He opens his mouth and then shuts it, and it dawns on me that he’s about to bring up something that could be mildly uncomfortable, and I’m already dreading that it’s going to be about what happened yesterday. Especially after looking through everything on his website.
I quickly save him the discomfort. “If this is about yesterday, it’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. It’s fine.”
“It’s not about yesterday,” he replies. “At least, not really.”
“About Beau then?”
His attention piques and it feels like our conversation takes a hard left the moment his son is brought up. “Have you spoken to him?”
My shoulders fall and I tighten my lips. “Mr. Grant, I told you. We broke up. I’m not going to talk to Beau anymore…”
It feels like a harsh line to deliver, but I think he needs to understand that Beau is out of my life for good. I can no longer be a lifeline to his son.
Something in him deflates, and his brow furrows as he leans back in his seat. Then he just comes out with it, like ripping off a Band-Aid. “Ms. Underwood, I’d like to offer you a job.”
For a split second, I get excited. A job? A real paying, adult job. Something I would actually want to put on a résumé. No more corn dogs or antibacterial shoe spray.
Then I remember what I found last night—what he thought I was there to do, and heat floods my cheeks. “Oh…”
He clears his throat. “It’s a secretary job, Ms. Underwood. A regular secretary job.”
“Oh,” I repeat, this time with less hesitation. I keep my eyes completely averted from his gaze. “So…”
“Do you have a question?” he asks after a long awkward moment.
“There won’t be any…kneeling in this job?”
A hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “No kneeling. Mostly paperwork.”
I clear my throat, still keeping my eyes on the walls, the rink, the skaters…literally anywhere but at the handsome and intimidating man on the other side of this table.
He crosses his arms, furrowing his brow. “Is there something else you want to ask me, Charlotte?”
The way he says my name sends tingles up my spine. It’s the only reason I don’t correct him. No one calls me Charlotte. It’s Charlie and has always been Charlie since I was about eight years old.
It’s the only reason I finally draw my eyes toward him, letting our gazes meet. He’s so handsome, it’s almost hard to look at him, but he doesn’t shy away from the contact. In fact, he almost seems to stare at me longer than is generally accepted.
“Did you think I was a…prostitute?” I ask, hovering over the table and whispering the last word, as if anyone could hear anything while “Groove is in the Heart” blares over a strobe lit rink.
He leans forward to match my position, his watch clanging against the linoleum table. “No. I didn’t think you were a prostitute.”
We simply stare at each other for a moment, both of us hunching over the booth and our faces so close, it probably looks like we’re either sharing dirty secrets or about to kiss.
“Are you going to expand on that or make me use my imagination?” I ask when he doesn’t give me any more information.
There’s a hint of mischief in his eyes as he licks his lower lip and leans away from me. “I think I want you to use your imagination. What exactly are you imagining?” That sounded flirtatious, but I don’t call him out on it. Instead, I answer his question.
Except, I have no clue what I’m imagining, and I’m not sure how dirty I feel comfortable getting. This feels way too intimate. To counteract the sudden tension between us, I force myself to sound as casual as possible. I could tell him that I’ve already researched everything about his company, but I sort of want to make him explain it to me as if I know nothing.
“Well…do you have a lot of random women just show up in your office ready for you to bark orders at them and get on their knees for you?”
“Sometimes,” he replies confidently, as if that wasn’t the craziest thing he’s ever confessed to. Seriously, who is this guy?
My mouth goes dry.
“And you pay them…”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, I hate to break it to you, but that sounds a lot like prostitution.”
“Prostitution involves sex, Ms. Underwood. I don’t have sex with women for money.”
My eyes widen. He said sex—twice—and it stirs up a mixture of arousal and unease in my belly. I clench my thighs together.
“Well, then what exactly do you do with them?” I ask.
“That sounds like a personal question.” He’s toying with me again. “I told you to use your imagination, so go ahead then. If I’m not having sex with them, what do you think I hire them to do?”
I have no earthly idea. I didn’t really get that far into the website. So I gnaw on my bottom lip as I run through what I know so far.
“You can’t possibly just pay women to kneel in your office for you.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s ridiculous. What’s the point?”
“The point is I like it, and they are willing to do it.”
I’m speechless. This can’t be real. The confusion on my face morphs into a smile that pulls on my cheeks. This should really be humiliating for him, but he’s not embarrassed at all. And it really has me wondering something very wicked. “So…”
But I stop myself. I can’t finish the sentence. It’s too close to flirting, too…intimate.
Fuck it.
“So?” he echoes, impatiently waiting for me to finish.
“So, how did I do?” I desperately want to bury my face in my hands or hide under the table or even pull the fire alarm, but if he’s going to be so flippant and nonchalant about this, then so will I. Because I’m actually dying to know now. If he lives this secretive kinky life, then I want a peek behind the curtain. It’s enticing, the idea of just dipping my toe into whatever forbidden, yet exciting, life he leads.
So, instead of hiding, I force my body not to betray me, and I keep my spine straight and expression relaxed. As if I just asked him what the soup of the day is and not how well I performed as a kinky secretary slave.
After a moment of prolonged silence and a deep exhale, he says, “You did exceptional, Charlotte.”
Wait, what?
“You seemed pretty exasperated with me,” I reply. “I didn’t do anything right.”
“Well, in your defense, you didn’t even know what you were doing.”
A laugh bubbles out of my chest. “So how was that exceptional?”
He’s pensive again, clearly at war with himself inside his head as he weighs his options, probably thinking that as the adultier adult here, he should really put an end to this inappropriate discussion. “I really shouldn’t say…”
“Oh, come on. You started it.” It takes some effort, but I manage to keep my casual tone and lazy approach.
And suddenly, there is no hesitation. The words just travel effortlessly across the table straight from his lips to my ears. “Ms. Underwood, you looked exquisite on your knees.”
Even if I had a voice at this moment, I wouldn’t know what to say. Instead, I’m rendered completely and utterly speechless, sitting across from him like a fish with my jaw hanging open, wondering how I went from a fight with Beau on his front lawn a couple days ago to this—his father telling me that I look good on my knees.
No, not just good. Exquisite. That word has lost all meaning to me now. Not a day will go by in my long life when I will hear those three syllables and not think of a man twenty years my senior, using that exact designation when referring to how well I kneeled for him.
It’s ludicrous. Ridiculous. Narcissistic and sexist and demeaning and sensuous and flattering and…so many more words I can’t seem to find at the moment.
And somehow the only words I manage to utter in response are, “I did?”
“Yes,” he replies, and it sounds hungry, like a lion growling before the kill.
Sitting here in my dumbfounded silence, I implore my brain to manifest a coherent thought outside…oh that felt nice. Finally, it settles on a question.
“And this kneeling job…is something your company hires girls for?”
“Yes, we do.”
“And you thought I was one of those girls.”
“Correct.”
“Is that the job you’re offering me now?”