by Karr, Kim
I really don’t care.
He can explain to Cam why. Or better yet, I can.
A quick glance at my watch alerts me it is six fifty-nine. Determined to not be late, I grab my purse, my keys, my bag with a change of clothes for the party tonight—oh, and my pride, you know, in case I need it.
Ready to go with or without Keen Masters, I swing my door wide open only to have my knees go completely weak.
Oh. My. God.
He can fuck me one more time right here, right now.
Okay, that is so not happening.
Blinking. Taking a deep breath. Finding my focus, it takes me a few seconds to gather my wits.
Just a momentary relapse.
It will pass quickly.
How had I not foreseen this?
The Porsche 911 that Keen drives is parked at the end of my walk, but the sexy car is not why my body is racing with an excitement I haven’t felt in weeks. It’s because Keen Masters is standing before me in a suit. A suit. My weakness. Not just any suit, either. A suit that would drop any girl’s panties.
Gray tailored-to-perfection pants and jacket.
Crisp white shirt.
Bold red tie.
And the body that fills it puts most men to shame. Long and lean. Broad shoulders. Ripped with strength.
My eyelids flutter as I try to calm my beating heart. Wait! I swear in one of my blinks I just caught something unfamiliar flash in his bright blue eyes. I have no idea what, but it looked an awful lot like a nervous twitch.
Could he be nervous?
Afraid of me?
No.
Still, it is possible. Now, I have to admit that I thought keeping it professional was going to be so hard when all I wanted to do was scratch his eyes out, yet his nervousness brings a whole new layer to the picture.
Ever hear of taunting?
Karma is a bitch with the name Maggie attached to it today.
Hmmm…I think I might be going in reverse across the healing stages of a breakup.
“Good morning,” he says, taking a step back. “I was just about to knock.”
That voice.
I relapse again.
Damn it.
“Good morning,” I respond, trying to maintain that professionalism I talked myself into all night, while at the same time trying to remember how to put one foot in front of the other as I step over the threshold.
Keen gives me an easy smile, and doesn’t it just make me go boneless. “I guess we’re spending the day together in Santa Monica?”
Locking the door behind me, I turn back around and slip my keys in my purse, only to be brought face-to-face with his incredibly good looks and have to pretend I don’t even care. “Yes. The distribution center is more like a giant wardrobe closet and the workroom is there too. It really is the best place for you to get a look at this upcoming season’s collection. Oh, and I spoke to Jordan—he would like us to join him tonight to celebrate the completion of the spring line. Did you bring a change of clothes?”
Although changing would be a shame.
The designer suit he’s wearing fits his body to perfection. Broad-shouldered, visibly fit, and attractive as hell in that suit, I have to remember not to stare at him.
Do not stare.
DO. NOT. STARE.
Remember what he did to you.
“I threw a few things in a bag,” he answers, taking a step away from me. Okay, uncertain what that means, I guess what he is wearing is perfectly fine too.
Talk about being in a hurry.
Swift movements take him down the two stairs with the ease of a man full of confidence. Any nerves seem to have completely dissipated.
Damn him.
Me, on the other hand, I’m taking baby steps while my legs return from their temporary stint of insanity.
I’m also cursing the grand idea I had about wearing my very own highest pumps because I wanted to be able to look Keen in the eye. You know, in case I need to remind him where he can go—like to hell, which I really don’t have reason to right this minute since he’s being so professional.
Just like Makayla said he would be.
And I’m not sure how I feel about that. To be honest, I wanted him on his knees, begging for my forgiveness. Not that I would be giving it. Doling out frantic kisses and wild groping. Not that I would be participating. Then again, I knew that was not going to happen.
Not his style.
Way too much bad boy in him for that.
The simple heartfelt I am sorry did come close, though, and that, coupled with what Makayla told me, managed to crack my armor a little. No worries; I glued it back together and am ready to do this.
Professional.
That is me.
For now, anyway.
Looking ten degrees of sharp, he waits for me at the bottom of the steps. In my perusal of him, I can see his hand twitching, like he wants to offer it to me. Then again he is probably just worried I might topple over these mountains of shoes and land face-first right on top of him.
Under any other circumstances, the idea would be appealing. Not these ones, though.
Making it down the stairs and up the walkway seems like a really great accomplishment. Wonder if I should grab another pair of shoes? Looking back at my door I consider it, but then I turn back and see Keen opening the passenger door like such a gentleman that I feel like a fool asking him to wait while I grab a comfortable pair of shoes.
What am I, eighty?
No, I am woman, hear me roar.
I can do this.
As I sink into his car, it takes me a moment to pull my legs in. Not on purpose. Well, yes, maybe on purpose.
That’s when I notice the way his eyes are devouring me.
Like what you see, buddy? Oh, well you fucked it up, and it’s not on the table any longer.
The smile on my lips can’t be denied, nor can the pitter-patter of those really annoying butterflies in my stomach.
Those really need to calm themselves down.
I can’t deal with them right now.
As soon as Keen gets in the car, his fresh, clean scent is the only thing I can smell. No lingering smell of sex after all.
How infuriating.
After a quick glance my way to make sure I’m buckled in, Keen starts the engine and it roars to life, the sweet purr making a ghost of a smile appear on his lips. Boys and their toys. Yes, I know men. And I know I know men, yet my pulse still begins to race at the sight of his easy grin.
I can’t do this.
I can’t.
I.
CANNOT.
BE.
ATTRACTED.
TO.
HIM.
ANYMORE.
Absolutely cannot.
Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.
Without thinking about the consequences of what I’m about to do, I’m placing my hand on the gearshift to stop him from putting it in drive. And without even thinking anything through, I’m talking—spewing, actually. “Before we leave, I think you should know, I have no intention of sleeping with you ever again.”
There!
Now that I’ve taken care of that there should be no more sexual tension lingering in the air between us.
Right?
Pulling his features together, he slowly looks over at me. “Yeah, I got that. You made it pretty clear the other day.”
Our eyes lock, and my pulse is racing. “Just making sure we’re on the same page and that we can both keep this professional.”
The easy smile is long gone. “Maggie, I promise you that is something I am very capable of doing.”
Why do I feel like he wants to add to that words like but can you?
A weighted silence falls between us as we stare at each other. “And we should forget about what happened between us.”
His response is to quirk a brow at me. “Now that is impossible.”
Infuriated, I have to remember to maintain professionalism. “
Well, suit yourself, but I already have.”
The air around him thickens. “Yeah, I picked up on that a couple of times, as well.”
I tug the hem of my dress down with my free hand, because the thing about borrowing other people’s clothes when you are as tall as me is that the clothing is always just a tad too short. “Oh, one more thing. Just so we’re clear, I only let you drive because my heels get caught in the carpet on my floorboard.”
At that his smirk is back, and I swear it grows a little wider with the raise of his brow. “Oh, I think we’re clear. Very clear.”
I stare at him, feeling my palms turn clammy as my heart rate increases. “It really slows me down, and I didn’t want us to be late.”
Taking control of the gearshift, with my hand still on it, he shifts into drive. Little bolts of energy zing through me even though I quickly move my hand to my lap. And I swear I heard a sudden intake of breath that this time I know wasn’t mine because I’m not breathing.
Pulling onto the main road, he accelerates his speed and shoots forward. “Thanks for all that. Probably good to know where we both stand.”
Wait. Do I know where he stands?
Feeling an unexpected thrill from the Porsche, it takes me a moment to find my breath. “Yes, I thought we should be clear since we’re being forced to work together.”
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.
14
TREACHEROUS
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.
B
e 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 have 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.