by Alexa Davis
“Minibar,” she says. Leaning forward to open the minibar, she doesn’t bend her knees, causing the bottom of her robe to come up just enough to give me a partial glimpse of her pussy while she’s picking out drinks for the night.
She takes her time deciding. I don’t complain.
“Oh, did I tell you?” I ask. “We finally got the last of the walls up down in the conference room.”
“Yeah?” she asks, standing up straight again and walking toward me. “Ever fooled around in your office?”
“The one downstairs?” I ask. “No.”
Ellie unceremoniously drops three of the bottles she grabbed from the minibar on my lap, saying, “But all the other ones, yes?” She opens one of the bottles she didn’t drop and drinks it down.
“No,” I tell her. “I’ve never fooled around in any of my offices.”
“Where are you from, originally, anyway?” she asks. “When I’ve heard the story of Stingray’s ascension in the press, it always starts with you meeting your college roommate.”
I can feel the blood rushing to my face. “We moved around a lot when I was growing up,” I tell her.
“Anywhere in particular?” she asks.
“I don’t know, it was hard to put down any real roots until after I was out of high school,” he says.
“One of your parents was in the military?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I answer. I realize I’m being more than a little vague here, but she’s not ready for the whole story. Okay, that’s a copout: I’m not prepared to tell the whole thing.
Ellie looks over at the clock and says, “Well, if we’re going to trash your office, we should probably continue this conversation downstairs, huh?”
I shrug and get up, and together we leave the room.
We’re walking down the hall, occasionally passing one of my employees, though fortunately, everyone we come across seems content with a smile and a wave.
We get to the office, and I tell Ellie, “We’re going to have to be quiet if we don’t want any company.”
“Oh, you know I can’t promise that,” she says.
I chuckle, and we enter the room.
Once inside, Ellie stops to survey the area. “Huh,” she says.
“What?” I ask.
“I think the plywood looks worse than the tents did,” she says.
“Probably,” I tell her, “but if you catch your foot against the wall of one of these, it’s not going to bring the whole thing down on top of you. Here at Stingray, we like to avoid lawsuits.”
“Are you getting snarky with me?” she teases. “Wait, hold on,” she says. “I have an idea.” She skips off toward my office at the end of the row and stops. “Is this one still yours?” she asks.
“Yep,” I tell her.
I have no idea what she’s doing.
She ducks inside but doesn’t come back out again. Am I supposed to follow her in there? She told me to wait. What’s she doing?
A moment later, I hear my pencil sharpener going and I start walking toward the office to see what the hell she’s up to in there. Before I’m halfway across the room, though, the sharpener stops, and a bright yellow No. 2 pencil comes tumbling over the front wall of the office and bounces off the ceiling slightly less than halfway across the room.
“Did I make it?” she asks.
I’m laughing, though I’m more confused at what she’s going for than ever. “That depends,” I answer, coming to the open doorway of my office. “Where were you trying to make it to?”
“The office on the other side of the room,” she says. “The dream shot would be landing it in a pencil holder on the other side, but I’m realistic, so I’d settle for just getting it in the office. Get over there,” she says. “You try to make it across the room into here, and I’ll try to make it over there.”
I smile. “I think the front walls are going to be too high to get the right kind of angle,” I tell her. “Your last one hit the ceiling before it was halfway across.”
“Did you get to be CEO by saying ‘it’s never going to work’?” she asks. “Go on, get over there.”
I laugh and start walking to the office on the opposite wall from Ellie, snatching the pencil she threw from the ground on my way. When I get to the door, I stop and turn around, calling, “Why’d you bother sharpening the pencils? If you’re just trying to get it in the room, or even with your dream shot, wouldn’t it work just as well if they were dull?”
“It’s not fun if there’s no element of danger,” she says. “Of course, you hit me in the eye with one of those, and we’re going to have some problems.”
I don’t know why, but this sounds like a fantastic idea. Getting into the office across the room from mine, Malcolm’s, I grab a couple of pens from the desk and have a seat.
“Tell me when you’re ready!” I call out. We don’t have to be quiet if this is what we’re doing. I just didn’t want someone walking in on us if things took a turn for the risqué.
Ellie doesn’t answer my question verbally, though I do hear the sound of another pencil hitting the suspended ceiling.
“Your turn,” she calls out.
She’s a little weird. I kind of like that.
I lean back in Malcolm’s chair and let fly with one of the pens, but it catches the top edge of the wall and bounces back into the room in front of me.
“Did you go?” she asks.
“Hold on,” I tell her. “I’m taking a mulligan.”
I take one of the pens that were on Malcolm’s desk, and I try again. This time, the pen sails over the wall, and I don’t hear it land.
“Did I make it?” I ask.
“Not in this office,” she says.
We go back and forth a few times until we run out of writing utensils to lob across the room, and when we meet in the middle to regather ammunition, we’re both laughing.
Ellie stumbles a bit as she goes to pick up her last pen, but I’m quick to reach out and catch her.
“You all right?” I ask even though she didn’t fall.
