The Truth

Once at work, I’ll have a full schedule of meetings, conference calls, and contracts to review as I watch the markets and follow what’s trending in businesses around the globe. All of those things are on my agenda for today too, but somehow, it feels different as I walk into the building from my front-row VIP spot in the lot.

There’s an extra pep in my step and a sense of excitement in my belly.

Maybe it’s because I made some progress on analyzing the data on the corporate takeover and want to follow up with our legal department on a clause I don’t like in the contract? It just came to me last night after the run with Tiffany and a long shower to clear my head.

But as the front desk comes into view, I realize my good mood has absolutely nothing to do with work and everything to do with the woman standing there.

This morning, Tiffany has on a camel-colored pencil skirt that makes the curvy shape of her ass look as though she doesn’t have anything on. The pale pink of her top reminds me of the quick flash of her nipples I got when she was in the tub.

My feet stop as the thought hammers my brain, realizing that maybe I’m seeing her for the first time.

But that’s ridiculous.

I’ve had dinner with Tiffany dozens of times, have traveled to England with her, and have heard more stories about her than I can possibly even remember. But that was all about her connection with Elle.

There was always a degree of separation between us.

Now, we’ve had this shared experience that is solely about us. It’s a messy, confusing realization . . . but I’m looking at Tiffany like a woman now. And she’s maybe looking at me like . . . a man?

No. Daniel, get your head out of your ass. There is no ‘us’ with a woman twenty years your junior who works at your fucking company. Your manhood has nothing to do with this.

Still, I give myself a rare, albeit quick, moment of indulgence. I set aside my ‘boss’ lenses and look at Tiffany Young as a woman. And what I see is . . . stunning. Tiffany is talking to a woman wearing a headset and sitting at a computer, and neither of them have noticed me yet.

Watching Tiffany speak, the way her lips curve and move over the words and her eyes focus sharply, is mesmerizing. Even though it’s probably something mundane, I find myself curious about what she’s saying.

As though she can feel my eyes on her, she looks up and smiles.

“Good morning, Mr. Stryker. Did you have a good weekend?” Tiffany says professionally.

But there’s a new glint in her eyes, a brightness that lets me know she’s well aware of the line she’s dancing around, clearly making it sound as though we didn’t see each other three times in the last three days and she has no idea what my weekend might’ve entailed.

“I did. Thank you for asking. And you?”

Before she can answer, the woman with the headset—I really should know her name if she works for me—laughs and offers, “A bit too heavy-handed on the donut-awesomeness at The Den.”

She tilts an invisible drink up to demonstrate, and the ‘professional’ side of me wants to gently chastise her for embarrassing a co-worker in a public space. But I’ll leave that to Tiffany, and instead, my lips twitch as I fight a laugh.

“Stephanie.” Tiffany’s singular word holds enough reproach that the woman’s smile falls.

Schooling my features into a stern scowl, I say, “Are you being a bad influence on your staff, Miss Young?”

Stephanie looks stricken at having outed her boss. But Tiffany sees my mask for what it is and is unconcerned, giving me a little smirk.

“Oh, I’m a terrible influence,” she says with a laugh before adding, “in the best possible way.”

She winks saucily, and I can’t help but smile. Three days, and Tiffany has me feeling like I haven’t felt in decades. This lightness in my belly and heat lower than that feel foreign . . . and dangerous.

“Well, carry on then.”

I wish I could stay here and banter with her, but that’s ridiculous. I have things to do, important things that I can’t neglect to play hooky with a woman I shouldn’t be spending time with anyway.

Not personal time, at least.

Realistically, not professional time either, which I’m reminded of as my phone buzzes in my pocket with a warning alarm for my first meeting.

“Have a good day, sir,” Tiffany says politely as I move toward the elevator.

I glance back to find her watching me with bright eyes that promise mischief and bad decisions, and despite our age difference, I suddenly feel woefully in over my head with her.

* * *

After taking over for old man Fox, I brought my own style to the CEO suite. Gone were the heavy woods and opulent touches everywhere. I don’t need some antique globe to remind me how wide the company’s reach is, and I don’t need to measure the responsibility my desk holds by the number of men needed to shift its weight around.