by Cat Carmine
10
Hannah
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.
I bolt out of the restaurant as fast as I can. This can’t be happening. It just can’t be.
Mister Bigshot is my boss. My boss’s boss. My boss’s boss’s boss.
As soon as I throw open the door to the restaurant, I see a cab. I launch myself into the backseat.
“Go!” I scream at the driver. He glances in the rearview mirror, and I realize it’s the same man who dropped me off. He’s futzing with something on his phone and looking at me with a confused expression on his face.
“Didn’t I just drop you off?”
“Yes. But please, can you just drive? I need to get out of here.”
He starts the car and tips his cap. “You got it, lady. I guess the legs didn’t cut it?”
The legs? Oh. I almost laugh, but it’s mostly with delirium. He had told me I had nice legs earlier. I think about Trent’s reaction in the restaurant, the way he shook his head in horror when he saw me.
“No, the legs didn’t cut it,” I murmur. The tears that have been pooling in my eyes finally make their way down my cheeks and I turn away, watching the Chicago streets go by as he drives.
Trent Whittaker. What are the odds?
I don’t know if I’m upset because I’m humiliated about everything I wrote to him or because I’m terrified about losing my job. Probably a little of both.
Then again, maybe I’m just disappointed to have to give up the fantasy of Mister Bigshot. After all the time I’ve spent thinking about him in the last month, letting go feels like a kick to the ribs.
I don’t feel any better by the time we get to my apartment. In fact, if anything, I feel worse.
Is he going to be angry when he realizes who I am? Is he going to fire me? If I was a CEO, I wouldn’t want a potential lawsuit just hanging around like that. I’d want to get rid of the risk as soon as possible.
I feel sick. Bile claws its way up my throat. I absolutely can’t afford to lose this job. We have a bit of insurance left from our parents’ death, but that all goes to cover Ally’s medications and care. We need my paycheck to cover our rent and the rest of our living expenses. Getting that job at Loft & Barn, after years of working crappy retail jobs, had felt like a dream come true. Now this.
Trent Whittaker. I shake my head, laughing bitterly. This is so typical. For once in my life, I do something wild … something not boring. And look what happens?
This is why I should just stick to my little life and not try to do stuff that’s going to disrupt it.
I ride the elevator up to our apartment, dreading running into Ally. I’m hoping she’ll already be in bed, but when I check the time I realize it isn’t even nine o’clock yet. So … unlikely.
I open the door quietly and try to creep towards my bedroom, but my sister is the queen of supersonic hearing.
“Han? Is that you?” I hear her voice call out from the living room.
I take a deep breath and then poke my head around the corner. “Yeah, it’s me.” I force a smile.
“You’re home early. I didn’t expect you for at least another couple of hours.”
“Yeah, well.”
“How’d it go?” She’s smiling, her face hopeful. I realize she was almost as excited about this date as I was.
“Blargh,” I say. I slump down onto the couch at her feet. “It was kind of a bust.” I force myself to laugh as if it’s no big deal.
She hoists herself up on the couch and mutes the television, even though Property Brothers is on and she’s obsessed with that show.
“What happened?” She demands. “Was he a dog?”
“I don’t know,” I shrug. “He never showed.”
“What?!” Her voice goes up two octaves. “You’re kidding?!”
I shake my head sadly. I’m almost impressed at how easily the lie came out. “Nope. I sat there for awhile, but … nothing.”
“That bastard,” she seethes.
“Yes, he definitely is a bastard.”
That was perhaps the most disappointing point of all this. How could Mister Bigshot — the sweet, funny, crazy sexy man I’d been corresponding with for a month — be Trent Whittaker? The arrogant, bossy prick who ran our company? It just didn’t make any sense.
“Did he message you?” Ally is asking. “Maybe something came up?”
“No.” I shake my head but a wave of fear washes through me — I realize I haven’t checked my messages since I ran out of the restaurant.
Oh God. I could already be fired. I could have a message from him telling me not to bother coming in tomorrow. He’s probably already been in touch with his lawyer and our HR rep. A man that wealthy and successful isn’t going to take this lightly.
Unless… the thought creeps up into my consciousness.
Unless he didn’t recognize me.
I think about the way his gaze had landed on me during the company-wide meeting the other day. That moment had been seared into my soul, and I was sure he’d remember it — but maybe I’m deluding myself. Maybe he has no idea who the fuck I am.
That would be … disappointing, but still preferable to getting fired.
Now all I can think about is checking my messages. I clutch the little black purse I’d brought to the restaurant with me, the one I had thought looked so chic with my little black dress.
“I think I’m going to go to bed,” I say to Ally, faking a yawn. “I’m beat.”
“Come on — it’s still early. We could have hot chocolate and watch a movie or something.”
I shake my head. “That’s sweet, Als, but I just want to crash.”
