by Amelia Wilde
“I know it’s a problem, okay? I—I can’t stop, Bee. If I stop, everything comes crumbling down.”
“Are you hearing yourself? It’s not that extreme, Cate. It’s not. Listen to your boyfriend. He’s rich, not stupid.”
A burst of anger gets the better of me. “Every single person is on his side with this, and it’s making me furious.”
Bee bursts out laughing. “Cate! Take a minute and think about what you said. Everyone is on his side because he’s right.”
“I don’t want him to be right.” My voice is small, and I hate it.
“Them’s the breaks.” A little voice calls to Bee from offscreen. “I gotta go, Cate. Forgive me for being on his side? Even if it’s because I love you?”
“I forgive you.”
She blows me a kiss and disconnects the call, and someone sits down next to me on the bench.
It’s Jax.
“Your sister?” he says carefully.
“Yeah,” I say. “Bee.”
A long moment goes by.
I hate being in the wrong, but I hate not touching him more.
After a long moment, I slide over and rest my head on his shoulder.
“I haven’t been myself.”
“It’s all right. I have a suggestion.”
“What is it?”
“Let me show you a good time. Forget about all this for an evening. It’ll be a reset.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“If you’re free.”
“Can I come home with you afterward?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
31
Jax
I’m a man of my word, and when I tell Cate I’m going to show her a good time, I mean it.
Friday evening, she leaves the office at 6:00, and when she gets back to her apartment I’m already there—along with the most highly recommended masseuse in the city and a full hair and makeup team, along with a stylist I’ve hired for the evening.
“Jax,” she says when she walks in the door, her face lighting up. “What is this?”
“The first part of your good time.”
The masseuse has set up in her bedroom, and while he’s working on her I finalize the details for the evening. Thirty minutes later, she emerges from her bedroom freshly showered, wrapped in a brand-new plush robe that I left on her bed.
The team, which has been milling around in her living room, springs into action.
For once, Cate’s making all the approvals—and they’re for no one but herself. Her cheeks are pink from the heat of the shower and she can’t stop herself from grinning.
When we step out of her apartment an hour later, she is a vision in a champagne dress, her hair in a sleek twist behind her head, jewelry glittering on her wrist, around her neck, earrings twinkling on her earlobes.
“Stop,” I tell her, my tone teasing and light.
“Stop what?”
“You’re taking my breath away.”
The cheesy line makes her laugh, and she’s still smiling when we get down to the car waiting at the curb. It’s a brand-new Jaguar. It’s a beauty—all sleek lines and curves and power. I know Cate doesn’t have the time or energy to care about cars, but even she can appreciate this one.
“Wow—you’re pulling out all the stops!” she exclaims as I open the passenger door for her. I’ll be driving tonight.
“You have no idea.”
Our first stop: Haute, one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city. I’m friends with the chef, who sends out dish after dish of a menu customized to Cate’s preferences.
“How does he know?” she whispers to me across the table, and the sweetness in her face—still a little pale underneath the flawless makeup—breaks my heart.
I lean forward as if I’m about to tell her a state secret. “I gave him a list of all of your favorite things. He’s tailoring everything that comes to this table to your specific tastes.”
Cate shakes her head. “Unbelievable.”
“What’s unbelievable about it?”
“That you can do this.”
“I can do anything.”
“So I see.”
“Except convince you to…” I reconsider. “Never mind.”
“Convince me to what?”
I reach across the table and take her hand. “Quit your job.”
Irritation flashes across her face. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”
“It’s probably for the best.”
“Let’s not talk about work.”
“Let’s talk about something better.”
“What’s that?”
“Bed.”
She laughs, a beautiful, throaty sound. “Not in a place as fancy as this.”
“Are you sure you want to say no to me, Ms. Schaffer?” I inject a hint of kink into my tone.
Cate bites her lip and looks at me with lust written across her face. “Not entirely.”
I stand up, tossing my napkin onto my seat. “Come with me.”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Where?”
“Leave your purse. We’ll be back.”
I take her hand and pull her through the restaurant. It’s on the twentieth floor, and there’s only one thing above us: a private observation deck that’s only available to members such as myself.
I’m on her as soon as the elevator doors close, tasting the sweetness of her skin, covering her mouth with mine, running my hands over the curves of her hips. She moans into my mouth, her body fitting to mine, and doesn’t break the kiss until the elevator doors slide open.
The view of the city from here is breathtaking, especially now, when all the lights on the deck are off. It’s completely deserted.
“Let’s play a game.”
“What’s the game?” she says, staring around at the sea of city lights beneath us.
I guide her to the window.
“You give yourself to me, and I’ll make it worth your while.”
A wicked grin. “I like this game.”
“Hands on the glass.”
She hesitates.
“Hands on the glass, Ms. Schaffer.”
