Wasn’t that great. His assistant knew me and hung out at his house. I suppose there weren’t a lot of single brunettes coming to see him. Or maybe there were and this was part of the “drill”? I hadn’t said a time I’d show up, and he hadn’t given me one. With the power of technology, texting, email, even a phone call, Jack made it hard to understand not only his motives, but timeframes and expectations. Especially since he’d used none of the above to contact me thus far.
Something I was going to clear up.
Just like I practiced last night. Sure, I may have looked like a freak, pacing in my room and talking to myself. Going over talking points and why my decision that Jack and I maintain a professional relationship was smart.
When Nina led me up the staircase, and wove down the hallway, we came to a large wooden door with a brass knob. She opened the door, and when I saw Jack standing at the other end of the large office, hands in his pockets, looking perfect in matching black pants, vest, and tie with a crisp white button up, those talking points went right out the large window he was looking out.
He didn’t say anything and neither did his assistant. She shut the door behind me, the knob bumping my ass and pushing me forward, as if the damn thing were shoving me closer.
“Good afternoon,” he said, facing me. Between the black suit and wicked gleam in his dark eyes, every inch of his skin looked tan and mouthwatering. Apparently, I had been way off on home offices and working in sweat pants, because Jack dominated this domain. All hardwood floors, with a massive desk that looked fit for the King of England, circa the sixteen-hundreds. Large built-in book shelves that matched the desk took up an entire wall, while two other doors were on the opposite side, and large windows framed the center back wall.
“Hi.”
He took a step toward me. “You look beautiful.” That dark gaze raked over my body. “I’m glad you wore a dress.”
“Why?” The thin-strapped summer dress was flowy and pink, but was still within the dress code for work. When he didn’t answer my question, I cleared my throat and attempted to recite my logical decision I’d come to yesterday, because standing there and staring at him wasn’t helping anything. Unless my skin collecting goose bumps counted as helping. Besides, Jack liked it when I spoke plainly. Actually, he had helped me start doing that.
“I like my job,” half-truth. My job was okay. But it was a means to an end, and it was a paycheck, one I needed to live and save for grad school. “I’d like to continue working without distraction.”
He looked at me like I’d just issued a challenge. “You think I’m a distraction?”
He pulled his hands out of his pockets. I was instantly transfixed by the buttons of his vest running down his stomach. It made me wonder how long it would take to unbutton each one. What hard muscle lay beneath? Surely, two seconds per button, which would cut into the original half hour I’d allotted to tell him why we should keep a distance. Distance and undressing him were counter ideas.
“You’re definitely a distraction,” I said, still doing mental calculations on how long the pants, shirt, and tie would take to shuck.
“I see. And what is it I distract you from?”
“My job,” I said quickly.
“Bullshit.” His response was fast and cut quick, shocking me. “I know this is an interim job for the summer for you. And I’ve told you I won’t interfere. So, tell me the truth.”
“I am,” I said. Time to recite: “Since you own the resorts, you have a professional power over me. If we entered into any kind of non-professional relationship and it went sour, you could fire me at any point.”
“I could also just fire you now for no reason whatsoever.”
I frowned, then tried to swallow back a little unease. “I guess that’s true.”
“You said professional power over you,” he restated my words. “What if I’m not interested in that? What if I want a different kind of power over you?”
I frowned. “What other kind is there?”
“Every other kind.”
I stared at him for a long moment. He was serious, unmoving stone. Something I was learning he did well. Opening my mouth to say something turned into a quick fail. Because no words came out. Was this a game? Did he want me? What did “power over me” mean exactly? While all these question were buzzing in my brain, he continued.
“Enough of this professional relationship excuse. It’s a weak argument. Especially now that we’ve determined firing you is not on my list of desires, and holds no bounds anyway to now or later. So, what is it that you’re really struggling with?”
“You,” I snapped, my eyes meeting him. “I’m struggling with you.”
“How so?”
“You make me feel things, and distract me, and—”
“What things?”
“Excuse me?”
“What things do I make you feel?” He stepped until his Italian leather shoes met my cute wedges, and I could smell his rich scent and feel his heat. God, I’ve missed that heat. And I’d only had it the one night.