XOXO (The Calvettis of New York 3)

I’m not surprised. Mrs. Blanchard is making Judd and Dominick work hard to get her attention. Her attorney intercepts every phone call, and all the emails we send go unanswered.

I looked her up online in the hopes of gaining some insight into what she likes or what’s important to her, but I came up empty. There was a brief mention of her in an article about her late husband, but that’s all that my search garnered. I wasn’t surprised. Many of Modica’s clients keep a very low profile. Wealth comes with benefits, but it comes with risks too.

I glance at the clock on the wall again. “I better get back.”

“Finish the bagel while you read the email,” Bronwyn suggests. “That counts as work, right?”

I half-shrug my shoulder. “In my book it does.”

I pick up my phone and glance at the screen. I’m not surprised to see a string of notifications. There are several for emails from clients, one for a text message from my friend Maren, and the most recent is an alert that Mr. Calvetti has indeed sent me an email.

I click on that one first.

I blink when I read the subject line. Confused, I read it again and then a third time. That’s the subject line of the email I sent to Sinclair right before I took my coffee break.

With my stomach twisting and my heart in my throat, I click open the email.

Subject: Re: The Dick

Miss Voss,

Thank you for your email.

I hardly think 34 is considered old, and for the record, I’m 6’4”.

Details matter. Sending an email to the intended recipient matters more, especially when you include a sensitive image exposing so much of your body.

Also, cancel your date, as you will now be working late tonight.

And report to my office. Immediately.

Signed,

THE DICK

“XOXO”

My phone tumbles from my shaking hands into my lap.

This is bad. This is I’ve-ruined-my-life bad.

How the hell did Mr. Calvetti end up receiving the email I sent to Sinclair?

“Arietta?” Bronwyn asks quietly. “You look pale. Is something wrong?”

I don’t raise my head to look at her. I can’t form one word in response to her question.

I screwed up so badly. All of my dreams are disappearing from my grasp.

Why did I write Sinclair an email when I was preparing the one for Mr. Calvetti? I must have opened and closed them both so many times that I got mixed up and typed the wrong messages into the drafts.

“Do you want a glass of water?” Bronwyn pushes to her feet. “I’ll get one.”

Water won’t help me. Nothing will.

I’ve destroyed my life. I should leave the building now before Mr. Calvetti has the chance to fire me.

I pick up my phone and reread the email.

He wants me to work late, so there’s still hope.

Maybe he won’t kick me to the curb for calling him a dick.

A million thoughts race through my mind as I try and come up with an excuse for the nickname.

“Drink this.” Bronwyn shoves a glass half-filled with water at me.

I swallow it all before I push to stand. “I need to go see my boss.”

She rests her hands on my shoulders. “Was there something in the email you sent him that he didn’t like?”

Answering that question would take at least an hour. It’s time I don’t have to spare.

“I need to discuss that with him.” I hug her quickly.

“All right,” she says skeptically. “I’m down the hall if you need me.”

I won’t need her. I need courage.

I have to face a man I called a dick who has now seen me dressed in nothing but underwear.

This Friday just went from bad to catastrophic, and it’s not even ten a.m. yet.

Chapter 13

Dominick

I tug on the collar of my shirt. It feels tight, my tie is knotted too stiffly, and my cock is still waging war against my common sense.

I’ve looked at the picture of Arietta in her lingerie three times since I first opened the email.

Deleting it would be the right thing to do, but I have never done the right thing, so why start now?

A soft knock at my door sends my pulse racing.

I have to face my meek assistant, who parades around the office in clothing that doesn’t fit her. She’s been doing that since she was hired, all the while hiding lush curves underneath it.

I fucking hate the bastard who has a date lined up with her tonight.

Jesus, I feel like I’ve stumbled into a time machine and shot back to high school when my dick directed everything.

“Come in,” I say in a strangled tone.

The door opens slightly, but there’s no one in view.

If this is the game she wants to play, I’ll go along with it. I have all day and night to deal with this.

She finally steps into my sight.

I’m surprised that there’s no evidence that she’s cried. I assumed that she might burst into tears after reading my reply to her email.