“I don’t want you moping in there,” she scolds, somewhat teasingly. “Whoever this guy is, he’s not worth feeling bad over.”
Ha. If only she knew.
But instead I smile and pat her calf. “I promise I’m not. I’m just tired. Can you believe I actually shaved my legs tonight? What a waste.” I laugh and roll my eyes. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
I get up and force myself to walk normally to my bedroom. Once I’m inside I close the door and lean against it, breathing heavily. I surf to Lovemail, desperate to see what, if anything, Mister Bigshot wrote.
I open up the app and see the red flashing envelope icon. My legs start to tremble.
“You have 1 new Lovemail message.”
11
lovemail
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: WTF?
I saw you tonight. I know it was you that ran out of that restaurant. What gives? I’ve been called a lot of things in my life but ugly isn’t one of them. So why the disappearing act?
I know you feel what I feel. This heat between us. I wanted you the second I saw you tonight. You were so fucking beautiful. Oh yes — I wanted to peel that little black dress right off you (leave the heels on, of course) and fuck you six ways sideways, right there in the restaurant, right in front of everyone.
I’m not sure what happened tonight but I promise you this:
We will meet again.
And when we do, I’m going to make you do every single dirty thing you ever promised me. All of them, Sweet Vixen. You have my word.
Still yours,
Mr. B
12
Hannah
The next morning I slink into the office, trying to creep past Sloane’s desk as quietly as I tried to get past Ally last night.
And it works about equally as well.
She pops her head up over the cubicle wall. “There you are! Come on, I’m dying to know! How did it go?”
She’s grinning in a way that lights up her whole face and I’d almost be touched if it weren’t for the fact that I totally don’t want to talk about it.
“It didn’t,” I say, continuing on past her desk and hoping that’ll be the end of it.
But she’s already up and following me. “What do you mean, it didn’t?”
“I mean he was a no-show.” I dump my purse in the drawer of my desk and flick the button to turn on my monitor.
Sloane gasps. “That bastard!”
“That seems to be the common sentiment, yes.”
“Did he message you? Explain himself?”
I shake my head, although I’m already remembering Mister Bigshot — Trent’s — words. He still wants me. He wants to find me. He wants to make me do everything I described to him.
I swallow. I can feel my cheeks already flushing.
“What?” Sloane studies my face, her blue eyes piercing into me. “What aren’t you telling me?”
I force myself not to laugh. There’s oh-so-much I’m not telling her. “Nothing,” I say instead. “I’m just kinda bummed, that’s all.”
Her face softens. “I know. I’m sorry he turned out to suck. I’m not going to say I told you so but … next time no messaging for a month before meeting, okay?”
“Oh trust me, I’ve learned my lesson.” There would definitely be no more messaging.
Definitely.
Right?
I mean, probably.
I haven’t replied to his message, and last night I told myself I wouldn’t. That I should just let this whole thing die. I normally wouldn’t ghost on someone — I mean, that’s just rude — but in this case, it seems like the most humane way to handle the situation. That way neither Trent nor I have to have any awkward conversations.
Plus, you know, that whole thing about not wanting to get fired.
I flop down into my desk chair and wiggle my mouse until my computer comes to life.
“Any new photos in yet?” I ask, trying to change the subject.
Sloane shakes her head. “Nothing.” She rolls her eyes. “We still don’t even have half the content yet. We normally have it all by now. This is getting ridiculous.”
“Yeah, totally.” She starts on her usual rant about all the overtime we’re going to have to work and I’m glad to have her off and running on a new topic. The more she talks about the catalog, the less she’s going to ask about my date.
Eventually she wanders back to her own desk — still ranting — and I turn to my computer, letting out a big sigh. Sloane is the best work BFF I could hope for, but sometimes she’s a little too perceptive for her own good. I have to be super careful not to let slip what really happened last night.
I load up my work email and quickly scan through my messages. Nothing important — good. For some reason, I still had this niggling fear that I was going to get called into HR today. But I guess Trent still hasn’t realized who I am.
I suppose I should be insulted about that. I mean, he’d looked straight at me in that meeting.
Then again, he has hundreds of employees and I’m just one mousy brunette among dozens. I don’t exactly stand out. If I was a beautiful blonde bombshell like Sloane, things might be different, but I’m not.
I was just me. Hannah, plain and short.
I let out another sigh and get to work. I’ve been rewriting the same damn chair description for about a week now. Partly because I don’t really have much else to do, and partly because I can’t think about that chair without thinking about my emails to Mister Bigshot. Fucking him in that chair — that’s what I’d told him I wanted to do.
My cheeks flame for the thousandth time, thinking in embarrassment of all the things I wrote to him. The pictures I sent him … oh, God, the pictures. They might actually be the worst part. I mean, you couldn’t see my face in any of them, but still — just knowing that I had sent my CEO the lady equivalent of dick pics was mortifying.
