by Tara Wylde
He frowns. “I don’t think we can afford that anymore.”
I slap his arm with my free hand and roll my eyes.
“Are you ready for all this?” he asks softly. “It’s not going to be easy.”
“Neither of us has ever done anything the easy way, my love.”
He sighs. “I suppose you’re right. The curse of being blessed with an embarrassment of riches.”
I squeeze his hand in mine, feeling the warmth there, the familiarity. I imagine I can feel the beat of his heart in time with mine.
“Hey,” I say. “Guess what?”
“What?”
“I’m still so happy it was you.”
Tricia comes trotting over, radiant in her dress and rimmed with the blazing colors of the sunset against the rich green of the courtyard behind her. She yanks up the tablecloth, startling a shriek out of Leo. She picks him up and hauls him off, giggling with him like a loon, onto the dance floor, where she does her best to keep him moving to the delicate strains of the chamber music.
Carson leans in and kisses my cheek.
“I’m still so happy it was us,” he says. “All of us.”
We sit there in silence a long time, drinking in the beauty and reveling in the utter contentment of this perfect moment.
Part IV
Climax
Wanna hear a dirty little secret?
No guy has ever gotten me off!
At least, it was a secret, until my boss saw my journal.
Now he’s making me a promise I can’t resist...
I won a war, lost a wife, and raised a beautiful baby girl.
But I left the SEALs scarred and broken. I swore off women for good.
Until Skye.
She’s innocent, curvy, and makes my company tick.
But I discovered her deepest secret: she’s never had an O.
I made her a deal: You fix me and I’ll fix you…
I’m gonna fix her, all right, right there in her own office!
Skye’s gonna learn fast:
There’s more to this contract than meets the eye.
And there’s a first time for everything. It won’t be her last…
191
Skye
I’m lost in the glow thrown out by my smartphone as I walk past my assistant, Tyler. I know – cool, right!
“Skye, there’s –”
“Just give me a second, Tyler, okay?” I mutter, missing what should have been my first warning.
I’m reading an article from one of those British psychiatry journals. I guess most people don’t find that sort of thing interesting, but I live and breathe therapy. It’s not just my job, it’s what I’ve wanted to do since I was a little kid.
“Um okay, I guess–,” Tyler says in a stifled, anguished squeal.
His shriek should have been my second warning.
I push the door to my office open without looking at it, and almost bump my forehead against the frosted glass in the process. I kick off my flats and wander to my chair. I know the contours of my little office like the back of my hand. I could find my way around missing every cabinet or locating any file I needed – even if the room was pitch black and I was blindfolded.
I guess my third warning should have been the scent of spicy cologne wafting through the air. But my brain takes a couple of seconds too long to process the smell, as well.
The glass door closes with a hiss behind me.
“You must be Skye?”
The voice startles me. It sounds familiar, in a long-lost kind of way. My body searches for adrenaline and dumps it straight into my veins. The clever, self-assured, rational part of my brain switches off, and I go into survival mode. I rack my brain.
What did Tyler say?
I look up to see a man standing in the office – My office – and he’s reading My journal. The notebook which chronicles every last embarrassment that has happened to me, all of my darkest fears, and –
– My secret.
I freak out, and rush towards the man, knocking the journal out of his hands. Some of the pages crumple against the floor.
“Who the hell are you?” I yell and recklessly ask, “and what are you doing in My office?”
The man takes a step back. He doesn’t seem intimidated or put off by my – slightly crazy – reaction. In fact, a smile tickles his lips.
“I think you’ll find, Skye, that this is in fact my office.”
“Oh. My. God,” I whimper.
Not some play whimper, a very real I’m-a-scared-little-puppy whimper. Because right now, I know that I’ve fucked up – like lose-your-dream-job bad fucked up.
Because the man standing in front of me is Harlan Wolfe – not just the third richest man in New York – the CEO of Wolfe Capital.
Meaning, therefore, he is my boss …
… technically speaking …
… because before now, I’ve never seen the man. He owns the company, it’s his name that’s plastered across the office building’s front. But people like Harlan are supposed to stay on floors a whole lot higher than mine.
“There’s no need for that,” he grins, sticking out his hand, “just call me Harlan.”
I just stare at the floating hand.
I’ve got no idea how to act. How the heck am I supposed to dig myself out of a hole this deep? I just practically assaulted the freaking CEO. Worse, if you can believe it, is what he might have read in my journal. Most of it contains just embarrassing thoughts – my hopes, fears, and any problem I might have had during the day. I’m pretty sure I’ve never bitched about the company, at least…
But there’s one secret that would kill me if anyone found out.
“I’m – I’m so sorry,” I stammer. “I didn’t – I mean – I didn’t know it was you. I mean, that you were you.” I clam up, and clap my hand across my offending mouth. I play back what I just said in my head and cringe. I sound like an idiot.
Harlan looks at me with an expression shaded by pity. Then he glances at his outstretched arm. When it’s obvious that I’m too panicked to shake his hand, he lets it fall to his side.
“I should hope not,” Harlan says, still grinning broadly.