She sputters laughter but doesn’t say anything. Instead, she repositions my hands from her shoulders where they were down to settle over her breasts. Sitting there, lobbing pens at each other, I’d almost forgotten she never changed out of her robe.
The fabric is thin, smooth; her nipples are hard and she’s turning her head toward me, reaching back to rest the palm of her hand over the front of my slacks.
“You know,” she says, “we never did finish our conversation.”
“What conversation is that?” I ask, lightly massaging her breasts through the barely-there robe.
“You know,” she says in a whisper, leaning toward me as she closes her eyes.
I bend down to kiss her on the mouth. Our lips meet, and her hand starts going up and down over the front of my pants.
“Yeah?” I ask.
“We never finished our conversation,” she says.
I’m about to respond when I catch movement out of the corner of my eyes. I glance up to see Marly standing in the doorway with her hand over her mouth.
“Ellie,” I whisper, quickly bringing my hands back to my sides.
“I’m sorry, boss,” Marly says, covering her eyes. “I didn’t know anyone was in here.” Marly’s quick to leave the room, but my heart is pounding in my chest.
“Well that’s a little embarrassing,” Ellie says with a giggle.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “We should probably get back, anyway. We’ve got an early flight in the morning.”
If anyone were to walk in here, I’m glad it was Marly.
I don’t care if people know I’m dating Ellie, but with things as precarious as they are, I don’t know what would happen if the board found out about this. Maybe nothing would happen. I don’t know.
Ellie and I are both adults, but Marly only calls me boss when she wants me to know she doesn’t approve of something. That’s almost universally bad.
Chapter Seven
<
br /> Manhattan
Ellie
The phone next to the bed starts ringing, but I’m nowhere near awake enough to answer it.
This is day four in Manhattan, and I just want to sleep in as long as possible.
While we were on the plane here, I told Nick I wasn’t sure if we should keep staying together while we’re there. I was expecting an incredulous response, something about how we spent a week together back in the hotel room in Mulholland, but he didn’t bat an eye.
Now, staying in what would be a six or seven star room—if the ratings went that high—I’m content to let the most insanely comfortable mattress I’ve ever slept on keep doing its work.
I’m nearly back to sleep again when the phone rings a second time.
With a groan, I reach over and pull the receiver off its cradle and put it to my ear, saying, “Yeah?”
“Good morning, Miss Michaels, I trust you’ve slept well,” Bertrand, the on-call butler—yeah, the room comes with an on-call butler—says.
“You sound entirely too chipper, Bertrand,” I say.
“My apologies, Miss,” he says. “You have a call from Mr. Scipio.”
“All right,” I say, rolling onto my back. “Patch him through.”
I love saying that.
“Hey, Ellie,” Nick says. “How are you doing this morning?”
“Sleepy,” I tell him.
“Ah. Listen,” he says, “I know we talked about going out to the island this afternoon, but it looks like I’m going to be in meetings all day.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I tell him. “Do you know when you’ll be done?”
“I’m not quite sure,” he says. “There’s a lot to work out while I’m here. While I’m at the office, though, I thought you might like to take a closer look at the city. We haven’t had a chance to do much sight-seeing while you’ve been here, so I sent my driver to you. He should already be waiting in the lot for you.”
“He’s already there?” I ask, looking at the clock. It’s almost noon. “Yeah, all right,” I tell him. “Let him know I’m going to be a few minutes, though.”
“I’ll send you his number,” he says. “I’m sorry about today, but I’ll see you tonight, okay? I’ve got to let you go.”
“Okay,” I answer. “I’ll see you then.”
I hang up the phone and sigh. It’s thoughtful of him to have his driver take me around, but I really could have done with a bit more sleep.
Regardless, I drag myself out of bed and stagger to the bathroom to take a quick shower.
Things have been moving fast with Nick. That night in my apartment, he convinced me that I wasn’t just a potential notch on his bedpost, but I’m not naïve. I know this isn’t going to last forever.
What changed my mind was the realization the relationship doesn’t have to last forever to be worthwhile. Eventually, some supermodel or famous actress is going to come along, and he’s going to lose interest in the small-town girl experiment, but until then, there’s no reason we can’t have some fun.
As long as I know what this is going into it, the pain of our relationship’s inevitable end isn’t quite so daunting.
I shower and dry myself, returning to the room to pick out a suitable outfit for my trek through Manhattan. Nick was kind enough to have some clothes brought over for me, but looking at my options, I’m pretty terrified of wearing anything in the closet. It’s all so expensive.
It takes a minute, but I find something reasonably understated: a black, sleeveless top with a mid-length khaki-colored skirt. I get dressed and ready for the day.
I forgot to send the driver a message telling him I’d be a few minutes, so I get the number from Nick’s text and place the call.
“Miss Michaels,” the man answers. “Would you like me to bring the car around?”
“Sure,” I tell him. “Where do I meet you?”
“For your discretion, I’m parked in the sub-basement of the parking structure,” he says. “Just take the elevator all the way down and I’ll be there to pick you up.”
“Sounds great,” I tell him. “Thanks.”
I take one last look in the mirror, making sure my hair and makeup are passable, and I grab my room key before I’m out the door. Getting off the elevator, I find a man in a cliché driver’s uniform standing next to a town car.
