Broken Boundaries (The Debonair Series Book 1)

by TC Matson

  He hangs up and tosses his phone to his desk with a thud. “You’ll be coming to my meeting today,” he says.

  I flinch. “I’m sorry?”

  “You’ll be joining me. I need you to take notes,” he says as if it’s not a big deal.

  It is a big deal. I’ve never been to a corporate meeting, nor have I ever taken notes my boss will deem either important or garbage. I drop my view to my clothes, assuring myself I’m dressed for it.

  He rests back into his chair and steeples his fingers. Amusement dances in his bright green eyes, not concealing a single ounce of their laughter. “Call Clint and have him pick us up, please.”

  I nod without saying a word, scared I might reveal my apprehension…my nervousness.

  I call Clint and arrange the time. While waiting, I busy myself by plowing through some emails. There are so many of them, some dating back to right after Chrissy’s departure. I try to spend an hour a day on the older ones, most mundane and trash, but I’m determined to find the ending and create a new beginning.

  “Are you ready?” he asks, buttoning his blazer as he approaches my desk.

  No. “Yes.” I grab my purse, notepad, and a pen. I hate that I’m going in completely blind. No hints. Not knowing what to expect. And it’s making me exceptionally nervous. My imagination can be brutal at times.

  He stands on the opposite side of the elevator, occupying himself with his cell phone. He doesn’t speak, but neither do I. As the elevator slows, he shoves his phone back into his pocket. And when the doors slide open, he extends his arm, gesturing for me to exit first.

  Heads turn, all eyes cutting at us as we venture through the lobby. I feel important. Superior. All my hard work finally paying off in this very moment.

  I started right here—bottom floor, answering phones as the receptionist. Although most departments had a direct line, some people didn’t have the number, or the person they’re trying to reach was out or busy.

  Still…behind the tall curved desk, I was one of the onlookers, envious of Chrissy and wishing one day I could experience the exact same envy. I always wondered what it felt like to be something of significance, something important to the company instead of overlooked as a subordinate.

  I wasn’t just a full-time receptionist. I also took on a part-time position in the home security department because they were shorthanded. It was only two days a week, but it gave me more experience and knowledge of the company. After several years of working my ass off, here I am proving my hard work and dedication was worth it.

  Clint pops open the back door of the blacked-out and clean Mercedes, nodding as he greets us. I slide in first and the overwhelming smell of leather instantly makes me nauseated. But when Mr. Langley gets in and shuts the door, closing us in, I’m wrapped by the scent of his cologne—clean and masculine, sophisticated and modern. Both aromas combine to create the divine fragrance of a sex god.

  He rests back into the seat, silent and on his phone again. The sun bathes the city, blending the scenery with light and warmth. Perfectly trimmed trees line the sidewalks, all rising upward and breaking up the business facade background with beautiful greenery. Park benches are casually placed here and there, some empty, others occupied by people.

  “You don’t talk often,” he says, pulling my view away from the window to his keen gaze.

  “I’m not a big yapper,” I admit and then shrug. “Although, if the conversation is right, I won’t shut up.”

  He shifts, his broad frame resting more against the door. “What is the right conversation?”

  I lift a shoulder with a frisky smile. “Guess when I won’t shut up, you’ll know.”

  He chuckles. “Let’s start small. Are you originally from Colorado?”

  “No. I moved here from a little town in Nebraska right after college. It’s one of those towns where everyone knows how many times you shook the salt shaker at your dining room table without actually setting foot into the house. Small towns mean big gossip,” I say.

  He nods as if he understands. “Siblings?”

  “Only child.”

  “Dogs?”

  This surprises a laugh out of me and his expression softens with pleasure.

  “She laughs at the boring questions,” he says with a chuckle, keeping his gaze on me. “Are you not a fan of them?”

  “Not a fan of what? Boring questions or dogs?”

  “Both.”

  “Boring topics feel like a really bad first date. They can get pretty awkward,” I tell him.

