by Lia Lee
I shrug. “Do you get along with my father?”
Nathaniel watches me for a moment. “I do. He’s a loyal employee and a hard worker. I don’t quite know what he’s doing working for me, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your father went from being the CEO of one of the top financial firms in this city to being a driver and errand boy for someone like me? How does that even work?”
I grimace. This is not a conversation I want to have with my dreamy boss. I want to kick myself for bringing my dad up at all, but he’s always there; the specter of how unthinking, manipulative, and dishonest men can be. I know that things I’ve learned about my father have affected the way I deal with men. I grew up with a great example of why it doesn’t make much sense to put my faith, or my life, in the hands of another man. Till death do us part is bullshit.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” Nathaniel says, seeming to sense my discomfort.
“It’s fine. When my mother passed away, he kind of…” I shrug. “He kind of lost it. His drive, his sense of humor… he just kind of shut down. There were things between them that were unresolved,” I say. I can’t look at him, so I look down at my glass of water. I’m fidgeting with the corner of my napkin. “The only thing that finally forced him to get back out there was the fact that we were about to lose even the inexpensive apartment we’d moved into. By then, he had no desire to do much of anything. He lucked out finding work as your driver. He seems to enjoy the work.”
“He must have loved your mother very much,” Nathaniel says, and I bite back the bitter laugh I want to release.
“It was a stressful time,” I say instead.
“I’m sorry,” Nathaniel tells me, and I nod. Seeming to sense that I need a change of subject, he leans forward, seeking out my gaze. “I was thinking that next week maybe you could spend some time shadowing Roberto as he works.”
I smile. “Have you been reading my mind?”
“I wish, Poppy. I wish.”
Thank God he can’t actually read my mind. About 90 of the time when we’re at work, I’m envisioning all of the very filthy things I’d like him to do to me. I don’t know what it is about him that brings out this side of me. I mean, I’m hardly innocent, but I’ve always been very much a ride ’em and leave ’em type of girl. Quick and straight to the point. Him, I envision all kinds of insanity with.
“Probably a good thing you can’t,” I tell him. Our food arrives at that moment, and we thank our server and start to dig in.
“Let me guess, you spend a ton of time thinking about what a dick I am,” Nathaniel says, then takes a bite of his salmon.
I laugh and receive a smile in return. “Gosh, boss, you caught me,” I tell him, digging into my salad. “How’d you ever guess?”
“Lucky guess,” he replies, and I laugh again. “So, you spend your days thinking I’m a dick and that I’m horribly unorganized. What else?”
I take another bite, buying myself time. I do not think he’s a dick. I think about his…
Nope. Not going there.
“Mostly, I complain to myself about how much my feet hurt,” I tell him.
“Ah ha. Torture in the name of beauty, eh?”
“Worth it. These shoes make my legs look freaking fantastic,” I say, glancing down at my legs.
“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” he says under his breath, and I force back a smile.
I’m not the only one paying attention, it seems. And then it hits me that my hot as hell boss might just be having the occasional impure thought about me as well.
A smart woman would not even consider playing this game with him. I’m smart, but I also, sometimes, like to live dangerously.
“They hurt, but I feel about a thousand times hotter wearing them,” I tell him. “People always think women wear shoes like this for men, and sometimes we do, but do you want to know the truth?”
The corner of his mouth lifts, and he’s watching me again. There’s something insanely hot about being the focus of Nathaniel Stone’s attention. “Tell me,” he says, and a little shiver goes through me at the gentle command.
“The truth is, we like looking at ourselves when we look good. It’s hot as hell to look in the mirror and see this sexy, confident chick standing there in front of you. It affects the way I feel for the rest of the day. I feel unstoppable, like I can take on the world and win.”
His eyes have gone dark, and my stomach twists. My entire body feels warm, and I’m pretty sure my panties are soaked, just from sitting here talking to him like this. I know I’m playing with fire, as this can’t go anywhere, but there’s something almost addictive about the fact that this gorgeous man is affected by me. I want more.
