by Kimberly Fox
I can hear his frustrating smirk. “No problem,” he says, walking over to the leather couch. “Although, it didn’t seem to bother you last night when you had those tight little lips wrapped around it.”
“Well, that was last night,” I snap back, trying really hard not to take one last look as he steps into his bright red boxer briefs.
Who the hell wears bright red underwear? It’s so impractical.
“Okay,” I say with a firm nod. “I’m leaving.”
“All right,” he says, standing up straight and giving me a sarcastic salute.
I’m so bad in situations like this. Mainly because I’m never in situations like this.
How do I end this?
A wave? No, too awkward.
A kiss on the cheek? No, too friendly.
A gentle punch on the shoulder? No, too thirteen-year-old male.
I go for the old classic handshake and step forward with my hand out.
He grins as he takes my hand in his, swallowing it whole as he cups it with his other hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you,” he says, leaning in as he locks those dreamy green eyes on mine.
A flood of warmth flows through me, raising every hair on my arm and causing my skin to tingle. Now I can see why I woke up here.
Now I get it.
That sexy heart-stopping look would be enough to get any girl out of her party dress, even a straight-laced, goodie-goodie like me.
This guy is pure sexual energy wrapped up in a beautiful bad boy package. He’s got it all; the flawless muscles, the sexy tattoos, the handsome face that always seems to have a cocky smile on it that you just want to smack off but end up kissing instead.
He’d be nothing but trouble.
And a woman in my position can’t afford to have trouble.
A clean break is what is needed here. “All right,” I say, sliding my sweaty hand back. “Keep it groovy.”
I close my eyes before I see him laugh at me. Keep it groovy? Are you fucking serious, Dahlia? Did your grandmother teach you slang?
I just turn to the door and hurry out without looking back. The opportunity for a graceful exit already passed, and I failed miserably.
Now, I just want to get into the hall where I’ll be safe. “Okay,” I say, my eyes on the floor as I open the door and rush out. “Bye.”
He steps forward, smiling. “Keep it groov—”
I close the door in his face before he can finish and then sprint to the elevators down the hall faster than Usain Bolt on speed.
“Come on,” I mutter, my finger hitting the lit-up button like a woodpecker. “Let’s go.”
I glance back at his closed door, praying he doesn’t open it. I made a fool of myself enough for one morning, and I just want to get back to my room.
It’s then that I realize that I don’t know where I am. The hotel looks familiar but a hotel is a hotel. They all look familiar.
The Parisian. It’s written on a sign over the elevator.
Good news and bad news.
Good news is, I’m in my hotel and don’t have to take a taxi back to my room without any underwear on. Shit! I forgot my underwear on the lamp!
Bad news is, I might see Mr. Rich Naked Stranger again in the halls. Double shit if I’m with my boss while it happens.
The elevator dings and the stainless-steel doors slide open. My heart is pounding as I jump in and immediately press the door close button a few dozen times.
I take a deep breath of relief as the elevator starts moving down to my floor.
Fucking Las Vegas.
My coworker Emily warned me that Vegas can turn even the straightest of librarians into a party-crazed slut.
I didn’t believe her.
I’ve always been the straightest of the straight.
Boy, was I wrong.
I hate being wrong.
The doors bing open, and I step out onto my floor, leaving a piece of my dignity behind that I’ll never get back.
I still don’t know what happened last night, but I’m ready to put it behind me. I have an extremely important business meeting to get to, and I’ll just try to get over this hangover and focus on that.
As long as I don’t see him again, I’ll be fine.
Well Hung Over in Vegas Chapter Two
Dahlia
“What happened to you last night?” Emily asks as I sit down at the conference table. Our boss is in the corner playing air guitar with his earbuds in. He always listens to Kenny Loggins before a big meeting. He says it pumps him up.
Mr. Wallace is ignoring us for the moment, and I’m glad he is because I could use as much time as possible to get over this raging hangover of doom.