  “Sounds like you’ve had many bland dates,” he says, nonchalantly.

  “I’m sure talking about my nonexistent dating life would bore you worse than the stale questions.” Cue the facepalm. Of course, I spew my lukewarm loserability to Easton Langley. The man has absolutely no clue what a nonexistent dating life is. I’m positive there’s a waiting line for a date with him.

  His eyes flicker with mirth, his lips keeping a straight line.

  Thankfully, before embarrassment eats me up, the car stops in front of a large gray-slated building and Clint jumps out, opening the door for us.

  Two seconds—it’s how long we had to wait after Easton told the receptionist who we were. A tall brunette with amorous brown eyes pops out from behind large double doors.

  “I’m Ava Jaynes,” she introduces herself with a purr. “Follow me, please.”

  Her tight sweater dress is cute and shows off her hour glass figure and long legs. As she leads us down the hall, Easton’s wandering eye doesn’t go unnoticed regardless of how discreet he’s trying to be.

  Pushing the door open and holding it for us, she grins with her flirting gaze latched on to Easton. If you listen closely, I bet you can hear the purr of her shameless inner whore.

  Two men, both in crisp gray suits, stand. “Mr. Langley,” the man with the most silver in his hair, smiles and stretches out his hand. “It’s good to see you again.”

  Easton introduces me before I take a seat several chairs away. I should only be in the background since I’m here to take notes.

  I jot things down I think Easton may want to remember later, things I believe are important…or at least I hope so. Easton’s trying to convince Donnelly Developers to use him as their security in every home and business they build. The numbers are so outrageous, I almost choke on air when I hear it. I could live comfortably for the rest of my life, including my children, grandchildren great grandchildren…you get the idea.

  As Easton speaks, I steal quick glances at him. He’s strikingly handsome, relaxed and unhurried as he listens to the details coolly. He oozes confidence, carrying himself with so much composure he appears imperturbable. He’s a businessman with a fierce competitiveness and a hunger to be the best of the best. He’s resting back in the chair, his large hands comfortably in his lap, and he occasionally rocks his foot under the table. He’s in his comfort zone and it shows.

  Ava steps in and as she refills our drinks, Easton inconspicuously checks her out. Like ghost peeks, they’re fleeting split seconds while still appearing to be fully engaged in the meeting. The men miss them, but she doesn’t and reciprocates her own brisk flirty glances and supple smiles.

  I want to roll my eyes. He doesn’t have to try for attention. His presence is enough. He radiates sexy, assertiveness, power, and calm. It’s a simple premise. What’s not to find attractive about it?

  I, on the other hand, don’t have it as easy. I’d have to cartwheel and fall flat on my face to receive the same attention Ava’s getting. I’m average—my body, my hair, my skin—ordinary stuff.

  Easton’s far from mediocre. His eyes are brilliantly green, prepossessing even. His lips are smooth with the top thinner than the bottom, but not by much. His jaw is strong, holding an engaging and panty-bursting smile. His shoulders are broad, his chest wide. His hips are…

  “Miss Campbell will send you the information.”

  My name screeches into my ears, careening me back into the chair in the m
eeting. I snap my eyes to him and smile confidently, like I’ve been here the whole time and know what the hell I just missed…not lost in the ocean of desire.

  Shit.

  He stands and we say our goodbyes before heading out, led by Ava again. Easton doesn’t speak, and when it’s time for Ava to return to whatever gates of gorgeousness she escaped from, her smoky gaze latches on to him.

  “Have a great afternoon,” she purrs with a grin of seduction.

  She eyes him as if he’s the last steak on the rack.

  I long for those types of glances. I want to be someone’s steak.

  He nods, the corners of his lips quirking up, but he doesn’t speak.

  We ride in silence with only the noise of passing cars filling the void as he once again messes with his phone.

  He sighs, tossing it to the seat between us. “If we’re out, you’ll not look at me like that again. Do I make myself clear?”

  My heart thwacks my chest before leaping into my throat. “Excuse me?” Dammit, I squeaked.

