“Leo, where the hell are we going?”
“To pick up Ms. Mills, sir.”
Right. Right, Ms. Mills. “This is one hell of a neighborhood,” I mutter from the back seat, like the out-of-touch asshole that I am.
“She’s an intern, sir.” Leo returns without a hint of the sarcasm I deserve for expecting interns to have a better address.
“It’s not a date,” I add, not that he’s asked.
“Yes, sir,” Leo says, nodding with understanding.
Even though it doesn’t matter—Leo is discreet as they come—I feel the need to explain.
“Sandy was supposed to join me, but she couldn’t, so this girl’s filling in,” I say. “The one I took to lunch the other day. She’s just a colleague.”
Leo smiles. “Of course, sir.”
I can tell he doesn’t believe me, even though he should. It’s not like I’m picking up interns left and right. All of my dates since Blythe have been age appropriate. Not that there have been many dates. More like one-night stands. Still, the point is, it’s not like picking up interns is a habit of mine. Then again, maybe I’m misinterpreting the twinkle in the old man’s eye. Or maybe I’m imagining it entirely.
I’m too in my head. That’s the problem. What happened between me and Emery at the copy machine has me rattled, and I need to put it aside. Sandy’s right about tonight, after all. I’ll be at my highest level of visibility with our most high-profile clients. Not to mention that Blythe will definitely be there, and it’s important that I look like I’m on top of the world. Not worried. Not bothered. In control, always.
Emery’s place is only about fifteen blocks from mine, but it might as well be in another state. Another world. Yet, I can’t help thinking that Emery must love it. How each neighborhood in New York is a world unto its own. She can walk in her little kitten heels a few blocks and find something different every day. A different universe compared to Kansas, which must surely be acres upon acres of barns.
God, I’m a dick.
There’s likely a few strip malls and Walmarts there too.
Emery’s building is beige-colored with rickety, rusted fire escapes running down the front. There’s a Dollar Discount store one building over. The formerly gold letters announcing the building numbers are faded, one of them missing completely.
“Will you be going up to get the lady?” Leo asks, glancing at me in the mirror.
I had planned on texting her to come down, but something about Leo’s tone tells me that he expects me to be a gentleman and go into this fire hazard of a building to fetch Emery. I sigh, knowing he’s right. Manners matter, even when it’s not a date. And Emery deserves to be picked up at her door, even if this is strictly professional. Something I need to keep reminding myself.
“Of course,” I say, stepping out of the car.
I press unit 3 from the options on the door outside while a passing dog walker gives me and my suit a curious look. If anyone’s ever been out of place on this street, it’s me. I’d hazard a guess that my suit probably cost at least a month’s worth of rent in this place, maybe two. The thought makes me uneasy.
The door buzzes, letting me into a lobby that smells like old carpet and dust. There’re mailboxes on one side with names pasted above each number. Names jotted down in sharpie and slapped to the wall with packing tape, or in one case, a staple gun. There’s obviously no greeter waiting to guide me to the elevators. In fact, there’s one elevator, period, and it’s broken, which is just as well. An elevator in a building like this is likely to break down, stuck between floors. Stairs, it is.
It’s fine. I’m a fit man. I can handle a few stairs. I head up to her unit and find that the paint on the door is chipped. I knock. Within seconds, the door’s flung open, and there she is.
Fuck. All of today, I told myself that she’s nothing, just the shiny new plaything at the office, someone fun to flirt with to take the edge off of business. I reasoned that this must be some deep fantasy of mine surfacing about innocent farm girls, probably some porn I watched as a teen that buried itself deep in my brain and has now been reactivated by the arrival of Emery and her clumsy, coffee-spilling, dainty hands. The desire to push her back against the wall of my office and drive my cock inside her until she sees stars is purely primal lust that’ll fade away once something else captures my attention. I’m a grown man, a business man, fuck, a billionaire of my own making. I am capable of forgetting this girl.
