Making of Them (Beating the Biker 3)

“Yes, sir.” It didn’t matter if it was his plane waiting for him at the airport, Pearson had no patience for lateness. She double-timed it to the counter where the latte she’d carefully prepared sat untouched. Chrissy tossed the liquid into the sink, rinsed the cup, and put it in the dishwasher. She couldn’t leave it in the sink, because the fastidious James Pearson wanted his kitchen perfectly clean at all times. Heaven forbid it ever looked like anyone lived there.

Her last move, as it always was when leaving his apartment, was to grab her precious iPad. It was her Bible when it came to the life of James Pearson, and without it she would be tossed to the wolves.

With a gentleman’s manners, Pearson held out her light coat and she shrugged it on. She did the same for him. Chrissy gave up on trying to figure out why Pearson, who lived extravagantly in all other aspects of his life, refused to keep a butler. He could have at least hired one for the London condo, which was where they spent most of their time.

There were, though, many things she didn’t understand about her boss. His hours were very irregular, and he came and went at the oddest hours. There were times when he insisted she accompany him, and other times when he told her she wasn’t needed. It was difficult to imagine he could ever function without her, given all she did for him when she was present. Chrissy generally handled everything, from calling the car, to wrangling the types of tables he liked from the maître d’ at restaurants, to paying the bills.

When he called her the “mistress of his life” in their first interview, he wasn’t kidding. The only thing that was missing in this somewhat husband/wife relationship was the sex. And she didn’t miss or want that one bit. Pearson didn’t appeal to her all.

Oh, he was handsome enough, and dressed well, but his attitude would put off most women, except the ones who only wanted him for his money. As far as she knew, though, he hadn’t been indulging in that either, unless that was where he’d been going on his late-night excursions.

The entirety of the way to the airport, Pearson’s fingers tapped impatiently on his leg. It was a tick of his that she forced herself to ignore, or else it would drive her insane. Without fanfare, they arrived at the airport with time to spare.

Still, James was on edge. Though most people would think he was calm and collected, Chrissy recognized the tightness in his jaw that signaled his tension over the upcoming lunch meeting.

“Did you send me the sales projections?” he asked.

“Yes, Mr. Pearson. Last night.”

She darn well did them last night. She had to wait up for Marta, the New York office assistant, to send them. Since there was a five-hour difference between London and New York it was well after midnight, London time, before she got them.

He checked his iPhone. “Yes, here they are. And the reservations at the restaurant are made?”

“Yes.” She didn’t add that she ordered the car for tonight. That she’d have a tuxedo and the new tuxedo shirt set out for tonight when he returned or that she’d cleaned his tuxedo loafers. She didn't inform of these and the dozens of other details done and checked off on her list. She was grateful for all the other assistants before her who’d kept detailed lists of various tasks. Chrissy, after a week of studying them, was able to get through the day without looking at those lists every five minutes. They’d already become ingrained in her mind.

At the gate nearest to his plane, the car came to a stop.

“Thank you, Miss Serafini,” James said as he exited the car.

Wait. What? Chrissy’s brow wrinkled. He’d actually thanked her? What was that about? A thank you from his mouth was unheard of. But the driver shut the door quickly, without any further comment from her boss.

But the door opened again, and Pearson poked his head in.

“You should find a package from Harrods upon your return. I want you to wear what’s inside tonight.”

The door abruptly shut again.

Well. What was that about?

“Only eleven months to go,” she said under her breath.

The chauffeur opened the privacy window.

“Heathrow, Miss?”

“Yes, thank you.”

They made it to the airport before Jessica’s plane landed. She pulled out the small sign she’d made from her brief case.

“Let me out at Arrivals.”

“Yes, Miss. I can’t park here, but I’ll keep circling around until I see you again.”

“Thanks.”

She quickly found the gate on the arrivals board and hurried toward the receiving area. Travelers poured from the roped areas and it was difficult to see.

“Chrissy!” she heard.