He clears his throat and sits back, looking away from me. “That’s a very good reason,” he tells me, and I smile.
He glances up, meeting my eyes again. “I have my own version of that.”
“Do you?”
Nathaniel nods, and I see a little devilish glint in his eyes.
“Feel like sharing?” I ask him.
“Maybe some other time. It’s a little personal to share over lunch.”
I nod and bite my lower lip.
I want to fuck this man senseless. But the chance of that happening is pretty much zero. I’ve never pined after anyone, and I don’t think I’m pining now, but… ugh.
I force myself to talk about other things with him for the rest of our lunch, and by the time we finish, a lot of the tension that I’d felt hanging between us has lightened. Still there, of course, but I feel less like I’m drowning in it. I think the most I’m ever going to get from Nathaniel is that he thinks I’m kind of cute. And that’s probably for the best. The last thing I need to do is fuck my boss.
Believe me: I’ve seen how that ends up for women who find themselves in that situation.
Chapter Six
Nathaniel
It’s been two weeks. Two weeks of working with Poppy every day, listening to her voice, and smelling her when she walks past. Two weeks seeing that she’s as passionate about this work as I am.
Two weeks of fantasizing about taking her over my knee and spanking her perfect ass every time she’s said something sassy to me. Which is often. Ever since our lunch together last week, I’ve been thinking about her constantly—trying to come up with a way to get between her thighs without being a sleaze ball.
I’m currently in my office, finishing up a conference with the directors of some of my other galleries. I’ve got good people on my staff all across the country. It hasn’t been easy. I’ve been really picky about who I hire, and during the process it seems like such a pain in the ass, but this is when it pays off; when I can be here in what I consider my “home” gallery, and know that with very little supervision from me, my other galleries will just keep humming along.
I step out of my office and into the loft area that overlooks the gallery floor. I can hear Poppy from up here. Not her exact words, but the hum of her voice. She’s working with Roberto again today; preparing the gallery for the upcoming show. I had her on administrative tasks for the first few days, but her talents were totally wasted there.
Not that she complained.
She reminds me a bit of her father, Bruce, in that way. He seems to have passed his tireless work ethic on to his daughter. That would serve her well, and it made her a valuable person to have on a team. They clearly have a strained relationship from the little bits and pieces I’ve heard from Poppy about her father. I wonder what happened there?
As I watch, she listens to something Roberto is saying. Roberto seems to enjoy having her around. Now he has someone whose ear he could talk off about whatever his current obsession is. If Roberto weren’t happily married, I’d be bothered by how much time they spend together, but it was him or me, and I’m having a hard time keeping my head when I’m near her. I avoid her for the most part, and when we do talk, I try to keep it distant and professional. And quick.
Th
e thing is, I want to be the one down there, talking to her, teaching her. But she’s just too damn tempting, and my control seems to start lacking the second she walks into a room.
I watch her a while longer. I start at her feet, in another pair of sky-high heels, up her shapely calves and thighs, her hips. From where I’m standing, I can appreciate her pert, round breasts without her knowing. Yeah, I feel like a perv, but I also feel like I’m goddamn drowning in my need for her. I’ve only been like this about one other woman in my life.
And that unsettles the hell out of me.
A long time ago, I made a vow to never love again. To never dare to imagine that I could find another Danneel. She was my high school sweetheart and best friend. We’d suited each other in every way, and the memory of her perfect, model-like face the night that our baby was born, is bittersweet.
I’ll never forget the first cry that came out of Micah’s mouth… the feeling of his tiny swaddled body in my arms… the ear-to-ear smile Danneel gave me as she watched me carry Micah across the room so I could lay him on her chest… then the way that smile had drooped just before I reached her… her eyelashes fluttering right before her head crashed back onto the pillow.
A flurry of doctors and nurses were suddenly clotting around her bed. The two words that I did manage to hear in the chaos of it all gutted me on the spot and told me all I needed to know.
Brain aneurysm.
