"As long as the sign is getting fixed right now, I consider that a nonissue," I said. That's what I got for naming a restaurant BAD anyway. Thatch and Kline were constantly mocking the choice, but I couldn't deny that it brought the place attention. It was different, unique, and even though it had a somewhat negative connotation, I'd found people were willing to overlook the negative if it came with shock value.
"Marco has meltdowns every time something goes awry, but he always has them after he's already solved the problem," I went on, moving on to the delicate sensibilities of my staff. "Send him one of those Edible Arrangement baskets. He loves the fucking things."
Marco was one of the best chefs in New York-arguably, in the entire country-and the key to mending his finicky soul was chocolate-covered fruit from a chain company. Go figure. It'd taken me a while to figure it out, but once I had, the knowledge felt like gold.
"Okay," she answered efficiently, waiting for me to go on instead of clogging the line with mindless chatter. Yet another reason I appreciated having her as my assistant.
"And the turnover is ridiculous because we're five blocks from Broadway. Every Barbara Streisand, Taye Diggs, and Hugh Jackman wannabe in the tri-state area is or has been employed by us."
She was quiet, quieter than I expected, so I asked, "What?"
"Sorry," she said, quickly composing herself.
Still, I wanted to know. "Ains, what?"
She sighed. "I just had no idea you had such extensive knowledge of the history of Broadway cast members."
I rolled my eyes as the light finally turned, and I accelerated toward the stadium, stark and statuesque in the open in front of me.
Roughly twenty million people in the tri-state area, and my stadium sat in the middle of a field. The irony was astonishing.
"Yeah, well. You learn something new every day." I was certainly learning all sorts of unexpected things about myself these days.
"Indeed."
"I'm working from the stadium today," I told her, trying to sound casual when I didn't feel that way at all.
She didn't so much as blink. Well, verbally. I couldn't actually see her eyes. At this point, though, my working from New Jersey had to be transforming into my new normal. She'd probably have questioned me if I'd said I wasn't coming here.
"Got it."
"Bye," I dismissed her succinctly.
"Bye, Mr. Lancaster."
Mr. Lancaster. God, I really am a prick. As the line went dead, it hit me. Four years she'd been working for me, and I'd never told her to call me by my first name. Why the fuck was that?
The answer didn't come readily, and yet another knot of uncertainty tightened at the base of my stomach.
In need of distraction, I pulled into my spot in the underground staff garage, put the car in park, and pulled out my phone to scroll through my messages.
That and email were about the only two things I knew how to do on the stupid-smart thing. Apps, shortcuts, and special functions-I didn't know any of them.
You'd think I'd be better at technology, but you'd be wrong. It was one thing I'd never dedicated any time to learning. In fact, after a few awkward text exchanges where I tried to find my get-to-know-you footing, Winnie and I had stumbled on to the topic last night after I'd confessed to never before using Netflix.
Winnie: Oh my God, you're a dinosaur.
Me: What kind? And you have to give me a little credit. I know all about the chill part.
Winnie: A T-Rex. And I'll give you credit … right as I roll my eyes.
Me: Oh, a T-Rex! Because I'm so powerful? Dominant? That kind of thing?
Winnie: Because your arms are too short for your body. I noticed on the plane on our way back from Miami.
Me: They are not!
Winnie: They are. Don't feel bad, though. You could be lacking length in a different, more profound area.
Me: So you ARE thinking about me and beds and sex.
I smiled at the memory of her response-a picture of her bare legs, the bottom of her bed, and Netflix, bright on the screen of her TV on the opposite wall-and scrolled to the bottom of our thread to type in a new message.
Me: Just pulled in at the stadium. Can you hear me roaring from the parking lot? Shaking the earth perhaps? I was thinking about touching you when something occurred to me. If my arms are a little short, maybe you should sit on my chest, make sure everything is really easy to reach?
