by Sylvia Frost
Cynthia tossed the post-it in the trash… or tried. It hit the rim and bounced to the floor. She let it stay where it was.
Cynthia: Not great. Atm, Boxes & Broom needs some help.
Bel: Oh no. Anything I can do?
Cynthia: No. There is someone who can help, but it’s complicated.
Bel: Oh?
Cynthia: We may be romantically involved.
Bel: Romantically involved??? Cynthia Cinders??? You do not do romantically involved.
Cynthia: I know it’s bad when USA Today Best-Selling author Isabella Booksmore abuses punctuation like that. Bel: I’m just surprised. But I will say this… Sometimes help comes from unexpected places.
Cynthia: I think fortune-cookie-dom may be infectious.
Bel: You’re probably right! I’ve got to skedaddle now. Samson is having a freak-out because, apparently, Luther is finally calling. But we will talk more later. Okay?
Cynthia: Okay.
Not getting up from her chair, Cynthia scooted over to the post-it and placed it fully in the trash. At the same time, Marian knocked on the side wall of Cynthia’s cubicle. Impressive. Usually Marian just started the conversation. Knocking was a step up.
“I wanted to say I’m sorry,” Marian said, her posture as stiff as her words.
Cynthia’s not-so-great office chair ‘skreed’ as she swiveled it toward Marian. “We had said the logo was a closed subject.”
“I know.” Marian nodded before trying to push her bushy bangs out of her eyes. It was a hopeless task, as whoever her hairdresser was always cut them just long enough that they managed to block her view. Cynthia sighed. “We just don’t have time for this kind of craziness, Marian. I need everybody focused. You saw the numbers before we were interrupted. Heck, you have one of the biggest percentage stakes in this company out of anyone except for me.”
“The logo is bad. It does not effectively represent the company. The rectangular version is better, but not by a lot.” Marian frowned.
“Marian.”
“But the logo isn’t the real problem. We both know that.” Taking a few more steps into the office, she pointed up at the post-it note board. “You need a big giant red one that says ‘Make a decision about how to save the company.’”
“Thanks, Marian. I’ll get on that.”
Marian nodded once, and in paces that Cynthia would’ve sworn were almost robotically identical in length, walked back out of her cubicle. Right before she got to the edge, she paused. “But if saving the company means you have to do things you’d rather not with Rex, I—”
“That is not what’s happening.” Cynthia was surprised by the intensity of her own voice.
“Good.” Marian nodded again, even shorter and sharper than the last time. “Well, in that case, I recommend you bang him and suck out all the business tips you can. Maybe he can give a good outside perspective.”
“Marian!”
As Marian trotted off, Cynthia debated tracking her down and having yet another conversation about how social niceties were the lubricant of their corporate culture, but she decided it wasn’t worth it. Marian would just make a joke about lube, and she was right.
Not about the lube part. But Rex did know how to run a company. He hadn’t become a billionaire by accident, and she would have to be an idiot not take advantage of his wisdom. Also, Marian was the only other one of their team who worked the weekends as well, and if she was giving Cynthia her blessing for a night out, then the only reason not to go would’ve been her own misgivings.
To her surprise, she didn’t have any. Not logical ones anyway. There were still the dual worries in the pit of her stomach.
1)That Rex was too good to be true and would leave her once he got to see how big of mess her life really was.
2)The other, more primal unease that made her skin hot and breath short. Something was off about the billionaire. But whatever it was, she kind of… liked it?
Cynthia’s phone buzzed on her desk, and she picked it up absentmindedly, excited for another one of Bel’s witty texts. Or maybe even another picture of the lumberjack boyfriend.
It wasn’t Bel.
Cynthia felt her stomach drop in a dangerously pleasant sort of way as she read the text.
Unknown Number: Look for the Black Audi. Be there. If you still want to pay, bring food. Otherwise, I’ll be hunting us down dinner.
She tapped back to her home screen and checked the time. It was half past four.
Cynthia: Sorry, who is this?
