As I stand, she rubs her hand over her cheek and glances at the bright red color staining the tips. "I still think you should change the color.” But she tugs down the hem of my blazer and smoothes her palm over it. "Do you have your phone charger? Your pepper spray?"
"Yes, Mother." I feel like I'm seventeen again and going to prom. Only then, it was Dad teasingly telling my date that A) he had been in the Army, and B) he was from Mississippi, and he knew where all the best swamps were located.
"If I don't like something Mr. Exley says, I'll be sure to give him a quick blast of bear mace."
"You're a..." she starts as I open the front door, but I'm laughing so I can barely hear what she says. I imagine she's calling me a smartass.
It wouldn't be the first time.
I stress about the red lipstick all the way to Boston—up until the moment I walk through the entrance of EXtreme Effects. Because I need paper towels to do away with the bold pop of color, I’ve made up my mind to immediately find the bathroom and put on the muted pink Mom suggested I wear. But I stop short when I come face-to-face with Jace. He's parked behind Daisy's desk, his phone to his ear and both of his boot-clad feet resting next to a neat stack of paperwork.
I've never walked into my boss' office to find him with his feet on a desk.
Ever.
"Yes. No, but I'll put you in touch with her early next week," he's saying to whoever he's speaking to. As I start to back up to give him privacy, his slate-blue eyes connect with mine over the tops of his boots. “Stay,” he mouths.
To watch him talk on the phone? I take another step backward, causing his dark brows to arch.
Covering the receiver, he tilts his head to one side and gives me a stern look that leaves a hard knot in the center of my chest. "Weren’t you listening, Williams? I told you to stay.”
My face tingles. Nobody’s talked to me in such a commanding tone since I was an intern, and the fact it’s coming from Jace makes my head spin. Because it’s both offensive and—to my mortification—a slight turn on. I cross my arms over my chest and play with the leather strap on my purse until he speaks my name again.
“I need your email,” he says. “Lorelei’s in London is on the line about a custom order for IFD next January, and they're interested in doing some heavy marketing in their store and on their website. Since you’re our new marketing wizard, I want to put them in touch with you.”
I have no idea what IFD is, and I have no idea why Lorelei’s is calling him at midnight their time, but his wizard comment makes me forget his barked command from before. Fighting the urge to smile, I scribble my email address on a piece of paper and push it over to him. He bobs his head to the row of chairs beside Daisy's desk, so I sit on the edge of one, nervously drumming my fingertips against my knees.
"Right. Do you have a pen handy?” he asks when he returns to his call. "Her name is Lucy Williams, and her email address is [email protected]." I notice that, when he reads the last name aloud, he scowls. A moment passes then I become the recipient of that dark stare.
Squaring my shoulders, I face it without flinching.
What the hell is his problem?
He's still glaring at me as he tells his caller, "No, it's Lucy with a Y. That’s right, L-U-C-Y."
It's a struggle to keep my eyes on his while he wraps up his conversation, but when his attention finally lowers to my mouth, and he traces the curves of my red lips, I glance away to the steel clock on Daisy's desk, pretending the fancy cogs and hands are the most interesting thing I've seen in years. Dammit, Mom was definitely right. I shouldn't have worn red lipstick. I'm in the middle of anxiously running my fingertip over my mouth when Jace's voice drags me out of my thoughts.
"Stop that. You're going to smear it everywhere," he states sharply, drawing his feet off Daisy's desk and rising to his feet.
I forgot how tall he is—he’s at least six foot, and my heart thunders as I scan my gaze from his boots to the top of his dark, unkempt hair.
"I'm sorry, if it's too much, I can wipe it off. I wasn't sure what you meant, and I haven't received the company appearance code yet."
"Appearance code," he muses, the edges of his mouth quivering. He comes around to the front of the desk and leans his long body against it. I can try all I want to play the avoidance game, but I can't resist sweeping my eyes over the way his dark jeans seem to be made only for his legs or the way the short sleeves of his white tee shirt hugs his biceps. The last time I saw him, his flannel shirt hid most of the tattoos on his arms. Tonight, they're on full display—a colorful collection of words and patterns bursting over golden skin and thick muscles.
He crosses his arms over his chest, breaking my focus. "See something you like, love?"
"I'm just admiring the artwork." It's a lie, and he knows it. His grin widens. I reach up to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear and bite the inside of my lip once I realize there's not a strand out of place because it’s all pulled back into a ponytail. "So ... about that dress code?"
"If you haven't noticed, we're unorthodox here. We don't have one, have never had one, and don't plan on getting one anytime soon. Come in whatever pleases you. What you're wearing now is..." His voice trails off, and his blue-gray eyes settle on my black blazer. I shift uncomfortably and look down at my clothing.
"What I'm wearing now is what?"
"Very, very buttoned up."
I finger the top hook of my white shirt and give him a confused look. "I'm sorry, but how did you want me to dress? Unbuttoned?"
He crooks his finger at me, the gesture measured, seductive. Screw me sideways, how many women have tripped all over their own two feet answering to that call? "Come here."
I don't immediately move, so he lets out an irritated exhale and shoves away from the desk. He takes the chair directly beside mine and scoots close. I hold my breath because he smells incredible—like spice and sex and sin.
"May I?" he asks, and my brow creases even as my body turns toward his.
"May you what?"
"Help you out, Lucy." When I don't nod or shake my head to confirm or deny, he brushes the pad of his thumb over the lapel of my blazer. Our skin doesn’t make direct contact, but that doesn't halt the current from passing through my body. It settles between my chest and stomach, pinging between my heart and my core. He gives my blazer a soft tug. "Take this off," he orders.
I inhale sharply. He's asking me to take off clothes. Why is he asking me to take off my clothes? I shake my head so hard, my black ponytail swishes around my shoulders, swinging over the Roman numerals on his fingers. He stares at the hair curtaining his hand then he pushes it back. That mere motion, his fingers in my hair and against my shoulder, makes it hard to speak or think.
"Why do you—" I eventually start, but he releases a low, frustrated sound.