The Naughty Corner

by Jasmine Haynes

  She could sit here ruminating in front of the computer all she wanted, but it didn’t solve anything.

  Get off your butt and go see him.

  She wasn’t the type to complain to his boss before she’d given him a chance to defend himself. And she certainly wasn’t going to mention it to Frank in the off chance he had a clue. No, it was big-girl time. She might dislike confrontation, but she had to ask George.

  Forty-five minutes later she turned into Fletcher’s parking lot. She’d chosen jeans and a loose T-shirt sporting the figure of a tabby cat doing aerobics. On the back, it was paws up. She wasn’t quite sure whether it was supposed to be exhausted or dead.

  Her card key allowed her access through any door, so she chose one in the back, closest to engineering and the factory. Hopefully, she could avoid Paul that way.

  She wended her way through the racks of equipment being assembled, smiling at a technician, a stock guy delivering parts to the floor. The ceilings were high, sound echoing above her in a dull roar.

  She checked the lab. It was empty. Engineering consisted of rows of cubicles made of blue cloth partitions. She came at George’s cube the long way around, avoiding Frank.

  George was seated at his computer monitor, his back to the cubicle opening. His hair was cut so short, she could see white skin through the black strands. Music played softly. Elevator music. He was actually listening to elevator music. Only old people of the Lawrence Welk contingent enjoyed that kind of music.

  Although she had to admit the song was kind of pretty.

  She was stalling. If she didn’t get on with it, someone else would see her standing here and she wouldn’t get the chance to speak privately. But God, she did not want to do this. She clenched her fists and stepped inside the blue fabric walls, which were adorned with the periodic table and posters of the planets and constellations.

  “Hey, George.”

  He whirled in his chair and looked up at her, taking a moment to focus behind his horn-rimmed glasses. “Lola.”

  “Yeah. Hey. Can we talk for a minute?”

  He blinked. There was only a light spot of ink on his shirt pocket today, red that had faded to pink. “Ah, okay, sure.”

  She hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “How about coffee in the break room? I haven’t had my morning cup yet.” She sounded so lame she could have rolled her eyes at herself.

  “Yeah, okay.” He used both hands to shove himself out of the chair and followed her.

  Past midmorning but not quite lunch yet, the break room was empty. The coffeemaker sat on a counter along one wall, with three carafes next to it, then a bin holding little pots of creamers, sugar packets, stir sticks, cups, and beside that, a microwave. The refrigerator hummed, and the scent of coffee still hung in the air.

  “I thought you wanted a cup,” George said when she sat down at one of the four tables without pouring.

  “Changed my mind.” She held out a hand, indicating the chair next to hers. She was afraid if he sat across, she’d have to speak too loudly.

  He blinked again, then finally sat. “You’re uncomfortable because I asked you out.”

  Thank God he started it for her, but how did an adult tackle the issue? Really, did being older and an adult make it easier to say Hey, I’ve been getting weird messages and I wondered if you’ve been harassing me?

  No, it didn’t get easier, so Lola stepped into the void in the conversation. “Yes, I’m a bit uncomfortable with that. It feels like it might have changed our working relationship.”

  Staring at the table, George gave a wry smile. “I’m used to women turning me down. It doesn’t alter how I do my work.”

  She heated with embarrassment, yet something tightened in her chest. It felt like putting out food for your own cat and shooing away the hungry stray kitten sitting on the edge of the porch. “I’m sorry, George.”

  He shrugged. “Don’t worry. I came out of the blue at you. You weren’t expecting it.”

  She wondered if anyone ever said yes to him. Which made it all the harder to say, “Can I ask you a question without hurting your feelings?” A dumb thing to ask. Of course, it would hurt his feelings.

  “Sure.” A polite reply. He was still staring at the table.

  “I got some flowers the other day. And a letter today. I was wondering if you sent them.”