I’m also deluded. Clearly fucking deluded. I know that the moment she opens the door.
She is a star, blinking in the sky, beckoning me forward. When I see her, everything else falls away, and there’s nothing but her, dragging me into her orbit, urging me to fall deeper and deeper into her abyss.
It doesn’t help that she’s dressed up for the occasion in a form-fitting navy dress that dips low to reveal her chest and swishes above her knees. She’s wearing strappy, gold heels that show off her legs, but the worst part by far is that she’s pulled her hair back. This way, I can see her slender neck, her pink cheeks, and her bright brown eyes. They’re settling on me now, working their way down until she’s looked at every part of me. She lingers below my abdomen, and I wonder if she’s imagining unbuttoning my belt. She bites her lip, and now I don’t have to wonder. She is thinking about me. Does she want me to throw her up against a wall right here in her apartment? I wonder what she has on—or not—underneath that little dress.
“Mr. Duke,” she says in a breathy voice that makes my cock jump against the fabric of my pants. “I didn’t expect you to come to the door.”
“I have manners,” I say, even though my gruff voice probably reveals all of the decidedly not-mannerly things that I want to do to her.
“Of course,” she says with a little laugh, batting her long eyelashes at me. “Do you want the tour?”
No. I don’t want to take another step inside this apartment. Closer quarters will not serve me or this situation well.
“Come on,” she insists. “I feel like I need to prove to you that it isn’t…what did you call it? A shithole?”
I grimace, but she opens the door wider and waves me inside. Immediately, I’m certain that I have closets in my apartment that are bigger than this place. The kitchen and the living room spill over into one another, and both are loaded with hand-me-down, bohemian-style furniture. There’s a framed poster of Paris that I’d bet was bought on a street corner in New York, and the blanket thrown over the sofa looks like it was handmade, and not by someone who knew what they were doing.
“I live with two roommates,” she says. “So it’s really a steal. And see, out that window? You can see the park.”
“Which park?” I ask, squinting to try to make out what she’s talking about.
“Carl Schurz,” she tells me, as if that means anything. From the window, all I can see is a few trees and maybe a bench. “I like to go running there.”
I immediately attempt to blot out the image of Emery in spandex, jogging. But my brain has already told me to fuck off and my eyes are taking another perusal of her tits in that dress.
Not Appropriate.
Besides, this tiny apartment is a glaring reminder of something else. Emery is not of my world. She’s an intern, freshly graduated from college. She barely owns real furniture. She can barely even afford to be in New York, even with roommates. Anything beyond a professional work relationship with this girl would be beyond inappropriate and a one-way ticket to a lecture from my own HR department, or worse, a lawsuit. Plus, she deserves to date a guy with his own run-down apartment, someone who she can bond with over free concerts in the park or whatever the fuck normal people bond over. Remember, I tell myself, this is a girl who’s surely dreaming about the perfect guy to carry her away into the sunset, not a quick fuck with her boss.
So why do I keep forgetting all of those things?
“We should really get going,” I insist, checking my watch to drive the point home. “We don’t want to be late.”
“Oh,” she says, looking vaguely put out. “Are you sure you don’t want to see the rest?”
She blushes and avoids looking at me. Dear God, what is going on with this girl? One minute, she’s propositioning me in the copier room, the next she’s fidgeting like I’m her prom date and her parents are out of town.
My phone buzzes, and I look down. It’s Leo asking if he should do some laps or wait for me. I text him back that we’re heading down now.
“I’m sure,” I say, and I am. The last thing I need is a visual memory of her bedroom which I’d only use to jack off to. I turn and head out of her apartment before she can argue. “I bet it’s lovely though.”
She hesitates, looking back towards her bedroom before shrugging and following me and now I’m questioning if she was hoping for a quickie before the event.
I’m also questioning why the fuck I wouldn’t take her up on it.
“Fine,” she says. “You win. Let’s go.”