“Miss Michaels,” the driver says, opening the back door.
“Hi,” I answer, not knowing what else to say. “What’s your name?”
“Trevor, ma’am,” he answers. “Your party is already waiting in the car.”
“My party?” I ask.
Trevor nods. “Mr. Scipio sent a couple of gentlemen to escort you today,” he says. “Don’t worry, though. They do an excellent job of staying out of the way. You’ll hardly notice them.
I climb into the back of the town car and there, sitting across from me in a rear-facing seat are two refrigerators with suits and sunglasses.
“Good morning, ma’am,” the one on the left says. “I’m Marc. This is Tony. We’ll be your escort today.”
“Marc,” I say, leaning forward to shake the first man’s hand. “Tony, which I assume is short for Anthony?” I say, to the other. “Do they put you together because of your names, or is that just a coincidence?”
“Ma’am?” Anthony responds.
“Nevermind,” I say, waving it off. “Where are we going?”
“Mr. Scipio arranged for you to tour some of the finer establishments in the city,” Marc says. “Of course, we can go wherever you like.”
When the day comes, and Nick and I do part ways, the only problem is I don’t think anyone will believe any of this.
I shrug. “Let’s start with what Nick set up, I guess,” I tell Marc.
He knocks on the partition between the driver and us which then lowers. Marc says, “The lady would like to begin as scheduled.”
“On our way,” Trevor says, and off we go.
Nick and I haven’t had a whole lot of time together since we got here, and to be honest, I’ve been a little fearful of leaving the hotel room. As far as I know, word about Nick and me hasn’t spread outside of Mulholland, but if the people of New York are anything like the people there, I didn’t want to risk it.
The two rectangular men in front of me ease my mind a bit, though.
The mob in front of the store and the smaller crowd in front of my apartment were bad enough, but ever since I got on the plane to come here, I’ve been getting phone calls from relatives I don’t remember having. Everyone’s so sweet, so incredibly civil right until I mention I don’t have any say over where and how Nick spends his money.
That’s when these people who very well may not be related to me start talking about how ungrateful I am and how when I was a kid, they took a splinter out of my hand or took Naomi and me out for ice cream.
Even if that’s true, I’m not sure how any of that entitles these people to a six-or-seven-figure payout.
Naomi, surprisingly, has been pretty laid back about the whole thing. Her explanation is that, if I met a billionaire, it can’t be long until she meets someone even wealthier. If she were anyone else, I wouldn’t take the thought seriously at all. Knowing Naomi’s luck, though, it just may happen.
The traffic is pretty terrifying, but after a while, we come to a stop.
“Where are we?” I ask.
Anthony says, “Tiffany’s.”
“What?” I ask.
“Tiffany’s,” he repeats.
“What?” I ask again as Trevor opens the door.
Anthony gets out of his seat and somehow manages to squeeze his thick self out the door first, and he stands on the sidewalk, looking over the passersby.
“Ma’am,” Trevor says, holding out a hand.
“Tiffany’s?” I ask.
“Yes, ma’am,” Trevor answers.
“I can’t go in there,” I tell him. “Forget what I’m wearing, I don’t think I could afford to have a Cracker Ja
ck ring engraved there, much less, well, anything.”
“It’s all taken care of,” Trevor says, still patiently holding his hand out for me to take.
I look at Marc, then at Anthony. “I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t think they want someone like me in there.”
“Why not?” Trevor asks.
“Yeah, I’m dating a wealthy man,” I start, “but I’m about as low-rent as they come. I wouldn’t even know where to start in a place like this.”
“If it eases your mind, Mr. Scipio has opened accounts at a few of his preferred locations throughout the city,” Trevor tells me. “Anything you want is on him.”
At what point does this become me using Nick?
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Well,” Trevor says, “we’re already here, so you may as well take a look around. If you don’t choose to buy anything, that’s fine.”
It seems Nick has this whole thing planned out, down to the smallest detail. To test that theory, I say, “You know, you speak differently than the other drivers I’ve met.”
Trevor smiles and says, “Mr. Scipio felt you may be more comfortable with someone who chatted more colloquially. Am I doing all right so far, or would you prefer I stop?”
“No, it’s fine,” I tell him. “Just be yourself.”
“Are we going in?” he asks.
I look over at Marc, but he gestures back toward Trevor.
“I guess we are,” I answer and take Trevor’s hand.
Marc follows after I’m out of the car, and Trevor closes the door while Anthony, Marc and I enter the store.
As soon as I’ve crossed the threshold, I freeze. This is it. This is the actual Tiffany & Co flagship store on Fifth Avenue. Marc grabs my arm, pulling me out of the way as someone comes through the door after me.
“I don’t even know where to start,” I say.
“Wherever you like,” Anthony says. “Mr. Scipio wanted us to inform you that he’s referred you to the private room so you can peruse their finest pieces.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” I say as I start walking toward the first counter. “I’m not buying anything.”
There are a lot more people in here than I thought there would be, but I guess it only makes sense that a company that’s lasted this long in New York must have a regular flow of customers.