  He glanced up from the table. Behind his lenses, his eyes were wide. Or maybe the thickness of the glass just made them seem that way. “I didn’t send you anything.” Then he added, “To your home, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “I would have had to look your address up on your contract.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, “you would have to do that.” Since it wasn’t on her invoices.

  “Or followed you home.”

  Lola didn’t say anything.

  He pressed his lips together. She could read his thoughts. The tone of her voice indicated she wasn’t asking because the flowers were expensive roses or the letter full of pretty, glowing prose.

  She felt a bit sick. It sounded so bad, even mean, as if she assumed the weird guy at work had to be the guilty one. She wanted to explain that there were no other suspects—if she discounted her nephews. Yeah, it sounded bad. Unless he really had looked up her address or followed her home.

  “No, I didn’t,” he said finally. “Is it the kind of thing you should call the police about?”

  Okay, she really felt like crap now. She didn’t want to say the flowers were dead or that the letter was vaguely threatening. And honestly, she wouldn’t go to the police for something like that. What were they going to do, stake out her house? Not.

  “No,” she said, “nothing like that.” She met his gaze earnestly. “It’s not about you,” she said. “It was just the timing, that’s all. I got the flowers the day after.”

  He laughed. It was a nice sound, and somehow it completely transformed him. “Of course it was about me, Lola. I don’t have any illusions.” The statement reminded her of Harry when he’d said that people needed their illusions. Maybe George wasn’t like everyone. “You wouldn’t have thought it was Frank if you’d turned him down,” he went on. “But then you probably wouldn’t have turned him down.”

  She gaped. “Good Lord, of course I would have turned Frank down. And I would have asked him about the flowers, too.” She didn’t add that Frank was even lower than George on her dating protocol. “But you’re both so much younger than me.” She paused, felt the words before she actually said them. “And I’m seeing someone.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Forty-five.”

  “Hmm.” George rolled it round in his mind. “Maybe he sent the flowers.”

  “They were dead,” she had to admit. And Gray wasn’t the flower type at all.

  “Well, you never can tell.” George leaned back in his chair, not reacting to the dead part. “I’m glad I asked you out. It’s good for me, you know, putting myself out there and all.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  He narrowed his eyes behind his glasses. “And don’t tell me I should get contact lenses or change how I dress because I am who I am.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of changing you.” She pointed at his shirt. “I was just trying to help you save on dry cleaning bills.”

  He looked down at his pocket. “The hair spray worked.” He grimaced. “Sort of.”

  “You need the pocket protector. I saw one at Fry’s with SpongeBob on it.”

  He laughed again. And she really did like his laugh. Maybe everyone didn’t need illusions. Maybe they just needed to accept exactly who they were and like it.

  He wiped the corner of his eye behind the horn rims. “So SpongeBob is my style?”

  “They had Spider-Man, too. And Wolverine and Iron Man.”

  “No, I’m definitely more a SpongeBob guy.”

  He was. And proud of it. She put a finger to her lips, considering. “You never know, you might get it for Christmas.”

&
nbsp; “I don’t think I can wait that long. I’ve ruined a lot of shirts.”

  “You should try clicking the pen closed before you put it in your pocket.”

  “I could do that. But then no one would have anything to laugh at around here.”

  “They’ll love SpongeBob then.” She gave him a wry smile. “George,” she said, “you’re actually a cool guy. I’m glad we had this talk.”

  She could no longer imagine him sending her dead flowers, nasty email messages, and threatening letters.

  But she still had a problem. Someone knew her email address, her cell phone number, and where she lived. Whoever was doing this knew her. And didn’t like her.

  That, of course, made her think of the twins. She ran a couple of errands, then headed across town to pick them up at the high school. She’d been parked at the curb a couple of minutes when the players exited the gates in a herd, stampeding toward the waiting vehicles. Harry let William have the front seat this time.

  “Hey, Aunt Lola, are you okay?” William leaned in, almost breathing down her neck.

