by Cat Carmine
Yet I’d told SweetVixen parts of it, at least. About how I’d been engaged and it had ended, leaving me with a broken heart and a deep mistrust of marriage. She’d said she understood, that she had her own broken heart. Something about a guy who worked in finance, who sounded like a real dick if you ask me.
I refresh the Lovemail app. Still no messages from her.
I had dashed that first email off last night in a fit of anger, drunkenness and horniness — but I still meant every word of it. She might be telling me not to try to find her, but the way she had looked at me last night, with equal parts fear and desire, told me otherwise.
That’s why I still have every intention of finding her.
And when I do, I’m going to make her mine. She’s promised me too many things — too many delicious, dirty things. When I saw her last night … that sweet innocent face, that curvy body, those fuckable lips … I just knew I had to have her.
I’m not sure exactly how I’m going to find her yet, but I’m a man of many means. I’ll find a way.
Suddenly I realize something. I have an entire damn IT department at my disposal.
I fall into my desk chair and pull up the company directory. I don’t intend to bother Lottie with this — she’s a little too much like an aunt to me, and I wouldn’t exactly want an aunt knowing what I was up to — so I find the number for IT myself and ring them up.
“IT Support, Lena speaking.”
Fuck, it’s a woman. Of course it is.
“Hi Lena. This is Trent Whittaker speaking.”
There’s a scrambling and then a crash on the other end of the line.
“Lena?”
“Sorry, sir.” She sounds breathless. “I dropped the phone for a second.”
I resist the urge to chuckle. “All good now?”
“Yes, sir. What do you … uh, what can I help you with?”
“Can you trace an email?”
“An email?”
“Yes. If I have a few emails, are you able to trace where or who they were sent from?”
I hear her gnawing on something — her own lip, maybe. “Might be able to. It depends on a lot of things — what the device was, whether any encryption was used. We could probably at least get the IP and figure out the general area it was coming from.”
“Okay. Great. That’s great. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to send you a couple of messages. I need you to — discreetly — see what you can find out about who sent them.”
“Sure. I mean, yes sir. I can definitely do that for you.” I can hear the nervous excitement in her voice, as if this is a Mission Impossible covert op. She probably thinks I’m going to send her some spy emails or something.
“Thank you, Lena. What address should I send them to?”
She gives me an email address and I thank her and hang up the phone. I comb through my emails, trying to find a couple of messages that don’t have anything dirty in them. They’re few and far between, but I manage to find a few that won’t scandalize poor Lena. I send them off to her with a personal note of thanks.
Once I’ve done that, I glance at the clock and realize I still have another ten minutes or so before my meeting with distribution. I’ve already wasted enough of this morning, so I use that time to fire off a quick email to Luke.
I try to keep my tone light — no pressure, just checking in to see how the designs are going. I don’t know why I bother — we’ve been over this so many times and he knows I’m waiting. If he had made any progress, I would have heard from him by now.
Just as I send off the email, Lottie raps on the door. She hands me a plastic folio of notes.
“For your meeting with distribution. They have questions about the collection.”
“Don’t we all,” I mutter.
Lottie raises her eyebrows, but I wave off her unasked question.
“I’ll do my best,” I say, exiting my office. “But I have the feeling nobody’s going to be happy with me today.”
By the time I get back from my meeting, I’m wiped. Two hours of telling them I still don’t know when the collection is going to be ready. They would ask a question, I would give them my stock answer. They would ask another question, I would give them the same answer. They would tell me how hard I was making their job, I would give them the same answer.
After awhile, it turned into almost a little game. How many times could I give them that answer before they’d finally give up? Turns out the answer is: exactly an hour and fifty-three minutes. I could have wrapped the meeting up earlier, but it actually started to entertain me, and I could use some work-related entertainment these days.
I head back up to my office and find Lottie’s left my lunch on my desk. Bless that woman.
I’m just about to dig into the corned beef sandwich from the deli down the street when the phone rings. I wipe my hands off on the napkin and then hit the speakerphone button.
“Trent Whittaker.”
“Mister Whittaker? It’s Lena. Lena Yu? From IT?”
“Yes, Lena. Do you have something already?”
“I do.”
“That’s great.” Spit it out, girl, I want to say.
“Well, sir, the, uh, the call is coming from inside the house.”
“I’m sorry?” I sit forward in my chair, trying to understand what she’s telling me.
Lena coughs lightly. “Sorry. I mean, it came from here. From our servers.”
I shake my head, still not quite comprehending.
“What does that mean, Lena? In non-tech speak, please.”
“It means that whoever sent those emails works for Loft & Barn.”
At her words, everything clicks into place. It’s like finding a single missing puzzle piece and suddenly being able to see the whole picture.
That’s why SweetVixen had run last night — she recognized me.
I sit forward in my chair, excited now.
“Can you find out which department it came from?”
I can almost hear Lena smiling on the other end of the line. “I can do better than that. I can tell you exactly who sent it.”
15
Hannah
“Gather round, everyone.”