That done, Cynthia smirked and grabbed her purse, which hung from the hook with the purse label on it, underneath her mail sorter, and put her phone in it. Shutting down her computer, she did her final sweep of the desk area to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. She even flicked a dust bunny into the trash. But all the while, she was imagining what Rex’s response would be.
Would he say something annoyingly sexy like ‘don’t you think you’re cute, princess’? Or angry like ‘you know very well who I am’ or angry sexy like ‘keep messing with me and I’ll spank you’? Cynthia bit the inside of her cheek. That damn man didn’t even have to say anything to get to her.
As she left the room, she pulled out her phone and checked it again.
He hadn’t responded. It was now 4:52.
With one hand, Cynthia turned off the lights. Then she headed out of the Boxes & Broom office to the reception area for the building as a whole. A paper bag filled with tonight’s meal rested on the counter and she picked it up by the thin handles, having already paid and tipped through the app.
4:57
Still no response. With a few more swipes, she added Rex to her contacts under ‘We’re Really Doing This, Aren’t We?’ The label was much better than just a mysterious sequence of numbers. With her shoulder, she pushed open the door leading the stairwell and walked down to the street.
She managed to keep her itching fingers from sending off another text until she got outside. The weather was unseasonably cool for late March and coupled with the honking of cabs and spluttering of cars driven by people foolish or rich enough to own an automobile in Manhattan, leaving the sanctuary of her office made her head throb.
So much chaos.
5:02
Her knight-in-shining Audi was nowhere to be seen.
Cynthia: Rex?
His reply was immediate.
Rex: Glad to see you’ve stopped pretending you don’t know me.
Cynthia rolled her eyes. He hadn’t been away from his phone. He had been deliberately not answering until she gave in.
Cynthia: I’m beginning to think you’ve forgotten where I work.
Rex: How could I forget? It’s on your business cards.
Rex: Along with your phone number.
Cynthia almost hurled her phone onto the sidewalk. Her business cards. Of course. That must’ve been how he had found her. He probably had stolen them from her purse while she was sleeping. Although how he had gotten up to do that, and not noticed when she left was a mystery.
Cynthia: Did you steal one of my business cards from my purse?
Rex: They’re free for anyone to take at reception, Princess.
A black Audi purred around the corner. It shone as if it were new.
Rex: I believe there’s a car waiting for you.
The car stopped and a man got out. Cynthia knew the moment she saw his foot protrude from the other side that it wasn’t Rex. His shoes were too dull, and as he opened the door for her, Cynthia noted his head was as bald as a cue ball.
“Ms. Cinders,” the man said as he opened the door. He actually bowed his head. It could’ve been a gesture of deference. Or he could’ve been hiding his face so that Cynthia couldn’t report him to the police after she was inevitably kidnapped by her billionaire stalker, Rex. She wasn’t sure where that sudden burst of fear had come from, but she knew deep down that it wasn’t entirely unfounded.
Cynthia: I thought you were coming to pick me up, Rex.
; As much as she enjoyed Rex’s forceful personality and the signs that he might be something other than chiseled perfection in a tuxedo, there was also no denying the things that attracted her to him also made her wary.
Cynthia’s lips prickled, swollen and heavy, and she wet them. This all felt so familiar. As the mark on her ankle twinged in the exact same place the strange boy in the woods had touched her when he put her flip-flop back on, she had to consider the extremely unlikely.
Cynthia: Rex… We haven’t met before, have we?
Rex: Get in the car, and find out.
Before she could change her mind, Cynthia ducked into the car. “Rex?” Her voice sounded breathy with need, even to her own ears, and she blushed so hard her cheeks stung as if they had been sunburned. But she needn’t have worried.
Rex wasn’t there.
As the door shut behind her, Cynthia saw that instead of Rex in the seat next to her, there was a high-heeled shoe. Her high-heeled shoe. The one she had thrown into Central Park. Next to it was a handwritten note. Cynthia snatched it, leaving her shoe. The tangibility of the paper was refreshing in her hands after all the texting. Scrawled on it in elegant cursive was the following:
This is twice now, Princess.
