by Kim Karr
The low sound of hard rock fills the small space, neither of us attempting any further conversation. Nothing to say, really, that wouldn’t end up back to what happened New Year’s Eve, and the aftermath, and me wanting to scratch his eyes out.
Keen taps his fingers on the wheel when a Def Leppard song comes on. Hard rock has never really been my thing, but I know the song, so I mouth the lyrics just to have something to do.
The GPS alerts him to veer right onto the 405. As he does, he looks over at me. “Since we’re being so open, and we’re being forced to work together,” he grins, “I have one rule when it comes to business that I should probably share with you.”
Turning toward him with amusement on my own face, I ask, “And what might that be?”
His sunglasses are on the dash, and reaching for them, he slips them on his face. His very handsome face. “The bottom line comes first. That means I don’t get attached to anything.”
Not a surprise. “Not anything?” I still ask.
He shakes his head. “Not anything.”
In business that is just ridiculous. “But what if the price of the finest silk from China were to temporarily increase? You’d stop purchasing it?”
His answer is immediate. “Yes.”
Horrified, my hand goes to my heart. I feel compelled to convince him to change his rule. “You can’t. The tie is the linchpin that pulls the entire outfit together.”
He glances over at me with skepticism.
“I’m serious. It compliments, strengthens, and softens all the other elements of the men’s attire without detracting from the overall look.”
Stepping on the gas, he starts to pass a car that is slowing him down. “Maggie, I’m telling you Simon Warren will cease production of ties before we overpay for anything that goes into making them. Here’s the thing you should know right now: every element of every product is on the chopping block. It’s the only way to turn the company around.”
Maggie.
He said my name again.
He.
Said.
Maggie.
Just like I remember.
Damn him!
Is he up to something?
No.
He can’t be.
But when exactly did he tell me where he stands?
Forcing myself to find my focus, I continue my argument. “Well, just so you know, the silk from China is not up for discussion, and I am certain Jordan will concur.”
“Jordan is the head designer, right?”
Gah! The way his lips move when he talks. It’s so freaking sexy. Keeping up with him despite my distraction, I nod. “Yes, and he is very attached to his silk.”
Keen laughs a real, honest laugh, and I smile at that. “I really am sorry,” he says again.
My mood instantly changes. The hurt coming back in the most unwanted way. “Please don’t,” I say, my voice going low.
“I just thought you should know.”
The sun is on the horizon and I have to squint. “So you’ve said. I get it.”
“It wasn’t you. I was in a really bad place.”
“I get it, Keen, I do, but I don’t want to talk about it. Can we just keep things professional?”
The muscle in his jaw flexes and I can tell I’ve put a kink in his armor. “Yes, we can. You have nothing to worry about. When I’m at work, I will keep focused on my work.”
Reaching into my purse for my own sunglasses, I respond with, “Then we should get along just fine, because so will I.”
The GPS directs us to remain on this road for the next fifty miles. With that, he glances over at me. “Fantastic. Now that that is settled, how about we discuss the company?”
Stuck on his apology, the sincerity of it, the way he looked at me, my mind is spinning while he asks me a million questions about Simon Warren, and as I answer each one, I recite to myself that I absolutely should not even consider accepting his apology. I shouldn’t.
I.
Should.
Not.
Yes, I can tell myself that over and over, but really women don’t always say what they mean, or mean what they say.
Now do they?
It’s a universal fact.
Sure, in theory I should be happy that he has agreed to let it go.
No, I should be ecstatic.
The heartbreak is already past. And now the worry over a repeat is gone. Leaving things pretty straightforward.
Just a boy.
And a girl.
And a whole lot of work to be done.
Life couldn’t be any simpler right now with it all spelled out.
I should be singing from the rooftop.
Still, I am anything but happy because no matter how much I want to hate him, how many times I say I never want him in my bed again—it’s simply not true.
Don’t look at me like that. It’s happened to you. I know it has. And like you, I will not be a doormat. Which is why admitting what my real feelings are, even just between you and me, is not easy.
But the truth is—I want him more than ever.
And I can’t . . . no, I won’t . . . let him see that.
Not if I can help it.
In fact, I’ll go out of my way to make sure he doesn’t see it.
Keen
Like one of those accidents that is not really an accident, Maggie brings me my coffee, black, and then accidently spills it all in my lap.
Right down the front of my pants while I’m sitting in a chair, a leather chair, which doesn’t absorb the liquid.
Okay, maybe I provoked her, but fuck, a man has his limits.
What happened between us wasn’t about her. It was about me, and me losing my life, everything that I thought was important to me.
Yet I know I was wrong. I should have reached out to her, even if was just to let her know I wouldn’t be around. And I have tried to explain . . . but she shut me down. I want to let her know that my entire life went down the drain the day I lost my job, and that I had nothing to give anyone, not even myself. Which is why I went into self-preservation mode.
I can’t change that. I wouldn’t even if I could. I needed that time alone to realize maybe Wall Street isn’t the right place for me. And that maybe, just maybe, I don’t want to be alone anymore.