But then I think again of his email to me yesterday. That he still wanted to do all those things to me. In fact, that he was going to make me do all those things.
The thought sends a dark thrill coursing through me. My boss is arrogant and crass — but god damn, do his words make me shiver.
The thought of Trent Whittaker holding me face-down on his desk while he rams his cock into my clenching pussy…
The thought of giving Trent Whittaker a blowjob under the table while he’s with a client…
The thought of Trent Whittaker going down on me in the back of his SUV…
I squirm in my seat then reach up to fan my face a little. I glance around to see if anyone’s watching me and accidentally catch Sloane’s eye. She furrows her brow, looking at me with curiosity.
“Is it hot in here?” I pretend to laugh.
She shakes her head. “No.”
“Must be just me then!” I realize I sound a tad manic so I cut my losses and just turn back to my computer.
Get it together, Hannah, I chide myself. Remember all that stuff about not wanting to get fired? Acting like a maniac in the workplace is probably not a good route if one wants to remain gainfully employed.
Only I can’t resist pulling out my phone and clicking open the Lovemail app one more time.
I scan his email again, and the same familiar feelings of longing run through me.
How can Mister Bigshot be the same prick who runs our company? And how come the arrogance of his last email only makes me want him even more?
God, how I would love to just be able to do everything he said. Just give myself over to him.
After my experience with Matt, I can only imagine that someone like Trent would be on a whole other level. The things he could make me feel…
Of course, I realize with a sinking feeling, if I gave myself over to him, he’d realize just how unlike SweetVixen I really am. That I’m shy and inexperienced when I’m not hiding behind my computer. That my own ex-boyfriend once fell asleep during sex with me.
Ugh. No.
I have to end this. Now.
I take a deep breath and look at his email one last time. I should reply. Just to let him know I can’t do this. Tell him not to look for me, not to try to figure out who I am. He’ll respect that, I’m sure of it.
I just wish I was sure I wanted him to.
I take one last deep, steadying breath, glance over my cubicle to make sure Sloane is busy elsewhere, and then I click the bright red reply button.
13
lovemail
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: I’m sorry
Yes. You’re right, I did come to the restaurant last night. But the sight of you sitting there, so sexy and delicious, made me realize I can’t do this. You’re going to break my heart. Please don’t try to find me.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: That’s not the part of your body I’m interested in
Fuck that, darling. We’ve all had our hearts broken. No hearts necessary here, just good old-fashioned fucking.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Please
You can’t keep saying things like that to me. I’m weak and I’m trying to be strong.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: I can say please too
I want you strong, I want you weak. I want you all the ways I can have you.
I’m saying please here, SweetVixen. I don’t beg very often.
Say yes and I can promise you that after one night with me, you’ll be the one doing the begging.
14
Trent
I pace back and forth in my office. How early is too early to open the scotch?
I glance at the old mahogany clock that hangs on the wall — another one of Luke’s designs. Apparently it’s not even ten o’clock yet, which I suppose even I have to admit is too early for day drinking. Although if I didn’t have that meeting with the head of distribution later, I would probably just fuck off for the day and go home.
I still can’t get last night out of my head. SweetVixen — whoever she is — is ruining my life. Even after jerking off twice last night and once
more this morning, she’s still all I can think about.
Why do I want her so bad? I have women practically falling at my feet. I can go to any bar in this city and find someone more than willing to fall into bed with me. Hell, it doesn’t even have to be a bed. Half of them would be willing to get down right in the bar bathroom. Or in the back of my car.
I could go out right now, at ten in the morning, and find someone to fuck.
The problem is, I don’t want any of them. I want her. And it’s driving me crazy.
I check my Lovemail messages again but I still have nothing new, not since I’d gone against my better judgement and actually said please. And that’s not a word I use lightly.
The temperature of my blood raises by another few degrees as I stare at the empty new messages icon.
I still don’t understand why she ran. I mean, I’m a good looking guy. That’s not being arrogant, it’s just the truth. The Whittakers have good genes. Me, Luke and Jace all look like our dad, and he was imposing as fuck. Strong jaw, aristocratic nose, deep soulful brown eyes. Well, Jace has Mom’s blue eyes, but that’s the only way we differ.
Even when Dad died, despite the ravages of cancer, he was still a silver fox. Charming the nurses right up until the end. It was just the Whittaker way.
So why in the hell had she run off when she saw me? It doesn’t make any sense.
I scroll through our emails. An entire month’s worth. There was lots of dirty talk but there was so much other stuff in there too. I had told her things I hadn’t told anyone before — how hard it was losing Dad, how much I regretted the falling out Luke and I had had with our brother Jace, how much I missed him since he’d moved to New York.
I’d even told her about Lara. Not all the gory details obviously — even Luke didn’t know those. I fully intended to take that story to the grave.