When she didn't say anything back for five minutes, I knew I couldn't sit in my car anymore and wait. Things needed doing, and I was the man to do them. That's what I told myself, anyway, as the longing built to a completely uncomfortable level. When I'd woken up to an empty bed, I'd thought it was over. The sex, the employment-fucking everything. It all seemed inevitable after making someone uncomfortable enough to flee their own room.
But then I'd climbed the steps to the plane, and she'd been there. Keeping mostly to herself, but not making any noise about never seeing my face again or suing the company or anything like that.
It was ridiculous, but it'd felt like a win. But now, thoughts of her and that night and everything it meant for me and us cluttered my mind.
Shaking off my thoughts, I kicked open the door to my car and climbed to my feet. I wouldn't really know anything until I saw her face again, looked into her eyes, and none of that would happen until I got my ass inside.
Plus, I had a meeting in five minutes that started ten minutes ago, and I didn't want to be late.
Taunting. Teasing. Fucking flirting.
I'd spent basically every second since I'd left Winnie Winslow's bed falling more and more interested in her. The sex had been explosive and unexpectedly good, but more than that, the playful innuendo and teasing had become a form of verbal foreplay in the last couple of days.
But this morning, when I'd texted her and not gotten anything back-and had several hours of tortured silence for the feeling to linger-I'd realized something that scared me.
I was getting attached.
Not just to the sweet silk between her legs, but to her. Her laugh. Her jokes. Her goddamn salty attitude.
And I didn't have time for a relationship. Not a real one anyway. I was horrendously selfish, completely unreliable, and one hundred percent happy that way. I didn't want to change. Not for her or her kid or for any-fucking-one.
That's why I liked easy relationships of companionship and sex-exchanges that ended in my mind the minute the actual exchange ended.
I didn't want to be followed everywhere by the ghost of wanting a woman, of needing to see her, breathe her, talk to her-fuck her.
And sitting here right now, thinking all these things, was exactly what I was trying to avoid.
Work never turned off for me, never shut down, and one round-the-clock job for my brain was enough. I didn't need more.
I didn't want it.
You don't fucking want it, I ordered myself.
A knock on the door woke me up, startled me even, and I looked down to see that my fists were clenched.
Slowly, I unfurled them from around themselves and steadied the anger right out of my voice.
"Come in."
The door opened instantly, and I knew who it was before the frame revealed her. The memory of her smell mixed with mine formed a phantom cloud between us and slightly modified the peaches and coconut of her perfume or lotion or whatever the fuck made her smell that way.
"Win," I greeted, determined to keep my mind focused on work. That had to be the reason she was here anyway. Winnie Winslow wasn't the kind of woman to come knocking on my office door with the intent to sink to her knees behind my desk and suck me off.
Oh, fuck.
You really are an idiot, my hardening dick chided. You've done this to yourself.
Her eyes searched mine briefly, and I raised an eyebrow as though my mind wasn't racing around unwanted arousal, spanking, and the very powerful image of her mouth around my dick.
I wasn't about to talk first. She'd been the one to approach, and if I opened my mouth now, no doubt I'd say something stupid as fuck.
Something Thatch would be able to mock me over for years to come. Something like, Lie back on the desk and spread your pretty puss-
"I think we should fuck again," she blurted.
My blink was languid, sluggish even, as it forced its way through the air, thick with disbelief. I knew I wasn't dreaming, the piercing tension headache in the base of my skull a better reminder of reality than any pinch to my skin would ever be. But fuck me every Friday, this was some serious yank-my-dick-and-slap-me-upside-the-head unbelievable shit.
Her spine got straighter as she surveyed the absolute mindfuck disaster that had to be written all over my face.
"Right now."
The perfect, wet silk of her pussy and the openly honest look in her eyes when my cock had been inside her flashed violently into my mind.
She'd been magnificent. Responsive and aggressive, completely turned on by every nuance of my answering control-and altogether too real.
One night I'd had her, and she was already like a highly addictive drug, calling to me with such intensity that it seemed like a good idea-genius, even-to let my entire life implode if only for the chance to start and end my days between her toned legs.