I click the elevator button harder than necessary, my eyes cutting to Roman’s office. He’s still in the same spot, drinking the coffee I was tempted to spit in and scrolling through his phone. He must feel me staring daggers inside his skull because he clicks a button on his desk that drops dark shades over his glass walls, enclosing him in complete privacy.
I hate those fucking blinds. They’re one way, so while we can’t see him, he can clearly see us. It’s so creepy.
“Presley?”
I jolt at the same time the elevator doors ding, sliding open to an empty cabin. Readjusting the copious number of bags on my shoulder, I paste on a wide smile for Marge. “Oh, I’m just peachy. I mean, it’s the day before we get a whole week off, so not much can ruin my day.”
“Knock on wood when you find some, would you dear?” She smirks, going back to work on her computer.
The ride down is quick, and when the doors open, I’m not even remotely surprised by the slight chaos taking place. The foyer just before the wide double doors is littered with empty shopping bags, tape, and rows of extension cords holding hot glue guns. Ladders, tall and short, rest propped against the walls. While inside, I can make out the beginnings of the party I spent weeks designing, starting to take form.
Yes, weeks of designing. Here’s the thing about our company’s Christmas shindigs; they aren’t just for the company. All the members of the board make an appearance, sure, but so do the vast majority of our clients. From the social media influencers with millions of followers, to the small businesses who now own franchises. It was yet another marketing idea from Mr. Chen a few years ago, and the board ate it up.
Really, it’s just more work and unpaid hours of entertaining while networking rather than enjoying a real company Christmas party. Part of me wonders what Roman would look like handing out cheesy annual awards and making company toasts if it were the average gathering. The image is quite unsettling if I’m honest, though.
I manage to squeeze through the double doors, and the tingle radiating up my forearms reminds me the bags are beginning to cut into my circulation.
“Drop them over there, Pres.” Monica, the lead in the recruiting department, and my good friend, points over at one of the few undecorated tables as she sashays her way over to me. Her long dark hair is pulled up in a tight bun, her beautiful amber skin glowing under the low lights. Like nosey Nancy upstairs, Monica has the body of a gymnast, only she isn’t nearly as snooty and never passes judgement when she sees my daily DoorDash being dropped off.
After dumping the bags, I take a second to admire everything already up. This year's theme is winter wonderland, and Roman decided to put a dark spin on it. Everything I ordered needed to be navy blue, twinkling white, or glittery silver. And to say the social media team delivered with the execution is an understatement.
Dark, heavy, velvet tapestries drape over every wall, and the tables all don similar covers, with white roses in tall vases. Crystal and glass decorations also adorn the space, while white lights hang in uniform rows in the air, attached to the columns. The most impressive, of course, is the flocked twelve-foot Christmas tree standing in the center. It’s the last thing to be decorated, but already, it's a statement piece.
“We could use some help decorating that beast later,” Monica says as she rips through the bags and takes out the iridescent snowflake placemats.
I nod. “Of course. I have to go see what else Chen wants, but then I’ll be down.”
Monica smirks but quickly swallows it back when she catches my death stare. She has an absurd, and rather infuriating notion that some type of sexual tension intertwines within the hate that bonds the CEO and me. She also seems to think he goes the extra mile just to infuriate me because I suck miserably at hiding my reactions.
While the former is complete bullshit, the latter is definitely true. He goads me and it works ninety percent of the time. But I do the same. Something about watching him lose even the smallest bit of composure and push his long fingers through his mussed hair sends a shiver of triumph through me every time.
“I’ll be back, and when I am, no talking about him or I disappear.” I wiggle my fingers how I imagine a magician does during a trick while Monica rolls her eyes at my antics.
I take my time wadding back to the elevators, and even more so walking to his office. I know he’s peering at me from behind the privacy shades—I can feel him. It's a searing type of fire rolling up and down my frame, followed by ice of his absence, letting me know where his eyes are trailing over me. And as sick as it is to admit, it doesn’t bother me. Not like it should, at least.
But I don’t dwell on the reason, or my lack of understanding why. Instead, I snatch the notepad off my desk and don’t bother knocking before swinging his door open.
Already I feel the air grow thicker as I enter, his eyes still on his phone even though I’ve made a show of entering.
His lack of a response doesn’t faze me, and I lower myself stiffly onto the chair across from his desk, sighing as loud as I can. I mean I do have things to do.
“No need for the theatrics, Miss Cartier.” He draws his words out slowly, finishing typing whatever message he was in the middle of before I walked in. Seemingly satisfied, his eyes drift over the message one more time before he sets his phone face down on his desk and gazes at me.
It’s dark and damning, and makes all the muscles in my body tighten in unison.
I talk a good game, and may even have a bit of an attitude, but when it comes down to it, my body knows something my mind can’t seem to grasp. And being alone, well, that only convolutes the battle between fight or flight.
“Can I be frank with you?” His low timbre is smooth and dare I say, enticing, making me want to respond yes when I already know better. I imagine this to be what rats see when they find cheese not knowing there’s a trap underneath.
Still, I take the bait. “When have you ever not been, sir ?”
He smirks. Ugh. That damn smirk. “I like this game we play, you and I.”
“Game?”
Roman nods, standing from his chair and moving to the front of his desk in a fluid motion, barely giving me time to sink back into my chair to maintain distance.
His dark eyes remain on me as he leans his hips into the glass and begins to slowly roll up his left sleeve. I wash a thick swallow back but force myself to hold his stare while my traitorous core tightens at the act.
“You see, Miss Cartier, I won’t outright say what it is we play.” He pauses, before moving to the other arm and repeating the process of carefully folding the fabric. Each flick of his wrist and curl of his fingers sear into my mind, and I loathe that I’ll be thinking about it later. “But I like it.”
Did my nipples just draw tight? Yes.
Is there a pulse down under? Also, yes.
Have I thought about hate fucking my boss because his face is so pretty, and I want to know if his bite is worse than his bark? Abso-freakin-lutely.