The car rocked forward, and all the breath whooshed out of Cynthia’s lungs. The paper bag filled with the sushi fell to the matted floor of the car.
“Seatbelt, please, Ms. Cinders.”
“What?” Cynthia looked up, still in shock.
The driver put on the turn signal and stared at her pointedly. Even Rex’s employees were bossy.
She put on the seatbelt, the stiff fabric cutting across her shoulder. On her back, the leather of the seats cushioned her as smoothly and richly as butter.
Rex was the same guy from the woods. I knew it. But what did that mean? It had to be just a coincidence. But why didn’t he mention it before?
Outside, the cars seem to part before theirs, which for New York traffic was a rarity. Rex’s car was probably blessed with whatever voodoo magic he had that made people so tractable.
Even me.
Cynthia turned over the note in her hand, tracing the calligraphic loops of Rex’s script.
Especially me.
Cynthia grabbed her phone from her lap and debated calling him, but she decided on just sending another text. There was something undeniable about the way Rex spoke that made her not just think of sex, but also to feel it. In her skin. In between her thighs. Cynthia re-crossed her legs, moving from crossing at the ankles to one leg directly on top of the other. As if that would help.
Cynthia: What does this mean?
Rex: It means we’ve met before.
Cynthia: No, I know that. But…
Rex: But what, Princess?
Even though Rex wasn’t here, the car smelled like him. Cynthia exhaled in frustration, as if she could expel Rex from her nostrils.
Cynthia: Why didn’t you tell me yourself?
Rex: I wanted to give you time to think.
Cynthia: I can think with you around…
Rex: I know that sometimes I can be… overbearing.
She smiled at the understatement. Her lungs felt like they were filled with champagne. Bubbly. She couldn’t even process the city whizzing by outside of her window, let alone the truth Rex had just dropped on her.
Cynthia: Have you been stalking me since we met?
Rex: No.
Cynthia: Rex…
Rex had the kind of name that demanded to be spoken, to be felt on the lips, so as she typed it out, she couldn’t help but mouth it. There were so many emotions contained in each syllable.
Cynthia put her phone down for a moment, looking out the window. Her eyes narrowed in surprise at what she saw. The metal skyscrapers had given way to the older, stony neo-classical facades of Wall Street proper. But it wasn’t until they rolled to a stop that Cynthia realized exactly where the driver was taking her, and she began to laugh aloud in relief and disbelief. “Of course he took me here,” she muttered.
Outside in large, engraved letters on one of the skyscrapers was a familiar company name.
Rom Investing.
Chapter 25
A glacier of ice bobbed in the dark amber liquid of Rex’s Manhattan as one of his twenty-dollar Maraschino cherries sent thick tendrils of inky, sour juice seeping into the stiff alcohol. The after-hours drink looked out of place on the custom-made glass-topped conference table. With a tap, the whole surface would turn into a touchscreen able to video chat any of his other branches across the world. But Rex didn’t need to call Tokyo at the moment.
What he needed was to help his mate fix her company and her life without trying to take over either, a challenge for a normal human male, let alone a billionaire with an inner wolf who had no other desire than to take Cynthia into the woods somewhere and mate with her until they forgot their responsibilities.
Grasping the cold tumbler, he downed half of it in a single gulp.
He wouldn’t even think about the worst-case scenario—that Cynthia might decide to run away again. Without her, the fraying of their bond would resign him to life of insanity—and a short one at that.
Rex rattled the ice in his half-empty glass and drank the rest.
The double glass doors etched with the simple serif type logo of his company parted soundlessly. Before looking, he knew the intruder wasn’t his mate from the smell. Pressed flowers and apples.
A young black woman with long extensions hiding her face entered. Her body had the same curves Cynthia’s did, but that was where similarities ended. Like most, she didn’t meet his eye. In the three years he had employed Rose, she almost never did. He would’ve thought it was the usual respectful unease most humans had around him, except the tips of her dark ears glowed pink. “Don says that Ms. Cinders has arrived,” she said breathily.