  “I can’t reach the gear shift when you’re that close.”

  William backed off, but Harry leaned over the seat. “Wow, you do look a little pale, Aunt Lola. Is something bothering you?”

  She narrowed her eyes and started the engine. “I’m absolutely fine.”

  Harry pointed at her brow. “You’ve got lines on your forehead like you’re anxious about something.”

  She looked at him in the rearview mirror, hard. “I’m fine. Now sit back and put your seat belt on.”

  They were extremely weird children. And she was back to thinking it was the twins who’d been sending her those messages. Maybe that’s why they’d been on her computer, they were looking for her email address.

  19

  OVER THE NEXT THREE DAYS, LOLA RECEIVED ALL THE RED-LINES, worked late into the night, made the corrections, and sent off several more completed chapters. She needed another training session with George and Frank to write the section on troubleshooting. It was close to one on Friday, and since the twins had their driving lesson, she could have fit the engineers in this afternoon, but the best she could get out of them both was three o’clock on Monday. That would have to do. She would still be on track for sending the completed package to everyone the following Friday for a final round of red-lines, all eyes required. After that, it would only be a matter of getting all the guides formatted and up on the website. She might very well be ahead of the ship date despite having the twins around.

  In the same three-day period, there had been no more letters, emails, or phone messages, and no dead flowers. Funny everything should stop right after she talked to George. Coincidence? Proof of the twins’ innocence? Whatever, it was over, and she could stop thinking about it.

  What she couldn’t stop thinking about was that in those same three days, there had been no texts from Gray. No phone calls. No voicemails. Nothing.

  Why did he do that? He ran hot, then suddenly he was cold, ignoring her. The problem was obsession. She was obsessed, he wasn’t. This was why relationships were bad. You got dependent. The man got distant.

  Arriving at the high school, she had the notion of parking in the lot and walking down to the field. For a glimpse of him. God, she needed to get a grip. If he wanted her, he’d text or call.

  Please, please, please, call this weekend.

  She shut down the pathetic, needy voice in her head and turned the car into the pickup loop to idle. She was not running onto the field to catch the coach’s eye.

  Stinky Stu ambled out of the gate and climbed into his mother’s minivan. Had he lost a bit of weight or was that her imagination? She inched forward when the van left. More boys tumbled out of the gate, more cars left.

  Where were the twins? Maybe she’d have to park and go in to find them.

  Yes, yes, yes, the needy voice clamored.

  “No,” she said aloud.

  At last they bounded through the gates, gym bags slung over their shoulders, grabbed the door handles, then flung themselves into the car, Harry in front, William in back.

  Her pathetic little heart dropped because she wasn’t forced to go inside looking for them.

  “Good day?” she asked.

  “Coach is a slave driver,” Harry said. It was what he always said, yet he didn’t seem particularly moody or unhappy.

  “I think I pulled a hamstring,” William complained. He always pulled something, until they were free for the afternoon and suddenly everything had healed.

  “I guess that means you won’t be able to drive today,” she said with a smile.

  “Oh no, I’m fine for that. It’s the other leg.”

  Of course, he was. Her phone rang as she pulled out of the loop. Her heart leaped. Maybe it was the coach. Then it dropped. No way. He knew she was with the twins.

  “Hello?”

  “Lola Cook?” The voice filled the car, raspy, one she didn’t recognize, an older man.

  “This is Wilson Blanchard, your nephews’ driving instructor. I’m afraid I’ve been in an accident. I won’t be able to take them this afternoon.”

  Beside her and behind her, the boys groaned.

  An accident? That wouldn’t look good on a driving instructor’s record. “I hope you’re all right.”

  “I’m fine. We should be able to continue on Monday. Why don’t you have them do some online work for today instead?”

  Lola glanced at Harry and gave him a look, did the same with William in the rearview mirror. “All right. Thanks for letting me know.”

