CHAPTER ELEVEN - EDEN

 

My desk phone rings. But I’m in the middle of composing a tweet to thwart that harlot Sexpert and bring people over to Le Man website to read a repurposed article about how to… well, let me just give you the title.

How to Find Your Way Through the Vaginal Forest and Hit Her Button.

I swear to God, that was the title.

And there was a picture of a man lost in a forest as a graphic.

‘Was’ is the operative word here. Because holy shit, I don’t know who they were targeting with that title, but it’s bad. And I don’t even have time to get into how spectacularly that graphic missed the mark.

So now it’s called How to Eat Her Like Dessert and there’s a picture of a pink cupcake with a cherry on top of pink frosting. And sprinkles. Because sprinkles and frosting are—

“No,” Gretchen says, walking up to my desk. “And I just buzzed your phone and no one answered, which is why I’m now standing at your desk. Why do you try my patience, Eden?”

I push my glasses up my nose and squint at her. “Which part was a no?”

“The cupcake,” she says. “This isn’t Cosmo, Eden. No man wants to see a picture of a cupcake while he’s learning to…” She does a little wiggle move with her finger, which I can only presume is her gesture for eating a girl out.

“Well, you’re wrong,” I say, looking up at her. “This is the perfect graphic.”

“Get rid of it,” she snaps. “No cupcakes.”

I pout. Because that cupcake is so beautiful. And the cherry and the pink… “But it’s so delicious-looking, Gretchen. It makes men want to think of…” I look up at her again. “Delicious lady bits.”

Gretchen’s face contorts into this horrible, grouchy frown. “We’re not Penthouse, either, Eden. Find something appropriate for our customer base or I’ll let Pierce know we need to get a new marketing team.”

Team? I’m the only one on this team. But I don’t say that. I just make a sad face and stare at my computer.

“And that title. Just keep the titles and make new graphics, Eden. I didn’t tell you to rewrite anything. You’re not a writer.” And then she laughs.

But I kinda am. I’ve written most of the scripts for the Sexpert this past year and that’s how I know this title and this cupcake are both perfect.

“OK,” I say, putting on my fake cheer. Because I don’t want to fight with my boss. “What did you need?”

“The art department just called me. They have a question about a graphic and need you up there now so they can get the next article on track for approval. And if that graphic is pink, has sprinkles, or is a picture of a dessert, find a new one.”

With that she turns on her heel and walks away.

I sigh, tired of taking orders from her when I’m the one who’s qualified. She doesn’t have a booming YouTube channel. And holy shit, Sexpert Channel is going crazy. Zoey texted me six times this morning to update me on our subscribers. She was so excited when we reached two hundred and fifty thousand last night, she called me at four AM. Apparently she was up all night just hitting refresh, watching the numbers climb in real time.

She even opened her bottle of Moët Champagne she’s been saving since her baby shower to celebrate when we got to half a million this morning.

It’s pretty fun and a part of me wishes I wasn’t stuck here at my job and was home with her celebrating instead.

I hate having to hide. I can’t even tell Myrtle about our new success.

“Eden!” Gretchen barks from her office. “Why are you still here?”

“Going!” I sing out, then grab my tablet and phone and make my way to the elevator. Just as I push the button my phone dings a text in my hand so I glance down at the screen.

 

Myrtle: Guess who’s here?

Me: I’m on my wayup now for graphics c u ina sec

Myrtle: He’s leaving right now. Better hurry.

Me: shit andrew?

Myrtle: Hurry! He’s waiting for the elevator.

 

Oh, thank you for the heads up, Myrtle. Because now I’m definitely taking the stairs up to the art department. The last thing I need is to see Andrew again. Last night was a total disaster. I mean—how unlucky can one girl get? I feel like the universe is conspiring against me. And it’s not fair because Zoey and I have been working so hard on this Sexpert thing trying to make a go at it and finally, the very day we actually have a chance to make some actual money and move up, the whole thing gets tainted with stupid accusations that aren’t even true.

At least I don’t think they’re true.

There’s this little part of me that has doubts. Like maybe I did overhear Pierce saying something about his idea for the Sexpert and just don’t remember. I’m that kind of girl. I’m always… ruffled.

The elevator dings and I realize Andrew could be on the other side of those doors right this second. So I spin around, open the door to the stairs, and duck inside.

When I look up who do I see? “Are you kidding me right now?”

“How lucky can a guy get?” Andrew laughs.

“Funny.” I sigh. “I was just thinking the exact opposite. But apparently a girl can always get more unlucky than she is already.”

We are in the middle of the floor—him coming down, me going up—and I just want to get past him as quickly as possible, so I push forward, dodging left, but he dodges right—his right, which is my left—and I actually smack into his chest.

There is a flurry of uncoordinated movements, and swearing (that’s me) and his hands on my arms sending that now familiar tingle through my body, and I compensate by dodging left, but he dodges right—that’s right, his right—and we smack together again.