Ignoring the woman’s crush had been effortless before Cynthia, but now her girlish desire for him just reminded him of the difficulties he was having with his real mate. “You can leave now, Rose” he snapped.
Rose shuffled backward, not turning her back on him, as if he were actually royalty. “Oh, of course, sir. I’m sorry—”
He waved a close-fingered hand. It wasn’t like him to lose control so easily. “It’s fine. Just let Ms. Cinders know I’m in the conference room.”
Rex checked his reflection in the table, trying to calm his usually perfectly styled hair. The front pieces seemed to stick up just to spite him. Or maybe it was a side effect of letting his wolf out. Gods, he was turning into his lumberjack of a brother. What next, would he start wearing flannel?
Rex’s stomach turned from nerves, and he was glad he had put his mate in charge of food. When he tried to think about eating, all he could imagine was game with its fur still on, and that would be a brilliant way to start rebuilding trust.
The doors swung open once more. On his leg, his matemark flared up along with his pulse.
Fuck.
Cynthia’s perfume rode in on a brush of air from the outside office. His eyes instinctively shut as he savored it.
“Hi.”
Rex opened his eyes. Cynthia stood in front of him, wearing the same ensemble of blouse and professional slacks she had on earlier. Was it his imagination or was there was at least one extra button undone? Her hair was down.
“Hello, Cynthia.” He raised his empty glass and drawled more gutturally than he meant to, “Welcome to Rom Investing.”
Her ever-so-kissable mouth quirked in the cousin of a smirk. “Do you always drink at work?”
“I’m not here as an investor of Rom Investing.” He shrugged and set the glass down with a clink. “Just as an interested friend.” He held out his hands, open palmed.
She shook her head, her smile giving away to her usual expression of pursed lips. “Uh-huh. So we’re just friends now?”
He cleared his throat, surprised by the possessive deepness lingering in his voice. “We’re far more than that, Princes
s.”
She shifted on the soles of her flats. Funny, after her ribbon-y heels at the ball and extravagant gown, he pegged her as a girl who wouldn’t go out in anything less than three inches. Then again, it was hard to clean in impractical footwear.
He tipped the glass toward her with his index finger, the ice clinking. “Would you like one?”
“Sure,” she said, preoccupied with taking in the office. A messier male might’ve worried about her finding it wanting, but Rex demanded order in all things. His office was the rule, not the exception.
“I like this.” She tapped the desk. “Teleconference, right? I have one of these on my visualization board.”
“Visualization board?” As she trailed one finger thoughtfully over the desk, Rex couldn’t keep his eyes from running up the length of her arm to her shoulder. His wolf seemed to believe that if he stared hard enough, he could burn away her clothing.
Goose bumps rose just above her wrist. “I’ll need that drink if I’m going to tell you about my hopes and dreams, Rex West.”
It was his turn to shiver. Gods, the way she had said his name. “Of course.”
Rex pushed off from the desk and strode to the mini-bar. The ritual of preparing the drink calmed him, and as he finished slicing the orange, he decided to make a second for himself too. This time, he went easy on the whiskey. They were drunk enough on the bond as it was.
He turned with both glasses and held one out to her. “Good enough?”
She reached for the drink.
He stepped back. “Ah, ah. I want to get to know you, remember? Hopes and dreams first, Princess.”
“Don’t call me princess.” With her round, cherubic features, she couldn’t ever really look scary, but her blue eyes were sharp and cold as the ice still left in his glass.
He lowered his chin to chest. “All right then. Hopes and dreams, Cynthia Cinders.”
The way he said her name had the same effect on her that she had on him. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard, as if that would stop the red blush bursting out on her cheeks.
He placed the glass into her still-open hand. “Now, tell me about this visualization board of yours.” Her fingers closed slowly around the cup, but her voice was even. “One day, I’m going to have an office bigger than this, and,” she broke, tilting her head with the tender promise of a smile, “a table as nice as this one. Among other things.”