  He pierces me with an all-knowing glare. “Miss Campbell.” His tongue rides the L’s. “Can you tell me what the last fifteen minutes of the meeting were about?”

  Dread coats my veins as I force myself back into the padded chair around the oval dark brown conference table and across from the two men. Desperately, I reach into the images, hoping…trying to remember something, anything being said. But I can’t. I see nothing but his image. His face. Him.

  I was completely lost, distracted by his sexiness.

  Back in school, they teach the steps of an essay. A meeting is a verbal one, right?

  I swallow and muster up a conclusion. Here goes for hope…

  “You stated you’d have someone work up the quote for a three-year contract and have me send it once it’s complete.”

  Please be right. Please be right.

  The corners of his eyes wrinkle and he smirks like a smug ass. “I bring you meetings to take notes, keeping me organized and able to follow up on action items. As an effective assistant, you’ll be substantial and, quite frankly, indispensable. Par the opposite, you’ll be worthless to me. Attempt to better conceal whatever thoughts pull you away. We’re professionals in meetings, in crowds, in front of employees, etcetera, etcetera. Work on that.”

  My body is on fire, burning from both humiliation and anger. “Yes, sir,” I grit through a forced smile while holding his stare.

  He regards me as if he knows what I was thinking, like he recognizes when a woman has him pictured in her thoughts. As ridiculous as it sounds, it’s making me madder by the second.

  Ending my torture, I rip my gaze from his and peer out the window.

  Dammit…

  Zoey

  Although I’ve swallowed my pride and forced myself to move past my mortification of being busted for gawking and called out on it, the past two weeks have still been excruciating. It’s hard to look a man dead in the eyes who caught you daydreaming about him without wanting to squirm under your skin.

  Thankfully, he’s been gone more than present. I’ve used the time alone to nail down a lot of his routine and jump head first into the tasks I know he needs. Like he said, if I want to be indispensable, I need to be effective. It’s my goal. I didn’t work my ass off to get here and screw up. Hot boss or not, I’m going to be vital.

  I’ve paid attention to everything. He comes in exactly at eight and not a minute late. He leaves for lunch at twelve and comes back promptly at one-thirty. He keeps his door shut ninety percent of the time and if given the right phone call, I can hear either his excitement or vexation through the wall. Other times, it’s quiet.

  There’s a knock on my apartment door and immediately following is Britney.

  “Let’s get this party started.” She throws her arms over her head and shakes them. “I’m so ready to drink and dance.”

  That’s the great thing about living across the hall from your best friend—she knows when you need a break. Britney must’ve homed in her telepathic abilities because when I got home this afternoon, she bombarded me at the door with a roaring idea to go clubbing tonight.

  There’s no better destresser than drinks and dancing.

  “Me too. It’s been weeks of stress and I need to get rid of it before I pop,” I whine. “I can’t even think straight anymore.”

  She wraps her arms around my neck and hugs me. “It’s the weekend and tonight we’re going to dance our asses off, leaving all our worries like a big pile of shit in the middle of the dance floor.”

  Britney has always stood out. Her personality enters the room before the rest of her—bubbly and loud. Following suit is her fiery red hair she dyes because her natural and beautiful brown hair is “boring.” She has these dark commanding eyes with perfectly manicured eyebrows. Her lips are full, or as she says “the perfect dick sucking lips.” She takes measures to look flawless and she’ll openly admit it. And no matter her style or look for the night, she always has the perfect outfit.

  Her gaze travels to my legs and she bounces a finger. “Your legs look fabulous in those shorts.”

  I roll my eyes and laugh. “You’re so easily sidetracked.”

  She beams proudly. “Yep. Let’s go do this!” she hollers and raises the roof like we’re back in the nineties.

  Club Orchid—the hottest club in Denver. Standing outside its brick walls, you feel the building pulsing, the sound of music reaching out and wrapping your body in its fingers, forcing you to dance while you wait. Once we step inside, we’re instantly battered with neon green strobes, heavy vibrations of the bass throbbing against our skin, and people moving and dancing around.

