Silence fills the phone line, and I can feel my heart beating wildly as I wait for him to respond.
“I won’t take no for an answer, Ms. Phillips.” My ears burn as blood rushes through them. That’s twice today that two different men won’t take no for an answer, and I grow more agitated and less friendly.
I sit up a little straighter and feel a rush of confidence settle in. I’m going to agree to Holt’s wishes, even if I regret it. “I’m sorry, Mr. Perez. My answer is no. Have a wonderful day. I’ll be in touch when I have more information about your aircraft.” I disconnect the call and rest my head in my hands as I calm myself down.
“Are you okay?” Holt’s voice startles me.
“Yes,” I say quickly, turning around to find him just behind me in my cube. “Just had an awkward conversation with Sergio Perez.”
“And how did that go?” He raises his eyebrows, scrutinizing me.
I give him a shaky smile. “I politely declined. He’s not happy.”
A giant smile spreads across his face. “I didn’t expect him to be.”
I sigh loudly. “Holt, I should just go.”
“Not happening.” He steps in closer and grips my chin, lifting my head so our eyes meet. “Saige, there are very few things in life that are non-negotiable. Sergio Perez is one of those things.” His eyes are serious but caring. He’s adamant, and I’m glad I respected his wishes.
I close my eyes and lean into his touch. “I understand,” I whisper, feeling safe in his touch.
He brushes my cheek with the back of his knuckles. “Now wrap up here. I’d like to leave within the hour.”
I miss Holt’s touch the second he pulls his hand away, After he leaves, my instant messenger pings almost immediately.
Kinsley: I just heard everything. #HowFuckingHotIsHolt
Me: So hot.
Kinsley: I’m actually jealous of you . . . and I don’t do jealous. That man is so into you.
I find myself smiling at Kinsley’s observation as I type out a response.
Me: Remember, it’s just fun.
I know we’ve crossed the line from fun to something more serious, but my coworkers don’t need to know that.
Kinsley: Fun my ass. That is love, girlfriend. Deny it all you want.
Me: Oh stop.
Kinsley: Fine. But I want sordid details . . . soon!
Me: Sordid, no. Update, yes.
Kinsley: Sigh. Talk to you tomorrow. Shut down. Lover boy wants to get you home. LOL.
Me: Bye.
I close instant messenger and shut down, glad to put today behind me.
“Oh my God, that smells amazing!” I say as I enter the kitchen, finding Holt at the kitchen island in a pair of jeans and a tight gray t-shirt, cutting up carne asada.
“It’s Tuesday. I thought we’d do Taco Tuesday for dinner.” He winks at me.
“I love tacos,” I tell him enthusiastically, picking up the head of lettuce to wash it.
He shoves the plate of chopped beef to the center of the island and begins slicing tomatoes and onions, adding them to the bowl of cilantro that has already been cut.
“You know you don’t always have to cook for me,” I tell him as I dry the lettuce with paper towels and begin chopping it up.
“I know, but I like cooking for you, Saige.” I look over at him where he stands watching me.
“I like it too,” I admit. “But I’d like to cook for you sometime.”
“I’d like that.” He smiles at me, and I practically swoon. My stomach twists with excitement every time he unknowingly makes future plans for us.
Five minutes later, we sit down to eat at the small kitchen table that sits in a bay window nook. It’s less formal and more comfortable than the dining room, perfect for the two of us. Holt shakes up margaritas while I plate us tacos and rice.
“Thank you for handling Perez,” Holt says as he takes a bite of his taco. I nod and scoop some guacamole on a tortilla chip. He swallows and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “I should warn you, though. He’ll be at our company cocktail party in a couple of weeks.”
“What cocktail party?” I lick some salt from the rim of my glass before taking a sip of margarita. The tequila burns as it travels down my throat to my stomach.
“Every year, Jackson-Hamilton hosts a cocktail party for our clients,” he begins. “We do it this time of year instead of around the holidays because Chicago weather is so unpredictable. Years ago, it started out small, just an open bar and casual atmosphere, but over the last couple of years, it’s turned into something much more formal.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What do you mean by formal?” I stuff a chip in my mouth.
“Everyone dresses up; we have drinks of course, and food. Last year, we had heavy appetizers, but Joyce has insisted on a buffet dinner for this year. All of this happens in the penthouse.”
“I’ve never been to the penthouse,” I say, wondering what it looks like. If it’s Jackson-Hamilton’s, I can imagine it’s probably extravagant.