Cate steps forward and presses her palms against the thick glass, then spreads her legs, planting her heels firmly into the carpet. I run both hands over the swell of her ass, down the outside of her thighs, and lean forward to breathe into her ear. “You spread for me before I asked.”
“Was that wrong?” Her voice is a breathless whisper.
“No. It’s so right that I’m going to reward you for it.”
“How?”
Instead of telling her, I bend down and lift the hem of her dress, holding it against her waist with one hand while I tug down her panties with the other, tapping her ankle with one hand so that she steps out of them. For a final touch, I press the ball of lace into her mouth. She doesn’t resist. She arches her back and accepts it.
“Keep your hands on the glass.”
I unzip my pants, letting my rock-hard cock spring free, and move into position behind her. Cars speed by far below us, and lights twinkle on and off like stars.
Cate is already dripping wet when I press the head of my cock against her opening, my hands gripping her hips, and ease her back onto me. She moans, the sound muffled by the panties, as my girth stretches her, impales her, reminds her who she belongs to.
Her muscles contract around me, both of us high on the distance from the ground, on the way we’re in full view of anyone on the same level in the neighboring buildings, the power I have over her because she’s given it to me, the sweetest submission.
I fuck her until she comes, legs shaking, head thrown back, crying out into her own panties.
And then…
Then I take her back to dinner, give her an exquisite dessert, and watch the light of that climax shine in her eyes all the way through the sold-out Broadway show, the drive back to my penthouse…and into my bed.
32
Cate
I don�
�t want to leave Jax’s bed.
For the first time, instead of sleeping with me in the guest bedroom, he led me further down the hall to his own room. It’s the opposite of the guest room, which is swathed in white—white sheets, a white comforter, white accents.
Jax’s space is dark.
The walls are a rich slate color, and the silk sheets that cover his bed are a dove gray that seems like heaven to lie in. It’s calming in a way I hadn’t expected. Dark. Inviting. Strong. I’m safe here.
The last thing I want to do when I wake up on Monday morning, after a weekend of exploring everything Jax’s money can buy in the city—next weekend, he tells me, we’ll go to the Hamptons—is head in to work at the Basiqué offices.
The moment I get into the car, the pressure behind my eyes starts.
Jax didn’t argue with me about coming into work. Instead, he had his stylist and the hair and makeup team come to his penthouse this morning so I could relax as long as possible this morning.
As they went to work styling my hair, the thought floated across my mind: I could get used to this.
Nope. No. I cannot get used to this. No matter what Jax has, and what he can offer, I’m keeping my eyes on the prize. The prize is still a job that can make me self-sufficient, dependent on no one else.
Not even him.
By the time Mark drops me off in front of the building, the pressure has built to a searing pain. I can hardly stand to look at the gentle morning sunlight.
Get inside, I tell myself. You’ll be all right if you can get inside.
My motivation has deserted me.
I almost forget to order Sandra’s coffee, and Manuel brings it at the last moment, sprinting down the hallway with only a minute to spare.
“You’re the best,” I tell him, pressing a twenty into his hand as a tip.
Get through the morning.
It’s going to be small goals today. There’s no other way for me to survive. The splitting pain behind my eyes doubles, triples.
People are starting to gather in the meeting rooms, outside the doors, talking casually to one another. She’s almost here.
Sandra sweeps into the office right on time and divests herself of her purse—no coat today.
A deep breath in. A deep breath out.
I’m not quite all the way into her office when she starts speaking, and at first I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing.
“The next issue is going to be a double issue. Let all the essential parties know.”
I’ve already scribbled most of it down before it registers in my brain.
“What?”
“Was I unclear?”
“No, I—a double issue?” A million thoughts swirl in my brain. Where is Sandra going to find the content for this? Is she going to poach it from the next issue after this one? That will completely screw up the editorial calendar. Accounting is going to have a fit. And the scheduling—
She’s already speaking, rattling off a series of about fifty changes for today’s meetings alone.
“A double issue, Sandra? Are you sure?”
Sandra presses her lips together, her jaw jutting out, and she takes one breath through her nose, then exhales. “I’m not asking for your input, Catherine. This is a necessary step for Basiqué. If you have a problem with our creative direction, you are welcome to seek employment elsewhere at any time.”
A chill goes up my spine. No. I do not want to seek employment elsewhere—not without tying everything up here in a neat little bow, with a glowing recommendation from Sandra.
“I don’t have a problem. I wanted to…There’s no problem. I’m sorry, Sandra, go ahead.”
The adjustments to today’s schedule grows to a hundred. I sit down at my computer, the headache having spread back to my temples.
Screw up the scheduling on purpose. The thought surfaces from the back of my mind, and for a good minute, I give it careful, thoughtful consideration. Which meetings could I neglect to reschedule? Which things could I not do that would make the dominos collapse, one after the other?
When I realize that I’ve begun planning Basiqué’s downfall, a sick feeling blooms in my stomach.
Everyone was right. I’ve been an idiot all along.