The adrenaline of waking up next to Captain America’s body double ran out a long time ago, and all I’m left with is a queasy stomach and a head that won’t stop pounding.
I’m not in the mood to talk, but Emily is not letting it go. “I turned to get my phone to take a picture when I saw you standing in a fountain, but when I turned back you were gone and I didn’t see you again. What happened to you?”
“I don’t know,” I say, dropping my head onto the desk with a thud.
“You look like shit.”
I close my eyes, enjoying not having the bright lights in the room burning my retinas. “Thank you.”
“Look at those black rings under your eyes,” she says. “You look like a raccoon who stayed up all night getting high on bath salts.”
“Okay, Emily,” I groan, wondering why I ever drank anything, ever.
“Remember the Crypt Keeper?” she asks, ignoring me. “From Tales from the Crypt? You look like him if he got a makeover but then fell into a barrel of acid.”
“Okay!” I say, raising my pounding head. “I get it. I look horrible.”
“No,” she says, tilting her head as she examines my face. “Horrifying is the word I would go with. Maybe even soul-crushingly awful. You’re making me want to start a charity for you.”
“I hate you,” I groan, dropping my head back onto the table. This is going to be my first meeting with the new owner of the company, and I feel like I woke up in a bus station.
“You look like Gary Busey had a baby with a turtle,” Emily says.
She pulls her phone out and starts taking pictures. “This is going on the company website,” she says, snapping away. “It’s going to be your new profile picture.”
I reach up and give her the finger. There. Put that on the company’s homepage.
“Look at your shirt,” she says, stifling a laugh. “You have sweat stains under your armpits. You look like you just got finished tarring a roof in the middle of July.”
“All right,” I snap. “I know I look horrifying, but I can’t help it. I don’t know what happened. I had one drink with you guys, and then all hell broke loose.”
“All hell broke loose on your hair,” she says, cringing as she looks up past my forehead. “Your hair looks like you have a possum living inside of it.”
She pulls her muffin towards her as she scrunches her nose up. “Does the possum bite?”
“I hate you,” I say, dropping my head back onto the table.
I can hear in my boss’s headphones that Footloose is almost over. Two more everybody cuts and I’ll have to start acting professional.
With a last energetic strum of his air guitar, Mr. Wallace takes off his earbuds and sits down.
He cringes when he sees my face. So, it’s not just Emily’s normal sarcasm. I do look like shit.
Great.
“I was worried we were going to have to bail you out of jail,” he says, sitting across from me. He folds his hands together on the table as he stares me down. “Office cocktail parties are supposed to be professional. It’s not a time for you to get white girl wasted and relive the glory days of Spring Break.”
“Sir,” I say, dipping my chin. “I can explain.”
He crosses his arms over his expensive suit and leans back in his chair. “Please do.
”
“Uhhh.” I have nothing. To be honest, I have no idea how I went from classy cocktail to sloppy sloshed. It doesn’t make any sense.
“Some people just can’t handle Vegas,” Emily says, shaking her head as she watches me with a look of pity on her face.
I glare back at her. If looks could kill, she’d be blowing the devil in hell.
The intercom beeps on the phone, and Mr. Wallace gives me one last frown before answering it. “Yes.”
“Mr. McMillan is here.”
Mr. Wallace exhales long and hard. “We’re ready for him.”
The three of us stand up as we wait for the new boss to enter. I clasp my hands in front of me to hide the sweat stains that Emily so graciously pointed out.
Mr. Wallace is nodding his head, his lips moving as he sings under his breath. “Kick off the Sunday shoes,” he whispers, getting himself ready.
Oh, no.
What the hell is he doing here?
He walks in looking as fresh as the bright sun in the Caribbean sky while I feel as fresh as a urinal cake after a Super Bowl party.
It’s him. The naked guy from this morning.