It’s like all this is a game to him. I guess, when you’re worth twenty billion dollars, life is just one big strategy game.
Harlan crouches down. He’s wearing a light gray, perfectly-tailored Italian suit that hugs his body like a second skin. I can’t help but watch as his muscular thighs bulge, straining against the cloth. God, the man has the body of an Olympic athlete.
And then I realize what Harlan’s doing. He’s reaching for my journal. The one I just batted out of his hands.
But now I am stuck. I feel like my feet are encased in concrete. I can’t possibly throw myself at the journal a second time. But I’ve got to do something, to say something, at least.
“Why –”
“– am I in your office?” The billionaire, hedge fund manager, completes my sentence and smiles, picking up the gray notebook. “That’s an interesting question, Skye. Not as interesting, though, as what I read in here…” He taps the side of the journal.
I feel my cheeks heat like a runaway forest fire. “That’s –,” I croak, “Private.”
“Unfortunately for you, Skye, if it’s in this building, then it’s not private. To me, anyway.”
Harlan glances down at the incriminating journal, chews his lip, then hands it back to me. I hold my breath the entire time. I am uncomfortably aware of how attractive he is. His eyes are iceberg gray, his hair thick and black and virile.
A few gray hairs betray his age – late thirties – but he shows no sign of balding. In fact, he couldn’t be further away. Besides, he has the body of a man half his age. He looks lithe and fit, and almost painfully sexual. That’s the only way I can describe him. His expression crackles with intent, with desire.
“But I can see it’s causing you some bother,” Harlan smiles. He wraps his knuckles against the journ
al one last time, and then hands it to me. I practically snatch it out of his grasp.
Harlan surveys me for a couple of seconds, the same intrigued smile tickling his lips. I do my best to fight the panic surging through my veins, carried on a tidal wave of adrenaline.
Monkey brain off; put your adult head on.
“Why are you here?” I ask. My voice sounds a couple of octaves higher pitched than usual, but other than the embarrassment burning my face, my reaction is tolerable. “I mean – sir.”
“Oh, there’s no need for that. Like I said, just call me Harlan.”
“Okay, Harlan,” I say, sucking in a deep, greedy breath, “is there something I can help you with?”
Harlan takes a step back and leans against my desk. I notice that every couple of seconds, his eyes glance at the door, as though he half-expects someone to come charging through it, brandishing a weapon. I file the thought away.
“I’m not sleeping,” he finally admits.
It takes me a couple of seconds to process the comment. I feel like I’m on a bungee cord. One second, I’m ready to tear someone’s head off for reading my journal, the next I think I’m going to be fired the man who’s – technically – my boss. Now…
… Now the CEO of Wolfe Capital is asking me for help.
I blink.
I know. Not exactly my finest moment.
“Sooo,” Harlan says, biting the inside of his lip. He grimaces as if he hates having to ask, as if it somehow reveals weakness. “I was wondering if you’d be able to help.”
“You want me to help?” I squeak, “You?”
Harlan smiles, “Precisely. It seems we’re finally on the same page, Miss Warren.”
Time seems to slow down.
For a therapist, helping a man like Harlan Wolfe is the pinnacle. It’s like an artist handling a Rembrandt, a world-renowned violinist playing a Stradivarius or a basketball fan meeting LeBron James. Hell, getting into the heads of men just like Harlan is exactly why I joined Wolfe Capital as the in-house therapist. I want to be the best, and to be the best, you’ve got to treat the best.
Or at least the most fucked up.
“But… I can’t,” I say lamely.
Harlan’s eyebrow kinks upward. “Oh?” he growls dangerously. “So… exactly why would that be, Miss Warren?”
Be careful now, Skye. You don’t just say “no” to a man like Harlan Wolfe.
“Because,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut for a second as I cast around for a reason. A reason other than the fact that I’m embarrassed to treat the man who’s read my journal, and might know my secret. “Because – it would be a conflict of interest!”
“A ‘conflict of interest’?”
“Yes,” I nod, grateful to have found a plausible reason for declining. “Because – you’re my boss.”
Harlan flicks his fingers dismissively. “I don’t care about that. I’ll sign whatever disclaimer you need. I’ve come to you because you’re the best, Miss –,” Harlan pauses, and catches himself. “I mean Doctor Warren.”
“The best?” I say in a small voice. I didn’t even know that Harlan Wolfe had ever heard my name. Knowing that he knows who I am is kind of terrifying.
“It’s why I hired you,” Harlan says, plowing on as though he’s unaware of my discomfort.
“Since you joined the team here at Wolfe Capital, the traders under your care are producing an average of 7% more return. That’s statistically… astonishing. In fact, I’ve been considering requiring every trader to undergo regular sessions in this office. As for your bonus –”
“Bonus?” I squeak. I feel like I’m on a roller coaster – one second plunging toward disaster, the next climbing to higher and higher heights.
Harlan stares at me strangely. “Yes, Skye. You’ll find I can be a very –,” he licks his lower lip, “rewarding boss.”
I open and close my mouth a couple of times like a goldfish. Finally I say something, though nothing clever comes out. “Oh.”