The splitting headache, the fatigue that follows me everywhere, and now this—actively fantasizing about ways to do my job so poorly that the magazine closes. These are warning signs. It might not be a collapse next time. It might be a full-on nervous breakdown…or worse.
I’ve got to leave.
The thought fills me with anxiety, and that’s when it hits me: I’ve become obsessed with my job.
It’s far beyond a reasonable level.
It’s all I’ve thought about for the past year.
It’s taken the place of most of my friends, and any possible romantic relationships.
And still…
Still, I’m not completely sure I want to leave. It’ll happen someday, but…
I shake my head and breathe, the pain subsiding a little.
You’re tough, Schaffer, I think to myself. You can make it another six months, a year—at the very least, you can steer things through the double issue, and then she’ll have to give you an excellent recommendation when you leave.
Yes.
That’s what I’ll do.
I’ll make my exit gracefully, carefully, causing a minimum of disruption. I’ll stay in Sandra’s good graces—as tenuous as they may seem—and position myself to step directly into a better job.
I only need a few months to do it.
Before I can start on those plans, however, I have to reschedule several thousand meetings for today.
I stretch my hands and bring up my calendar and email client, my mind buzzing with newfound motivation. This is the home stretch.
I can make it.
33
Jax
It’s a hellish day for business, so the last thing I need at 5:00 is a surprise.
Of course, that’s what I get.
The knock comes at my door right on time.
“Come in,” I call, the corners of my mouth already turning up into a smile I can’t suppress.
It drops off my mouth the instant the door swings open, because it’s not Cate who comes in with a wickedly sexy expression on her face.
It’s Sandra Sarzó.
Her expression is decidedly unsexy.
Sarzó’s dark hair is swept up meticulously behind her head, and she wears an outfit I’ve come to recognize over my time here: black, fitted, sharp. The pieces change from designer to designer, but the look never does. It must be why she likes Cate to do the same, although I’m almost sure that if Cate had the choice, she wouldn’t wear all black every day, no matter how gorgeous she looks in that color.
“Mr. Hunter,” Sarzó says, crossing the office and coming to a stop in front of my desk.
“Ms. Sarzó,” I say, standing up.
What the hell is going on?
Maybe Sandra has found out about the arrangement between Cate and me. No, that’s unlikely. How would she find out unless Cate told her? An impossible scenario. Aside from that, I’ve been keeping our meetings short, playful…I don’t take her over the desk nearly as often.
I save that for the penthouse, where Cate’s been spending her nights.
She doesn’t keep me in suspense for very long.
“Would you like to sit down?” I ask her, but she plants her feet and straightens her back, shaking her head.
“I won’t be staying long. I’ve come to inform you that your daily meetings with Catherine will no longer be part of her schedule.”
More than anything, this confuses me. Why today? Why this Monday, with the second issue due to be released in less than three weeks? I don’t let a single flicker of emotion show on my face.
“And why is that, Ms. Sarzó?”
“I will require all of Catherine’s time for the foreseeable future.”
“Have you made changes to her
duties?”
Sarzó pinches her lips together. “I don’t see how that’s relevant, Mr. Hunter.”
This time, I let her see a hint of irritation. “I don’t see how it isn’t. Basiqué is ultimately my publication, Ms. Sarzó—mine.”
She seems to get the idea that this isn’t a game. Either that, or she reacted to my dominating tone the way many women—and men—do: by changing tactics.
“Perhaps I should have approached this from another angle,” Sarzó says thoughtfully, looking at me through narrowed eyes. “I’ve decided to make the next issue of Basiqué a double issue. It’s unprecedented in the magazine’s history and will make quite a splash. I have no doubt you’ll be pleased with the outcome.”
Aha. This is all stemming from the last direct conversation I had with Sandra Sarzó. I’d put the summary of the magazine’s numbers on the desk in front of her and questioned her mercilessly. When she saw them, she didn’t flinch. Those numbers had come as no surprise to her, but as I’m beginning to see, that doesn’t mean she’s given up on course-correcting.
“And,” she continues, “I’ve put several campaigns into place to drive readership and traffic to our website.”
“This kind of change to the editorial schedule is significant.”
It’s not a question, but she confirms it anyway. “Yes. Which is why I won’t be able to spare Catherine. I’ll need her to be available virtually around the clock if these efforts are going to be successful. I have no doubt she’ll rise to the challenge. Her work will be very demanding from here on out. I can’t see returning to our previous publication schedule if this issue succeeds…and I know it will.”
I nod, taking in every word.
My stomach churns with emotions I can’t sort out while Sarzó is standing in front of me. Disgust, for one: she seems not to care at all that Cate is putting her health on the line to excel at this job, and Sarzó is only going to ask her to do more. Cate won’t refuse. I’m anxious, and I hate that flash of nervousness. It tells me I’m not in control, and as much as I think I’m willing to give that up—somewhat—in my love life, I won’t tolerate it in business.