She locks up—with me keeping a healthy distance down the hall—and then we head down to the car. I slide in after her, and thankfully, she stays safely on her side of the back seat. She’s pinned to the window for the drive, staring out at the lights that blink and shine across town.
“It’s such a beautiful city,” she says. “Don’t you think?”
I don’t indulge her this time. If I’m going to keep my distance, I’m going to really need to keep my distance. She needs to understand that this is professional and that I have things at stake.
“Did you bring something to take notes with?” I ask, since it’s the only thing I can think of.
She laughs. “Uh, my phone?”
“Right,” I say. “I guess your little notebook would be out of place. But it’s important that you pay attention tonight. Clients drop hints about what they want, how they’re feeling. It’s important that we—you—stay on top of these things.”
She smiles. “Don’t worry. I can be…on top of things.”
A poor choice of words, and she knows it. It immediately stirs up the image in my mind of her on top of me, straddling me with those beautiful thighs. I could suck on her nipples as she rode me, all the way straight through to orgasm.
“What’s the event for, anyway?” Emery asks, breaking the image. “Sandy didn’t say.”
It’s a boner killer of a question, and I’m grateful. Because this is a charity event, and as it’s a charity event, that means Blythe is in charge. Which means I stay the hell away from it.
“Charity auction,” I say. “Blythe’s running it.”
“Your wife,” Emery murmurs.
“Nearly ex,” I snap before the word wife is completely out of her mouth, then shake my head in irritation with myself. Blythe’s status in my life is as irrelevant as Emery’s. What Emery thinks of Blythe’s existence is unimportant. If anything I should be playing up the wife angle to keep Emery at arm’s length. Wife, wife, wife.
Yet. My mouth remains closed.
“Which charity?” Emery finally asks after a bit of a pause in which she stares at my profile while I stare at my conscience.
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“Oh,” she says. She looks like there’s more she wants to say, but she doesn’t. Instead, she returns to looking out of her window.
I’m glad she doesn’t force more conversation, particularly since I’m not eager to talk about Blythe. My skin’s already crawling with the thought that I’ll have to see her tonight.
“We’re here,” Leo calls from the driver’s seat. I slide out and hold the door, holding my hand out for Emery. She takes it gingerly, shivering at my touch. I let go as soon as she’s got both feet on the ground.
Her eyes are wider than usual as she looks at the Hilton before us. Wide columns reach high up into New York’s night sky, and the walkway is flooded with people in their finest suits and dresses. Cameras flash nearby, and there’s a bustle of excitement as people walk inside.
This is business, I remind myself for the thousandth time. Not pleasure.
Thus, no need to enjoy her excitement. No need to catalog the blush on her cheeks or the way she smooths her fingers over the shell of her ear to check for loose tendrils of hair.
Absolutely zero point in noticing any of it.
Once we’re inside the lavishly decorated event hall, we take laps around the room to check out all of the various items and experiences that are being auctioned off. Each of our clients has offered something valuable up, from signed hockey sticks to rare Hollywood memorabilia. Lunch with a celebrity or a trip to Tahiti. Emery takes to bouncing from item to item and staring, openmouthed, back at me when she sees the price tag on the item.
“Ten thousand dollars,” she says, pointing at a silvery dress. “All because some starlet wore it to the Oscars.”
“It’ll go for much more than that,” I tell her. “And remember, this is for charity.”
Emery raises an eyebrow. “A charity you don’t even know.”
“I do now,” I say, pointing to the banner hanging above the auction items. “New York Children’s Welfare.”
Emery scrunches up her nose. “And what sort of welfare do they provide?”
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “As I said, this is—”
“Your ex-wife’s project,” Emery fills in. “I just thought…”
Her voice trails off, and her doe eyes find the floor before looking back at me. There’s something she wants to say, but the tightrope of our relationship is stopping her. I don’t know whether to be annoyed or relieved. She certainly didn’t have any problem voicing her opinions before.
Yet.
“You thought what?” I prod.