  Britney grasps my hand and makes a beeline to the bar where she orders two blue kamikaze shots.

  Yep. We’re definitely going to let loose tonight.

  One right after the other, we slam them back. The keen burn blazes my tongue and down my throat—a scorch I’ve needed desperately these past weeks. I might love to dance, but I’ve always needed an elixir for the courage to shake my ass in the middle of a large crowd.

  “You good?” she asks.

  I nod and she grabs my hand again, leading the way. It’s packed full. There isn’t any room for more, yet when we step onto the dance floor, the space miraculously appears. She spins toward me and we move, swaying and bouncing to the rhythm of the song. My head swings from side to side, my arms roaming my body as the music speaks to me. I’m lost in the beat, weeks of stress and tension dissolving into the air and floating away on the sound waves.

  We laugh, pretending to be the sexiest women alive—stripper material—and we don’t give a damn how ridiculous we may look. This is our moment and we’re living it. I run my hands down my ribcage and whip my head, flipping my hair and shaking my ass. Britney does her own thing, but together, we own our space.

  After two songs, we head back to the bar to catch our breaths and grab another round of shots.

  As the bartender sets the glasses on the bar, a tall man sidles up beside Britney and grins widely. “I’ll get that.”

  Her giggle is breathy as she says something for only him to hear. His brown eyes flare with anticipation and he nods.

  Did I ever mention Britney has whore tendencies? Her words, not mine. I don’t judge, only worry at times, which can be frustrating. I’ve seen enough shows where the women end up missing, or worse—dead, when they were only meeting up with someone. Good things can go bad in an instant.

  She waggles her brows and tips her head—a telltale sign for me to follow her and the lucky man. Even with Britney’s hand in his, he checks over his shoulder regularly as he leads the way, keeping us just on the edge of the room and away from the majority of the crowd. We pass by the VIP section to the left of the stairs and then head up.

  The area has glass walls overlooking the main floor, muting part of the music, but you can feel the bass under your feet. Up here, you can see the club is huge and jam-packed with people dancing or socializing. />
  The guy slides into the booth first and Britney joins in right beside him. “I’m Britney,” she chirps and then winks. “This is Zoey.” She points.

  I give a small wave.

  He’s all smiles. “I’m Ken.”

  “You’re the best-looking man here, Ken,” she throws out her regular line I’m all too familiar with.

  “You probably say that to all the men,” he says.

  If he only knew.

  She twirls her flaming red hair between her fingers. “I do, but this time I mean it.”

  You guessed it. It’s her go-to line. Every. Time. Recited to perfection.

  “I need to go to the bathroom. Need to come?” I ask, knowing the answer already. It’s our routine—I disappear just long enough for her to get a feel for the guy. If it’s good, when I return to the table I get a wink. If it’s a no-go, I’ll get a hair flip, which is my cue to concoct a plan to steal her back.

  It’s an ingenious plan. For years it’s worked perfectly.

  She shakes her head and I leave, making my way back down the stairs and into the bathroom, which surprisingly doesn’t have a line.

  The reason why there isn’t a line—every damn woman here is crammed into this little tight space. And from the looks of it, I’m well over-dressed. I’m surrounded by miniskirts barely covering up the goodies, shirts showing off side-boob, and well, boob, and makeup heavy enough to cover a clown’s pay for a week.

  I’ve never really understood the fake facade. Why not come comfortably? More like yourself? Think about it… If you’re dressed like a slut, you’ll be treated as one. Unless that’s your thing. If that’s the case, so be it. It’s your dignity…or lack thereof.

  I finish and cram myself at the only available sink, between two women talking about how one of them should “give the guy a good BJ to help him out of his bad mood.”

  The blonde to my left pipes up. “Or better yet, let’s take him back to my place and both of us suck his dick. No way he’ll stay pissy with that, besides, then we’ll all have some fun.”