.
“Necessities,” I say with upraised palms. “You’re my new assistant. Beauregard Addison can’t very well have a personal assistant who runs around wearing her breakfast and a pair of borrowed shoes, now can she?”
Brooklyn snaps her mouth shut, but I can tell she’s still turning things over.
“We can call it part of your sign on bonus,” I wave a hand dismissively. I plan on spoiling Brooklyn with a lot more shopping sprees in the future, but it will clearly take some getting used to on her part. I love that she doesn’t want anything handed to her. It will make teaching her everything about my business— our company, someday— that much more exciting.
“Alright,” she finally nods begrudgingly. “I guess I do need an appropriate wardrobe if I’m going to be your assistant. We can always take it out of my paycheck or something, later.”
“Come on, Brook. This will be fun.” I open the door to the boutique and wait for her to walk through,
“For one of us, anyway, Daddy Warbucks.” The smile that Brooklyn gives me on her way into the store leaves me momentarily worried for my AmEx card. And permanently concerned for the state of my heart.
Chapter 6
Brooklyn
All that matters is that you treat me right. Give me all the things I need that money can’t buy. — Jennifer Lopez, ‘Love Don’t Cost a Thing’
“Let me see the yellow dress again,” Beau calls out from his armchair on the other side of the dressing room curtain.
We’ve been at it for hours now. I’ve lost track of how many things I’ve tried on. Everywhere in the plush dressing room are piles of clothes. Suits, jeans, blouses dresses— definite yeses, possible maybes, complete rejects. Overruled by me, objections by Beau, suggestions made by Cleo, the shop owner. Beneath the small gold chandelier that lights my personal booth, my skin is flushed.
I’ve never been dressed by committee before, and I’m both a little overwhelmed and having the time of my life. At some point, gourmet pizza was ordered, chilled fruit and wine brought in.
Is this what shopping on someone else’s dime is always like?!
I feel bad for even thinking the thought in jest.
It’s my first day of employment under Beau, and I feel a little like Cinderella. More than that, just being around him is exciting; the kind of adventure I’ve dreamed about my entire life. As much as I don’t want to think of my new boss that way, I can’t help but compare Beau to the handful of dates I’ve gone on in my life. Every single boy my own age has paled in comparison. Maybe if I’d met someone like him at UCLA, I wouldn’t be a twenty-four-year-old virgin.
Beau is confident and powerful, handsome and self-assured. He’s every inch a man instead of a boy, and I can’t help how sexy I find it. My intellectual crush on the real-estate mogul has blossomed into actual feelings for the real-life man.
&nbs
p; I quickly find the buttery yellow sundress at the top of a nearby stack. I don’t quite remember why I’d set this particular pile aside. It’s made of the softest material, covered in a pale paisley pattern.
“Ok. You’re the boss,” I deadpan over the curtain separating us.
I leave on the lace underwire bra and panty set that Cleo picked out for me before whipping the dress over my head. She’d wrapped me head to toe in measuring tape like a mummy the instant she had me alone. Her thick French accent dripped off her like syrup as she’d fussed about, picking things for me to try on.
Lingerie is, ‘ow do you say? Ze foundation of your house, cherie. You need to start with the right layers to make sure everything else shines.
Clearly, the curvaceous platinum blonde knows what she’s talking about. Because I might never take this bra off again. Paired with the long-line panties, I’m tucked in and scooped up. I can’t ever remember looking this good or feeling this sexy before. In or out of my clothes. I hazard a glimpse at my reflection in the mirrored wall of the well-appointed dressing room. A stranger stares back at me.
The yellow fabric clings to my curves in a way that suggests a sultry shape without showing too much skin. My hips and thighs— forever the bane of my existence— flirt along with the playful hemline of the dress. The price tag flitters into view, just below my wrist, and I suddenly remember why I’d set this dress aside.
“Beau?” I ask.
“Hmm?” the impatient response comes from right behind the curtain. It sounds like he’s gotten up and paced closer while I was changing.
Well whose idea was it to have me try on half the store’s inventory?
“When we said you could deduct the cost of the wardrobe from my paycheck, was that all at once? Is there maybe a payment plan— oh!”