However, I’m not selfish. I get that she was hurt and doesn’t want me to see it. I get that she has a wall ten thousand miles high up.
That’s why for her, I tried to go along with the ruse that we aren’t eventually going to end up together.
I tried to back down.
Be nice.
Be understanding, which is so not in my nature.
None of that worked.
Somehow being a better man only made things worse. Her condescending tone, coupled with the fact that she was blatantly ignoring me, and we hadn’t even been here an hour, had pushed me to my limit.
I’d had enough already!
What else could I possibly do?
What did she want—blood?
The gloves had to come off.
I had to exert my authority. I am the boss, after all.
And you see where that got me.
“Fuck,” I hiss, jumping up and doing a little dance that is anything but impressive in front of my prospective employee.
Her hand flies to her mouth. “Oh, I’m so sorry, sir.”
Sir.
Like she’d ever call me sir.
Not that I wouldn’t enjoy it, just not in this setting, and not with my clothes on, or hers.
“It was an accident,” she tacks on.
Accident.
Accident my ass.
She is purposely trying to ruffle my feathers because I had to remind her that I was the one making the decisions.
But really, it’s not like I was going to ask her to bring me my latté on a daily basis—I don’t even fucking drink lattés—or run out and get me my lunch, cooked to order every afternoon.
But I admit, I might ha
ve gone overboard.
You see, by the time Jordan Cartwright, the head designer for Simon Warren, introduced himself and addressed Maggie as “dear,” I had already had my fill of her attitude. So when he asked if I wanted any coffee, and he was the only one in the workroom besides Maggie and me, I couldn’t resist saying, “Yes, I’d love a cup. Maggie, why don’t you be a dear and get us both one.”
The look in her eyes was lethal.
And much to her chagrin, so was her delivery of my morning beverage.
Unfortunately, Jordan’s freak-out isn’t something she planned for, and I can tell that by her deer-in-the-headlights look.
Too bad the remorse is for the guy on the floor and not the one who got his balls burned off.
Down on his hands and knees with a swatch of purple fabric that he hurriedly pulled off a nearby worktable, Jordan starts to pat me down.
Jordan is a tall, thin man with blond hair that I am certain is a bleach job. He wears heavy black-framed glasses that I’m not certain aren’t just an accessory since he takes them on and off every few minutes. And bottom line: I only had to spend ten minutes with him to know he is talented as fuck, but that doesn’t mean I want him touching the hardware.
“You have to get this out before it stains,” he proclaims, looking up at me, his voice trembling with worry over the fabric.
“It’s fine,” I say, trying to remain calm. The fact that I’m not hissing through my teeth is testament to just how calm I am. Thank fuck I didn’t go commando. The extra layer might be retaining the liquid, but at least I’m certain the goods aren’t that badly scorched. Not that I’m aware of.
Shit. I’m not sure I can feel them. “Where’s the restroom?” I ask in a sudden panic.
Maggie is standing utterly still, like a mannequin at a department store, and I am almost certain her remorse for Jordan is gone, and now she’s really trying to hold it together and not laugh her ass off at me.
“Yes, yes, go to the restroom.” Jordan points through the frosted glass walls of the workroom. “It’s just a few feet from my office.”
Right, his office. Fuck me right now. Like I know where that is.
A tour would be nice.
I think I’ll wait to ask Maggie for that until later.
Standing up, Jordan rushes to the phone. Twisting around with the receiver on his shoulder, he says, “Maggie, be a dear and show Keen where the restroom is so he can get those dreadful pants off while I call down to the wardrobe closet to get some fresh clothes brought up,” and then twists right back.
The evil gleam in her eye matches the fake smile on her face.
Yet my smirk is completely genuine. “Yes, Maggie, be a dear and help me out of my pants.”
This is me keeping my edge, while trying to figure her out.
Hate.
Lust.
Disinterest.
I have no fucking clue what she is feeling right now.
In the meantime, I might as well get something out of this.
Maybe she’ll be a dear and pat me down, too.
Marching past me with narrowed eyes, she takes hold of my tie and yanks me out the door, muttering something under her breath.
Looks like asking for a handy is out.
Maggie
Keen Masters is the male version of Miranda Priestly from The Devil Wears Prada.
You know who she is—the control maniac who rules her empire with an iron fist. Okay, so how do I get that role?
Ha, just kidding.
But really, if it turns out Keen has a dog, and asks me to take it to the vet, I am so going to punch him right in the nuts. No, better yet, I’ll take his car. And the best part is, I don’t know how to drive stick.
Just as long as the little doggie doesn’t get hurt.
“When will the spring ads run?” Jordan asks me.
Since Simon Warren has been running on a skeleton budget since Cam took it over last summer, I am the sole fashion merchandiser right now. Before I started, the position was unfilled, the girl who held it having left before the takeover.