At that moment, I knew my darling Danneel was gone, and that the baby in my arms would never know his mother.
When a single tear slides down my cheek, I swipe it away with more force than necessary, beating the memory back again.
Below me, Roberto has now gone off to do something, and Poppy is arranging a few of the sculptural pieces. She has a flair for utilizing space; a combination of a natural eye for details and attention to her studies. It’s not every day you find both things in a curator.
Maybe I should hire her for real? Bring her on staff? If not here, then in one of my other East Coast galleries.
I immediately toss the idea away. She’d want to stay here. I’ve heard her saying to Roberto that she never intends to move out of the city. And I can’t have her here all the time, even if I had a full-time position to offer her. The temptation is already nearly overwhelming, but knowing she’d be here permanently would drive me nuts. Not a chance.
It’s more than just admiring her and wanting to do all manner of filthy things to her sweet little body, though. There’s something about her…
I’ve started painting again, for the first time in years. I completely lost the desire to even try, after Danneel—
No. I’m not going to think about that again now.
In any case, Poppy walked into my life, and now I’m painting again. No matter what else she is, or what else I want her to be, she appears to be my own little muse, and there is no amount of thanks I’ll ever be able to give her for that. I’m caught, at the moment, between wanting to stand here watching her, and finishing up for the day so I can get back to painting.
For now, I content myself with resting my forearms on the metal railing overlooking the gallery and watching Poppy. When she’s thinking, she furrows her brow and pulls her lush lower lip between her teeth. She’s been doing that for a little while now as she looks around the gallery. Her focus is admirable.
I can only imagine how rewarding it would be to have that focus turned toward me. Preferably when I’m naked, and she’s on her knees in front of me.
I stifle a groan and turn away. I shouldn’t be this obsessed with her. Yes, she’s cute. Yes, she’s smart and focused and driven. But this need, this unquenchable desire to bend her to my will, to show her just what kind of a man it is she works for, to hear her scream my name over and over again as I show her what pleasure really is… it’s enough to drive me insane. It feels wrong. She’s too young for me, and I know it.
Most of the time, I just can’t bring myself to care.
I walk back into my office and get a few more things done. Around six o’clock, I head back down to the gallery. It seems like Poppy’s just finished up for the day. She’s looking over her work, and I glance around as I walk down the stairs.
“Well. What do you think?” she asks, biting her lower lip as she turns to me. She’s shed the jacket that she was wearing earlier and is standing there in that little skirt, a chocolate brown button-down shirt that matches her dark eyes, and a pair of red stilettos that have been adding to my fantasies all day.
I walk through the gallery, inspecting her work. It’s just her and me here now, I realize. She follows a few steps behind as I stroll along. I ask her about her reasoning behind why she displayed a few pieces the way she has, and her answers are well-reasoned and intuitive.
I finish my inspection and turn to her. “You're a natural, Poppy,” I tell her. “I can’t find a single thing I’d change.”
Her jaw drops, and my gaze is drawn to her plump, pink lips. My cock twitches at the sight, and I try to will it to calm down.
“Thank you. That’s so not what Roberto said you’d say.”
I laugh, and she studies me. There’s that little quirk to her lips, and it takes everything in me not to bend down right this moment and kiss her breathless.
“Roberto's used to hearing it because Roberto is jaded and losing sight of what we do here,” I tell her. “I have to tell you, your work these past two weeks has been exemplary. You have a tireless work ethic and enough talent that I don’t doubt you’ll go far in this industry.”
She stares at me for a moment, and then looks down, but not before I’m rewarded with that sweet little blush I’ve been craving.
“Thank you. That means a lot to me. These past two weeks have cemented what I already suspected. When I have my Ph.D., I know I want to be a curator. I want to launch my own exhibits, build collections for museums… any waffling I had on that issue has been erased after actually being able to do the work these past weeks, so thank you for that.”