“It’s agreed then,” Harlan says, turning to leave. “We’ll start the sessions tonight.”
“Tonight?” I stammer. “But –.”
Harlan wrinkles his forehead. “Well you don’t expect me to come and see you when the markets are open, do you Doctor Warren? I do have a business to run, after all”
I shake my head. I guess not…” I whisper.
“Perfect,” Harlan says.
His lips graze my cheek as he passes by. It’s an uncomfortably intimate gesture. Hell, my therapist’s brain screams that it reads of a power move – a dominant alpha male laying down a marker. And Harlan Wolfe is a hell of a lot more than some summer breeze alpha male. He’s a freaking hurricane.
And I kind of like it.
“I’ll see you later, Skye,” Harlan smiles as he reaches the door. I jerk back into the moment. “Eight o’clock, sharp. My assistant will be in touch with the details.”
And just like that, Hurricane Harlan is gone.
Initial Session Notes:
I’m in over my head. Patient has assumed a driving role in this relationship from the start. Effective therapy will require starting afresh.
Dominant personality
Used to getting what he wants
Charming, and highly intelligent
Does he know my secret?
192
Skye
I kick my apartment’s front door closed behind me, and set an overflowing stack of my patients’ notes down on the little kitchen’s marble countertop. I had planned to spend all night going through them and coming up with specialized treatment plans for rich men while drowning in a bottle of cheap wine.
After Harlan’s offer, I guess that’s off the table…
Oh God. Harlan. Now what the hell am I going to do about him?
I take some much-needed seconds to decompress. My head tilts forward against my chest, and I take a couple of deep breaths. I hide a smile when I realize I’m doing exactly what I tell my patients to do.
“What a fucking day…”
I look up at my neat, tidy apartment. The sight of it never fails to bring a smile to my face. It’s hard to believe that I’ve ended up in a place like this – especially given where I came from. I didn’t exactly have a white-picket-fence kind of childhood.
Not even close.
Girl, you need a damn shower. Anything else can wait.
I kick off my work shoes, shimmy out of my skirt and head for the bathroom. I turn the temperature knob as far left as it will let me, and step into a cauldron of burning steam. Ever since Harlan Wolfe stepped into my office earlier this afternoon, my head has been spinning.
I don’t know what to do or how to act. Nothing in my life to date has prepared me for going to dinner with a billionaire, especially not a billionaire who happens not only to be my boss, but who just might know my deepest, darkest secret.
Is it a date? I wonder.
And if it is, can I do anything about it?
I don’t know how long I stand there, with boiling hot water turning my pale, freckled skin a curious shade of pink. The cramped shower billows with a fog of steam – so much steam that I struggle to breathe. The mirror attached to the shower’s tiled wall quickly fills with condensation, until even my outline disappears into nothingness.
I like it, though, disappearing into the hot mist. It’s calming. It’s like I’m not even real, as if I was never here.
And for a few seconds, at least, it helps me forget my nerves about my dinner – my date – with Harlan freaking Wolfe.
But I don’t lose myself for long. I never can. I guess my mind just isn’t wired like that. I don’t like to stand around doing nothing. I like to act – to be in control. A second savored is a second wasted – or at least it is to me.
I glance down my legs. I don’t know what I’m going to wear tonight, but whatever I choose, I probably can’t turn up with my legs looking like they do right now. I look like a shaggy brown bear.
I shut off
the flow of hot water and grab my razor.
There’s easily enough steam to stop me from being attacked by the biting cold kiss of the AC. I lather up my legs and carve clean, hairless pathways through the snowy fields of suds.
“God, Skye. It’s been way too long since you’ve done this,” I mutter to myself. I carefully ignore the reason – it’s not like I’ve had a reason to play dress-up, if you know what I mean.
When I’m done, I run the backs of my knuckles along the freshly-shaved skin. An image of Harlan touching me there flashes through my mind.
I flinch.
It has been a long time since I’ve thought of a man touching me like that – or anywhere, in fact.
“Don’t do it, Skye,” I groan. But even as the words escape my mouth, I know that the seed of the idea has burrowed too deep.
I’m going to do it.
“You’re such a pussy,” I mutter ironically. “And for God’s sake, girl – stop talking to yourself!”
Clinically speaking, there’s nothing exactly wrong with speaking to one’s self, as long as it doesn’t happen all the time, anyway. My therapist’s brain tells me that it’s a perfectly rational response to a bout of nerves.
And I’ve certainly got one heck of a reason to be nervous…
As if I’m being operated by remote control, I watch my arm reach out for the shaving cream. I see my fingers lather the tuft – thicket, really – of burning ginger hair between my legs. If it’s been a long time since I shaved my legs, then I can’t even remember the last time I shaved my pubic hair…
So don’t…
But for some reason I can’t stop myself.
It’s almost as if by trimming myself like this that I’m playing into a fantasy – a fantasy that I thought I had given up on a long time ago. A time existed when I played in the dating game like every other girl. I giggled with my girlfriends as we got asked out, one by one.
I batted my eyelashes at guys in fancy bars.
I had boyfriends, more than one.