Addressing Jordan, and only him, because ever since the little coffee accident this morning Keen hasn’t looked at me once, I answer, “They are scheduled to go up in billboard form on March first and will start running in the fashion magazines on March fifteenth.”
Keen taps his pencil on the pad of paper in front of him. I can’t see it from where I’m sitting, but I bet he’s drawing pictures of girls’ boobs all over, or something like that. “In what markets are the billboards and which publications are the ads running?”
Jordan turns toward me.
I once again address only Jordan with my response.
You see, fashion merchandising involves developing campaigns, displays, and advertisements, all of which I have been preparing over the last two months for the fall collection.
Jordan’s head volleys back and forth between Keen and myself, both of us refusing to look at each other.
Apparently Jordan’s neck must be bothering him because he stands up and says, “What do you say we go to lunch?”
“Sounds great,” Keen and I answer at the same time.
“Super fantastic. You two decide where you’d like to go and meet me out front in five minutes—I have a few calls to return,” Jordan tells us as he hurries out of the room.
Realizing this little war between Keen and me isn’t helping the greater good, I slip gracefully from my chair and circle around the table, where I stop right beside Keen’s chair. “What do you like to eat?” I ask sweetly.
See, I know when to cut the shit. I’m professional like that.
Keen turns in his seat, and when he sees me standing there with my legs slightly parted and a smile on my face, he practically falls out of his chair.
Now, I also know how to attract a man.
Not just him, but all men.
One word—sex appeal, or is that two words?
Well, whichever. You know what I mean.
Anyway, regardless of what we decided this morning, I can see the heat in his eyes.
The attraction is still there.
He wants me.
I want him.
The difference between him and me is that I can easily dispel it. All I have to do is think back and remember those long days of unanswered messages.
So that’s what I do.
Maggie
My stomach rumbles, and the hunger I’ve been fending off since deciding to order only a salad at lunch roars to life.
A headache follows, poking at my temples like a dozen tiny devils dancing in my brain.
Needing to excuse myself to raid the kitchen for a cup of coffee and hopefully a granola bar or something, I stuff my swollen feet back into my shoes and stand up from the conference table. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”
Keen looks up and I swear there is concern in his eyes. “Yeah, it’s probably a good time to take a break.”
Jordan and his team all stand and stretch, and I scurry out of the workroom and down the hall to the kitchen.
Score!
Pouring some vanilla cream into a white mug, I select my coffee flavor, vanilla too, and place my cup under the Keurig.
I close my eyes while the coffee brews, and an unsolicited image of Keen kissing me all the while backing me up onto Jordan’s empty desk until he settles my ass against it pops into my mind.
My eyes fly open.
No!
That is so not happening.
Sure, I saw him looking all hot and sexy while he sat at Jordan’s desk going over numbers, but I cannot want him anymore.
And yes, he ended up being halfway civil at lunch when he offered to pass me the basket of bread.
Stubbornness made me refuse it.
Boy, I wish I had that loaf of bread now.
And then he did discuss quietly with me a little about his fall from Wall Street, in general terms, and I almost understood his need to forget his life.
Almost.
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And yes, when our legs touched under the table, I felt that spark, and I know he did too.
Still, we are over.
We both said so.
Daydreams aren’t going to change that.
The dripping of the coffee is like a soothing lullaby and I close my eyes once again.
Unbidden, my mind wanders once again. His mouth never leaves mine as he moves between my legs to push me back. His hand cups my neck beneath my hair and he tugs, only just a little. His lean swimmer’s body clothed in his most tailored suit is a sight that makes me lick my lips.
Mmmm.
Wait—that noise was the coffeemaker alerting me my cup is ready, not me. I swear.
I think I should call Elliot and ask him to meet us out tonight. I could use a distraction from all things Keen Masters.
Opening the granola bar, I take a bite and then a sip of coffee.
Oh, so good.
Closing my eyes to chew, I can’t ignore the image of him in front of me with that hard body, tracing his fingertips along my hem and pushing it up. Of him finding my panties and tearing them off. Of him pushing his fingers inside me and teasing me to the brink of orgasm until I scream out his name.
“Are you okay?”
My eyes fly open. “Keen!” I jump.
He smirks. “Thinking of me?”
Scowling, I throw my granola in the trash, and yes, you guessed it, I want to throw it at him. “No, I wasn’t,” I snap.
Well, yes I was, but I can’t actually admit that, now can I?
He leans against the doorframe in his Simon Warren clothes and I feel like a little drool has leaked from my mouth. “My mistake. I saw the dreamy look in your eyes and just assumed.”
I cross my arms over my chest to hide my straining nipples. “You know what they say about assuming.”
Pushing off the door with a smirk, he claps his hands together. “We only have about an hour before dinner, so let’s get to it.”
Grabbing my coffee cup, I sashay right by him, swaying my hips in an exaggerated motion.
The intake of his breath is the only thing I need to hear to know where his eyes are. And they are right where I want them—on my ass.
Which, mind you, would have been bare under his palms right now, had he not interrupted my daydream.
Such a party pooper.