I nod, and then I remember the expensive bottle of red wine one of my clients had delivered as a thank-you earlier in the day. I walk over to the counter and pick up the gift basket with its bottle of very old, very pricey wine. I hold the bottle up so Poppy can see it. This goes against every bit of sense I have, but fuck it. I want this, at least, with her.
“Shall we have a drink to celebrate two weeks of tireless work coming to fruition? No one can card you here,” I add with a smile.
She smiles but shakes her head. “I shouldn’t. It’s getting dark out…”
“Oh, come on now. It’s Friday night. Unless you have somewhere to be?” I ask, and the spike of jealousy I feel at even the idea that she might have plans with someone else shocks me.
She shakes her head again. “No, it’s not that. I just—”
“Boss’s orders, then,” I tell her with a smile, and, after a moment, she nods, laughing a little. I lead her upstairs, where, other than the administrative office, there’s also a small gallery. I sometimes host artists and clients up here, but mostly, this gallery is for me, and I want her to see it.
I open the glass doors into the upstairs gallery and step aside as she walks in, her eyes wide as she looks around. Before I can say a word, she’s strolling over to one wall, which is dominated by some of my favorite pieces.
“I wondered what was in here,” she murmurs. “You can’t see the art from outside the door.”
“Did you try?” I ask with a smile.
She turns back and gives me one of her crooked little smiles. “Obviously. Nose pressed to the glass and everything.” She turns back to the art, and I can’t take my eyes off her. She moves like a dancer; graceful and fluid. As she looks around, I grab two wine glasses from the wet bar tucked into one corner of the gallery, uncork the wine, and pour it. I carry both glasses over to her and offer her one, which she accepts with a smile.
“I’m pleading inebriation for anything improper I might say from this point on. I don’t d
rink much,” she says with a little laugh as she takes a sip.
“I can’t imagine that you’d say anything that would be considered improper.”
She raises one eyebrow, and her eyes twinkle with a hint of mischief and humor. “Well, you never know,” she murmurs, taking another sip.
I motion her toward one of the long sofas in the middle of the gallery. There’s a chaise lounge tucked into another corner, but she seems to be into looking at the art, and I’m happy with letting her get her fill of it. It gives me more of an opportunity to admire her without her knowing. Before long, we’re talking like old friends—about college and art and books and places we’ve been and places we want to visit. She’s kicked off her shoes and has her legs curled beneath her, her body facing me as we sit and talk. Soon, the wine bottle is empty, and I’m feeling drunk. Not on the wine, but on Poppy and her scent and her laugh and that devilish little twinkle in her eyes. The desire I felt the first moment I saw her, and then again at lunch last week, has just continued to build at an almost frightening pace.
And at that moment, I realize that I’m done pretending I don’t want her. I’m going to have her. I’m going to know her body in ways no one else ever has. And she won’t turn me down because I’m going to make her the kind of offer she’d be crazy to want to walk away from.
Finally, after all this time, the scar of my past doesn’t burn so bad.
Chapter Seven
Poppy
This man is every naughty dream I’ve ever had. I mean, he was irresistible enough when he was just my hot, if sometimes curt, boss. But this guy? This guy who’s open and relaxed and even actually laughed at a few of my dorky jokes? This guy has me so hot and bothered I’m already adding extra vibrator batteries to the mental shopping list I keep.
Down, girl.
I clear my throat, wishing for more wine, but we demolished the entire, absolutely delicious, bottle of it.
“How did you get into all this?” I ask, vaguely gesturing at the gallery. “Art, I mean.”
He takes a breath and looks like he’s not going to answer. But then he turns those sexy hazel eyes on me. “I don’t remember a time when art wasn’t central to my life,” he says. “Growing up… my life was pretty rough. My parents were the types of people who should never have kids. Hell, my parents shouldn’t have been allowed to have a goldfish,” he adds, and I don’t know what to say to that. “I would sit in my room and draw. I’d sit on my bed, my back against the pillows, and stay that way for hours. When I was drawing, everything else disappeared. The shouting, the fear, the hunger, the sense of being just kind of alone in the world.”