I place two hands on his chest to push him away but then I lose my balance and I’m about to fall backwards down the stairs when he reaches out to grab me—his fingers slipping, but he overcompensates this time, snatching at my shirt in desperation because I truly am about to fall ass-backwards down half a flight of stairs—

And that’s when all the buttons on my sensible, professional button-down collared shirt go flying off in all directions.

“Oh, shit!” That’s me.

“Oh, shit!” That’s Andrew.

And then we’re both looking at my breasts.

I’m wearing a tank top, so we’re not actually looking at my breasts. But my girls are quite spectacular. Which is why I hide them underneath a professional shirt every day. And to top it all off, the tank is white, and my bra is pink, and… yeah. You can see it through the shirt.

“Um…” Andrew begins. And then he just smiles.

“Thanks a lot!” I say too loudly.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “But you were going to fall and I just…” Then he’s laughing.

“It’s not funny! I have two more hours until lunch and I have to walk around like this until I can scoot home and change!”

I push him away. This time he’s got his hands up in the air, letting me know he’s not going to touch me. And I take a step up, determined to push my way past him this time, but then my cute little ballet flat that has absolutely no tread on the sole slips and I fall to my knees on the stairs, palms down to catch my fall.

And in that moment, somehow, some way, Andrew’s fingers are tangled in my hair. Like he was gonna save me by the ponytail.

I look up, hot with embarrassment, and find myself eye to eye with—yes, you guessed it—his junk.

He laughs again.

“This is not funny,” I say, scrambling to my feet then backing down a few steps to put some distance between us. “What are you doing here anyway? You’re down on forty-nine. These two floors are for Le Man. Go back to your floor!”

I’m wagging my finger at him, which is dumb, so I stop doing that.

He bends down, eyes still on me, and we’re like… way too close. Like his lips—those lips I kissed last night—are just mere inches from mine because even though he’s crouching down on the step, I’m three steps down.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Grabbing your tablet,” he says, his hand reaching out to pat the stairs to find it by touch, because his eyes have not strayed. They are locked on mine. “God, you’re adorable,” he whispers.

And now I’m looking at his lips. They are very nice lips. You don’t often think about a man’s lips until you’re presented with a set of spectacular ones. Lips like his. Which are just a little bit plump, and look very soft.

They are soft, I recall from last night.

And then he says, “Eden.”

And I swallow hard and say, “What?”

And then he kisses me. He barely has to move at all, that’s how close we are. The universe really is conspiring against me because when I walked into this stairwell thirty seconds ago there was no scenario that ended with me kissing Andrew Hawthorne.

I know what I should do. Push him away. Or run away. Or… or… pretty much anything else but let him kiss me, but that’s what I do.

I let him.

And then I take it one step further. Because I kiss him back.

What happens next is like… a choreographed dance or something. It has to be. There’s no other plausible explanation for how he gets to his feet, steps down the stairs, backs me down the stairs until my back is pressed up against the landing wall, and threads his fingers into my falling-apart ponytail while never breaking lip contact.

And it is the most amazing kiss. I’m talking half-open mouth with just the right amount of tongue. And he tastes like cinnamon. Like he was chewing a stick of Big Red or crunching on a cinnamon Tic-Tac just seconds before this whole encounter happened. Or maybe I’m imagining that because I’m obsessed with sweets?

Who cares?

“Shit,” he says, catching his breath and backing away.

I stare into his eyes. Which, like his lips, are very nice. “I gotta go,” I whisper. “The art department is waiting…”

But I don’t get to finish because he leans back in and kisses me again.

And this is when we get… hands-y.

I don’t know what I’m thinking. Probably not thinking, which, I realize, is the problem here. But my hands are on his upper arms, feeling his muscles underneath his shirt. And his hands are on my arms, riding up my shoulders, gripping them tightly before they slide down and…

Holy shit.

I moan into his mouth as he grabs my breasts and squeezes.

Voices outside the stairs make us both pull away quickly and I get this feeling. Like… what a magnet must feel like when it disconnects from a piece of iron.

He smiles at me.

I’m too busy wondering how this all just happened in the span of ninety seconds to smile back. And then he turns away, just as Lydia from data entry enters the stairs, and disappears down below.

“Hi, Eden,” Lydia quips, walking down the stairs towards the landing where I’m still pressed up against the wall. She gives me a funny look. “Everything OK?”

It’s only then that I realize my hair is all aflutter. Strands of it have come loose from my ponytail and are covering my eyes. I reach behind my head, grab my hair to make the hair band tight again, then blow the stray strands out of my eyes and say, “Just fine, thanks!”

Two seconds later I’m up on fifty-one and making my way to Myrtle’s desk, because even though I have no interest in seeing Pierce right now, I have to tell someone about what just happened in the stairs.

The second Myrtle spies me coming towards her desk she laughs.

“What?” I ask, looking around nervously.

“You just fucked him in the elevator!”

“What? No! I took the stairs. And why would you say that anyway?”

She holds a hand over her mouth, her mischievous eyes darting back and forth as she looks at me. “Well, you better go fix that just-fucked hair if you don’t want everyone to think you’re banging the boss’ best friend.”