He looked good naked, but he looks absolutely delicious in a dark gray suit with a classic white shirt and black tie. The material is tailored to his muscular frame, and I gulp at the size of his broad shoulders and round biceps. His hair is no longer a sexy mess but looks just as good combed and gelled to the side like he had a team of stylists rush into his room the second after I left.
A sudden coldness grips my core as he ducks under the low doorway and shakes my boss’s hand.
“Wow,” Emily gasps beside me.
Wow is fucking right.
There’s an army of hummingbirds in my stomach fighting for space. I want to crawl under the table and hide. I want to turn invisible or melt through the wall. I want to do anything but stand here in shock with my mouth hanging open, but unfortunately, it’s all I seem to be capable of at the moment.
Maybe if I stand really still no one will see my cheeks turning as red as my new boss’s boxer briefs.
“Hi, Mr. Wallace,” Emily says, hopping forward with a big smile on her face. Her chest is thrust out for his visual enjoyment. “I’m Emily.”
“Hi, Emily,” he says, bowing his head slightly as he smiles back at her. “Please, call me Tyler.”
“Okay,” she says, clasping her hands behind her and looking as giddy as a school girl who just got asked out by her crush.
Tyler turns to me and jerks his head back in surprise when he recognizes me. I’m not sure how he does recognize me since I looked like an angel last night, and right now I look like a troll who lives under a highway overpass.
His beautiful jade green eyes are locked on me as his sexy lips curl up into a grin—those same lips that last night were on my… nevermind.
Mr. Wallace butts in when we just stare at each other in shock. “This is our COO, Dahlia Winters,” he says, introducing me.
Tyler reaches his hand out, and I hold my breath as I slide my hand into his. It’s no big deal. It’s just a handshake. A handshake from a hand that was caressing my naked breasts and sliding in and over my hoo-ha just a few hours ago. No big deal.
I want to die.
He grins as he takes my hand in his, cupping it with his other hand like he did an hour or two ago in his hotel room. “Hello, Dahlia,” he says, his deep voice coming out like the purr of a lion. “I’m sure it’s going to be a pleasure working with you.”
I give him a firm handshake back and nod my head, pretending like we just met. “It’s nice to meet you as well,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “I am looking forward to having a respectful, professional relationship with you.”
Emily pries her eyes off of Tyler for a second and turns to me with a confused look on her face.
“Definitely,” he says with a grin. “I can’t wait to see what happens.”
“Should we get started?” Mr. Wallace asks, motioning to the conference table in front of us.
The four of us sit down, the boys on one side and the girls on the other like we’re back in elementary school.
“Would you like a coffee?” Mr. Wallace asks him, already sucking up to his new boss. “We also have donuts or fresh fruit.”
“No, thanks,” Tyler says. He looks at me and licks his lips. “One of your employees generously gave me their peach and it was delicious.”
My eyes drop to the table, and I stare at the grains in the wood, trying to pretend like this is not happening.
Mr. Wallace nods. “I’m sure you’ll find that the employees in our beloved company are very generous. They’ll provide you with anything that you need.”
“Anything?” Tyler asks, still looking at me.
I stare at the table, trying to stop the rush of blood to my cheeks. It’s not working.
“Anything,” Mr. Wallace says, thankfully answering for me. “Will Mr. McMillan senior be joining us?”
“No,” Tyler answers curtly. “I’m taking over the company.”
“Great,” Mr. Wallace says, laying on the smiles and nods extra thick. Emily looks just as thrilled, and I guess I’m the odd one out. I just can’t shake the knots that are swirling around in my stomach.
He’s my new boss.
I slept with my new boss.
Shit.
I’ve worked so hard for the past six years at this company. I clawed my way up from the reception desk to the Chief Operating Officer by working weekends, forgoing my social life, and doing basically the complete opposite of what my hippie parents did throughout their lives, and I feel sick that I might have thrown it all away over one drunken mistake.
“I’ll be handling the acquisition,” Tyler says. He pauses for a second and then continues. “And all of the necessary restructuring.”