Charlene is standing in front of our desks, clapping her hands to get our attention. We all drag our chairs into the center of the room for yet another meeting. When she’s satisfied that she has our complete attention, Charlene smiles beatifically down at us.
“I have wonderful news,” she announces. “We have more photos.”
Miracle! For once this meeting might not be a total waste of time. I actually feel a twinge of excitement at maybe possibly getting to write about something that isn’t those stupid wingback chairs.
“We have everything we need for the soft furnishings section, so I’d like to see that completed by the end of the week.”
Soft furnishings? Seriously? Soft furnishings is the easiest section of the catalog — it’s just curtains and throw pillows and rugs and stuff. It isn’t even designed by the Whittakers; it’s all outsourced. So this is hardly the coupe that Charlene is making it out to be.
Jim, as usual, puts up his hand. “What about living rooms?”
“We’re still waiting.”
“Bedrooms?”
“Still waiting.”
Jim sighs. “Those are the linchpins of the catalog.”
“I’m aware of that,” Charlene huffs. “I’m sure Luke and Trent have it under control. Trent has personally assured me that it’s all coming together.” She emphasizes the word ‘personally’ and pats her hair when she says it. I catch Sloane’s eye and we both snicker.
Once Charlene finally dismisses us, Sloane grabs her chair and we walk back to our desks together.
“Can you believe this? I need a drink.”
“Coffee?” I ask but she shakes her head.
“Something stronger. Feel like going out after work? There’s a great martini bar around the corner.”
Mar
tinis with Sloane — that sounds like exactly what I need right now.
I smile gratefully at her. “I would love that. I’ll just have to let my sister know I’m going to be late.”
I go back to my desk and fire up my computer again. Just one new email — I glance quickly at the name of the sender. Lottie Granger.
It takes me a second before I realize that Lottie Granger is Trent Whittaker’s secretary. I frantically click on the email and realize it’s a calendar invite. All it says is “Discussion.”
And it’s scheduled for today at four o’clock.
Icy fear fills my veins. No.
Okay, maybe it’s not what I think. Maybe it’s a marketing thing; he wants to talk about the catalog.
I wander back over to Sloane’s desk, trying to look nonchalant.
“Do you know what that four o’clock meeting with Trent Whittaker is about?”
Her brow furrows. “What meeting?”
“Did you not just get an invite from Lottie?”
She glances at her computer screen and then shakes her head. “Nope. Why, did you?”
Panic races through me.
“No,” I lie. Then I realize how stupid lying is. “Well, yeah,” I admit. “But it must be a mistake. I’ll ask Charlene about it.”
“Okay.” Sloane is looking at me curiously again so I force myself to give her a smile before I turn and walk back to my desk on shaky legs.
This is a disaster. I can’t be in the same room with Trent right now. What if he recognizes me?
Or worse … what if he’s already figured out who I am, and he’s calling me up there to fire me?
I try to tell myself that’s impossible. If he didn’t recognize me last night, there’s no way he’s already worked out who I am. No, it has to be a work-related discussion. Doesn’t it?
Maybe I’m overreacting. Just because Sloane didn’t get the invite doesn’t mean nobody else did. Maybe Charlene got the invite too.
I glance over towards her office. The door is open and she’s sitting at her desk, clicking away at her keyboard.
I get up and walk over to her office. My legs are still shaking and I feel another wave of nausea as I knock on her door.
She glances up at me. “Hello Hannah. What can I do for you?”
I lean against the doorframe. “I was just wondering, uh…” I hesitate, then spit it out. “Do you know anything about this four o’clock meeting with Trent Whittaker?”
Her eyes narrow and she leans forward, pushing her breasts up against her keyboard. “What meeting?” she barks.
“Uh, I don’t know. I just got an invite for 4pm. I thought it was something to do with the catalog.”
Charlene eyes me suspiciously. “We don’t have a catalog meeting today.” Her tone is crisp. “What did you do?”
“What did I do?”
“Yes,” she repeats. “What did you do? He wouldn’t be calling you to his office if you hadn’t done something wrong. Though I don’t know why I wouldn’t be notified if one of my staff was being disciplined.” Now I can’t tell if she’s pissed at me or at Trent.
“I didn’t do anything!” I insist. I obviously don’t mention the fact that I basically wrote porn to our CEO, although now that’s all I can think about.
“I’ll call Lottie,” she says, holding up one finger while she picks up the phone. “And sort this out.”
She dials a number and I wait while she explains the situation to Trent’s secretary.
“Yes,” she’s saying. “I see. Of course. Thank you for letting me know.”
My stomach sinks lower and lower and with every word. This doesn’t sound good.
When Charlene hangs up the phone, she shakes her head.
“Lottie didn’t know what it was about, but she said Trent insisted you attend this meeting on your own.”
Now she’s really looking at me suspiciously. I can feel her gaze still lingering on me as I make my way slowly back to my desk, and I can feel her glare as I slump into my seat.
I’m running out of options here. Maybe I can go home sick? Fake a heart attack? Proactively quit so that at least I don’t give him the satisfaction of firing me?