  Damn. She was stuck with them for the afternoon.

  * * *

  IN THE LOCKER ROOM AFTER HIS PLAYERS HAD LEFT, GRAY showered and changed into his suit for work. Rafe was now driving himself to and from practice.

  Gray hadn’t texted Lola since Monday—when he’d let himself get carried away in the meeting—so he’d almost given in to the urge to walk out with Harry and William to tell her he needed to speak with her.

  That always put the fear of God in the twins. I’m going to talk to your aunt.

  They hadn’t done much today that required punishment. William tripped over Tom’s feet and claimed he’d pulled a hamstring. Gray checked him over and found no evidence of an injury, but he’d had him sit out the last forty-five minutes.

  Hmm, faking an injury could be punishable. Perhaps he would give Lola five swats on the ass for William’s infraction.

  The strength of his need for her was a tad alarming. Not because it existed but because he actually liked it. Over the past three nights, he’d enjoyed working himself up, needing to call her, wanting it so badly he ached to hear her voice. Then denying himself. By the time he had her in his clutches again, he would be absolutely wild for her. And he couldn’t wait.

  In the parking lot, he tossed his sports bag in the trunk, then climbed in to start the car. He sat for a moment, the engine idling. He was hard again. Just like that. A few moments of fantasy about her—spanking her, taking her in his office, dragging her into the locker room and having her against the tiled shower wall—and his body had gotten rip-roaring ready. He closed his eyes and imagined sinking into her depths, sliding out, feeling her shiver and shake . . .

  Christ. He was torturing himself. And it was so damn good. Maybe he wasn’t the dom at all. Maybe he needed to let her dominate him.

  He rolled out of the parking lot and turned right.

  Harry and William had their driving lesson this afternoon. He wondered what she’d do with the alone time. He could call her and find out. He could order her to touch herself for him. Her moans would fill the car as he drove.

  His cock pulsed like a metronome. A dull ache throbbed in his balls. He wanted her bad. Right now.

  He made another turn, then stopped for the light a block down.

  Closing his eyes, he felt her breath on his cock, then her hand wrapping around him, her mouth sliding down, engulfing him.

  The SUV on
his tail honked.

  The freeway was ahead, but his car turned right, then right again. Maybe he should have called her deep in the night, come with her, taken the edge off. But it was too late for maybes. He was no longer in control. The primeval part of his brain was. And it wanted her. Now. Right now. Screw work. Screw everything and take her.

  He knew the area in which she lived. He’d often used it as a shortcut up to Highway 280. Entering three driveways in her condo complex until he found her number, he parked in a guest spot.

  Before climbing out, he texted her.

  Need to be buried deep inside U. Need to hear U scream.

  She would read the text and by the time he got to her door, she’d be wet and ready. He’d take her right there in the front hall. Then he’d have her in her bed.

  He found her unit, rang her bell. His blood raced through his veins pounding out an incessant beat of do her do her do her.

  Noise inside, running feet, and the door burst inward.

  Harry stared at him, William one pace behind. They both wore swim trunks and had towels slung over their shoulders.

  Fuck. They weren’t supposed to be here. She was supposed to be alone.

  Something angry and testosterone-infused raced through him. “Get your aunt. I want to talk to her.”

  Harry gaped a moment, his mouth worked, then words and a breath wheezed out. “But we didn’t do anything.”

  “Get. Her.” Two separate and distinct words.

  He wasn’t in control. His need was too great. And he didn’t give a damn if they were home or not.

  * * *

  HIS TEXT HAD HER GOING BEFORE SHE EVEN FINISHED READING the first sentence. She’d closed her bathroom door in the back of the condo and indulged herself with his dirty words, his need.

  The boys were in the living room, presumably doing some of their online work before they went down to the pool. That was the compromise they’d agreed on for the afternoon’s activities. She should have checked to make sure, but honestly, if they didn’t do it, they only hurt themselves.