The three of us gulp at the same time.
Tyler’s company, McMillan Worldwide Inc., is a company eater, a huge monster of a corporation that thrives on swallowing smaller companies and then tearing them to pieces. They are known for buying up manufacturing companies and then restructuring them by closing all of their plants and factories, only to reopen them overseas where the labor is cheaper and the profits are bigger.
The company I work for, Hospitech, is their most recent victim. We do important work manufacturing specialized hospital equipment that saves thousands of lives every year.
And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let the corporate monster take us down without a fight.
I stare Tyler dead in the eyes—his beautiful, mesmerizing, jade green eyes. “And by restructuring, you mean closing our factory down and shipping it overseas?”
He leans back as he holds my eyes from across the table. He’s trying to get a read on me, probably wondering why the girl who had her legs behind her head for him last night is now starting to attack.
“The Hospitech factory has been in the town of Summerland for eighteen years,” I explain. “It’s the main source of work for the residents. If you close the factory, there will be no more jobs for the people of the town. The local businesses will fail, the whole economy of the small town will collapse.”
My body starts tensing up as I picture having to hand out fifteen hundred and ninety-two pink slips to the loyal factory workers. The town would be devastated. It would never recover.
I start to sweat as I picture every little shop in town closing one by one: Camilla’s bakery that makes the best gingerbread cookies on the planet, George’s auto shop, which has the only mechanic who is incapable of lying, and the little mom-and-pop hardware store owned by Brenda and Pete. Pete is so nice that he even insisted on installing the Christmas lights that I bought from his store.
“He never said anything about closing down the factory,” Mr. Wallace says, defending the new boss already. “Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt.”
I sit back in my chair, grinding my teeth as I look over at Mr. Wallace. He’s nodding at Tyler with a big fa
ke smile on his face. This guy is always looking out for himself and only himself. He knows what’s going to happen here, but he’s not going to do a thing to stop it. All he wants is a job in the new restructured company, and as long as that happens, he doesn’t care if the factory gets shut down and all fifteen hundred and ninety-two workers get a thank you, a sympathetic smile, and a pat on the ass as they’re ushered out the door for good.
If he won’t fight for our employees, then I will. I’m not letting them go down without a fight.
“Are you going to close the factory?” I ask, staring Tyler down and challenging him to lie.
“We haven’t decided on that yet.”
“But it’s a possibility,” I fire back.
“We haven’t decided on that yet,” he just repeats.
“Who is we?” I ask. “I thought you were taking over the company. Don’t you make those decisions?”
Emily is looking at me like I’m crazy, but I can’t stop. Maybe it’s the hangover, maybe it’s the embarrassment of having slept with my new boss, maybe it’s the rumored layoffs, maybe it’s the fact that I can’t stop thinking about his bright red underwear and the way that it fit so snuggly around his muscular thighs and nice big cock, or maybe it’s all those things, but my claws are out and I’m attacking my new boss.
Career self-destruct in three, two, one…
Tyler smiles, and I hate that it sends a flood of warmth surging through me. “You have every right to be concerned about your job and the jobs of your coworkers,” he says, clasping his hands on the desk in front of him. The sleeves of his tailored suit slide up his forearms giving me a glimpse of his tattooed skin underneath. I can see the bottom of a green stem that leads up to a tattooed rose.
I know that it’s a tattooed rose because a quick memory of last night flashes into my mind, making me cringe—Tyler’s muscular body hovering over mine as he slides deep inside of me. I moan as I turn my head on the pillow, gasping as I look at the beautiful rose tattooed on his forearm.
“I do make the decisions,” he says, staring me down. “But I do consult my father before any major decisions are made. My father started McMillan Worldwide Inc. when he bought a failing ashtray manufacturing plant back in nineteen seventy-one. I’m not sure if you’ve been paying attention, but he built it into a billion-dollar company. I’d be stupid not to listen to his advice.”