But even though I’m dreading this meeting with almost every fiber of my being, there’s a tiny part of me that’s curious. That wants to see him. That wants to feel those gorgeous intense eyes on me again, even if it’s quickly followed by him telling me to pack my things.
At a few minutes to four, I head to the elevator. I take my purse with me, just in case I’m about to be escorted out of the building. I can once again feel Charlene’s eyes on me the whole time I wait for the elevator.
The ride up to the thirtieth floor is the longest of my life. My palms are sweating, my knees weak. I pop a breath mint just to get rid of the nervous sour taste in my mouth.
When the elevator doors ping open I step out of the elevator nervously, sure everyone on this floor knows I don’t belong up here. And they’re right. I’ve never actually been anywhere on the thirtieth floor except the main conference room so I blindly make my way down the hall, looking for Trent’s office.
It’s Lottie that I find first. She’s sitting behind a grand mahogany desk and delicately peeling an orange. I can smell the sweet bitter citrus as soon as I approach.
“Hi. I’m Hannah? Cole? I have a meeting with Trent at four?” I hate how childish and nervous my voice sounds, but I can’t help it.
“Yes, Miss Cole. He’s expecting you. Through that door and then it’s the office on the left.”
“Thank you.”
I push open the heavy frosted glass door she had pointed to and let it fall closed behind me. There are two offices back here, one at either end of the hall. I see Trent’s name on one, and Luke’s on the other.
I turn toward Trent’s office. The door is closed and I knock lightly. I say a Hail Mary prayer that maybe he’s already gone for the day.
Instead I hear his deep voice ring out from inside his office.
“Come in.”
I push open this second door and step inside. I see him right away, sitting behind his desk, his laptop open in front of him.
He looks up at me and a hint of a smile twists up the corner of his perfect lips. It looks strangely incongruous with the darkness in his eyes, with the smoldering way he looks at me.
God, why does he have to be so gorgeous? He’s removed his suit jacket and is wearing just a crisp white button-down and a navy and yellow striped tie. His broad muscles threaten to bust through the slim-cut shirt at any moment. They ripple as he puts his elbows up on his desk and steeples his fingers together.
Trent Whittaker’s half-grin twists into a full-blown smirk as he watches me standing nervously at his door.
“Hello SweetVixen,” he says.
16
Trent
I can’t believe I finally have her in front of me. SweetVixen.
Also known as Hannah Cole. A junior copywriter in my very own marketing department. At least I know she’s qualified for her job — that woman could sell water to a drowning man if she wanted to.
She looks as beautiful as she did the other night. Her chestnut hair is down around her shoulders, and she’s wearing another one of those sundresses, like the one she was wearing in the company meeting the other day. This one’s purple, with some kind of little navy birds printed on it.
I still couldn’t believe I hadn’t recognized her. As soon as Lena told me the emails came from someone who worked in marketing, I realized why my SweetVixen looked so familiar that night at L’Amour. To think that she had been under my nose this whole time. All the time we wasted on email, when I could have been fucking her in my office all along.
Well, I’m more than ready to make up for lost time.
She still hasn’t said anything and is hovering near my office door as if she might bolt at any minute.
“Sit,” I tell her but she doesn’t move.
“How did you know it was me?” she final
ly asks. I notice the tremble in her voice right away.
“I had IT track your IP address. I had no idea they would actually be able to find you so easily. Lucky for me you used a work computer for at least one email.”
I can almost see the wheels turning behind her eyes, the moment she realizes she sealed her own fate.
“Are you going to fire me?” The tremble in her voice is worse now. She’s gripping the doorknob as if it’s the only thing holding her up.
“No!” I say adamantly. “God, no.” She loosens her grip on the handle and I’m taken aback. I feel bad that this is what she’s been worrying about.
“No, Hannah,” I say again, enjoying the feel of her name on my lips and the way her eyes blaze when I say it. “That’s not what this is about. I want to see you again.”
“No.” Her answer comes out fast, faster than I would like. I don’t like her being this decisive — at least when it’s about not seeing me again.
“Why not?” I demand.
“You’re my boss.”
“So what?”
“So I know you’re not stupid, Mr. Whittaker. It would never work.”
The sound of her calling me Mr. Whittaker does a number on me. I can already feel blood rushing to my cock and I’m glad I’m sitting behind this massive desk so that she can’t tell what kind of effect she has on me. I get the funny feeling that she has no fucking idea how sexy she is.
“Now Hannah,” I tell her instead. “You know I’m not talking about a relationship.”
“Then what?”
“Sit.” I snap the command at her and she finally listens, letting go of the door and taking slow tentative steps over towards my desk. She sits in the chair opposite me. Now that we’re eye to eye, I take a moment to finally admire how beautiful she is — her perfect pink lips, the dark lashes that surround her deep soulful eyes, those rosy little cheeks. I’ve always gone for icy blondes but Hannah is making me realize what I’ve been missing out on all this time.
Once she’s settled in the chair I turn back to my computer. I already have the messages cued up and I start reading out loud to her.