“Never mind,” she says. “Shouldn’t we be chatting with some clients?”
She’s right, of course. That’s why I’m here. I can’t be wasting time talking about the charity itself. After all, it makes no difference to me what charity Blythe’s picked out, especially since I know that lately Blythe’s turned it into a funnel for her and my asshole of an ex-best friend. The less I know, the better.
We make our way around the room, chatting with clients, finding out how they’re doing. Emery’s an excellent swap in for Sandy, and honestly, she handles the conversations with the same sort of easy charm that Blythe used to. Plus, where Blythe’s charm was all manipulation and false interest, Emery actually seems to give a damn about what each person’s saying. She’s talking to one old guy about his grandchildren for so long that I practically have to yank her away.
“We’ll follow up later,” she tells the older gentleman. “And I’ll be in touch about your idea for the new product marketing.”
“Oh, you will?” I ask when we’re far enough away. “I didn’t realize that was your job.”
She laughs, shrugging as she jots another note to herself on her phone before looking up at me. “Honestly, it just felt like the right thing to say. And I’ll make sure someone does follow up with him. It was a good idea.”
Maybe it was. For once in my life, I wasn’t focused on business. While she was talking to him, all I could focus on was her, the way her laugh lights up her entire face and how she kept tucking a loose hair behind her ear.
An announcement fills the room, telling us all it’s time to place our final bids and get to our seats for the dinner. We’re moved along by the crowd, everyone heading off to their table.
We head in, a chill zipping up and down my spine when we reach our table.
Of course she would do this. How could I have expected anything less?
There, at the table near the front, is Blythe, wearing a slinky black dress with little jewels at the neckline, holding her glass of champagne as if she owns the damn room. For anyone looking on, nothing’s wrong. She’s certainly not a woman in the middle of a contentious divorce. She isn’t a life ruiner or a friend fucker. She’s Blythe Lawrence-Duke, belle of the fucking ball.
And at her side? Her newest partner, gazing up at her with his trademark smirk. Her partner in crime, literally. And my ex-best friend.
Next to me, I feel Emery’s presence as she steps forward. She’s clearly seeing the same thing I am, and she bites her lip at the sight. I watch as Blythe’s eyes slide over to us, catching us in her cold smile even as she carries on conversation with the others at the table.
She’s set a trap, and she knows it. I can’t exactly tell her to fuck off in front of our clients and business associates. I’ll have to play nice, and playing nice with her will no doubt end with a heaping helping of her signature manipulation.
“So, I could be wrong,” Emery says next to me, drawing me back to her. “But does the CEO actually have to eat at this thing?”
I raise my eyebrow at her.
“I’m just wondering,” she says. “I mean, we did what you came here to do, right? We cozied up with the clients, and I’ve got lots of great information for Monday. Is the dinner part…totally necessary?”
She says it so innocently, her mouth turned up in the smallest pout as she shrugs. I stare at her, almost laughing at the ludicrous suggestion.
“Leave the event now?” I ask, just to make sure I’m understanding her.
“Well, yeah. Besides,” she says, moving so close to whisper in my ear that I can feel the heat of her skin radiating through the fabric of our clothes, “don’t you own everything? If you wanted to leave, who would be able to tell you no?”
A different kind of trap. The delicious kind. The words are thick with insinuation, reminding me of just how easy it would be to check into a room upstairs for a few hours and have my way with her. To burn away the sight of Blythe and that asshole with a good fuck.
But I can’t do that. I have to maintain this boundary. No matter how tempted I might be.
Still, as I glance back at Blythe, an alternative venue might not be such a bad idea. Emery’s right that I’ve done the necessary mingling. Dinner somewhere else might be the perfect compromise to the shitty situation that Blythe’s forced me into.
“I wouldn’t mind finding somewhere else to eat,” I tell Emery, turning my back on Blythe.
“Great,” Emery says, her lips curving into a smile. “Because I’m starving, and I know just the right place.”