The man behind the metal desk is looking at his laptop screen, his eyes narrowed and his lips worked into a concentrated frown. I can only see him from the waist up, but I quickly hate my body's reaction to the blue flannel shirt shoved up to his elbows and the unruly chocolate brown hair and stubble.
"Give me just a second, I’m going to—" Lifting blue eyes from the screen, his deep voice catches. He stares at me for an awkward pause, stunned. Rubbing long fingers tattooed with Roman numerals over his chin, he inclines his head to one side. I hold my breath, praying and hoping and wishing for a miracle that’s clearly not going to happen because his scowl transforms into a grin.
He knows me.
He remembers me, and my heart sinks from my windpipe, inch by inch, as I realize another interview has just bit the dust.
Here’s the thing about most overachievers, even those who’ve fallen from their high perch: they all have that one person. The one who made their high school existence a little more stressful. That one person who was, despite his constant asshole-isms, the object of her secret fantasies. That one person who was the opposite of everything she aspired to become because he gave zero shits.
I was twelve the first time I laid eyes on my person.
It's sad that I remember the moment clearly, but in my defense, he came to our class toward the end of the school year, and I'd just celebrated my birthday three days before his late May arrival. We had the same homeroom teacher, Mr. Collins who taught Social Science, and as they talked at the front of the classroom, I was entranced by his soft, chopped accent and the way he combed one hand through his dark hair.
He's doing that now, only he’s not speaking.
The last time I saw the man in front of me was ten years ago. He had complained that my salutatorian speech was "too fucking long" and that he had parties to get to and vaginas that needed his undivided attention. I had responded boldly, telling him that I'd see him at our reunion—if he could put down his bong and whoever he was banging long enough to make it.
And now, I'm standing smack dab in front of Jace Exley, asking for him to give me a job.
Heat pulses down my spine as he flicks his steely blue gaze over me, raking in all five foot six inches—five foot nine with the heels. I've filled out since the last time we saw each other. I have hips and breasts and a butt now, and I nixed the short black bob that made me look older than my mother years ago.
Still, for a moment, I feel like the flat-chested girl who wanted to punch him in his stupidly rugged face every time he said, "pull the stick out of your arse, Williams."
"Lucy Williams." Jace steeples his fingers over his mouth and leans back, giving the impression of a man used to getting his way. To be honest, I have no doubt that’s just what he is. "Never thought I'd see you again, and I sure as fuck didn't think you'd walk through my door, but please ... sit down.”
Two
Jace Exley
I didn’t think I’d ever see her again.
Lucy Williams.
No, Lucy Duncan.
She’s married now. It was bound to happen. Even with her smartass mouth and know-it-all attitude, she was always a stunner, but goddamn, the years have been good to her. I let my eyes travel over her body, slowly, because I don’t give a fuck if she notices.
I start at her legs.
Whenever she used to ride my ass—she was good at that, good at pissing me off—I imagined wrapping them around my waist and riding her. Those legs are longer than I remember, leading up to full hips that make my fingers twitch to grasp them and a tiny waist I’d like to clutch too. Her tits are still perky, perfect, but she’s not hiding them under one of those baggy ass sweaters she was so fond of. That yellow dress leaves little to my imagination, and her breasts strain against the fabric with silky black hair falling over them.
I have a thing for long hair—the more there is, the better because I like having something to hold on to—and between that and her hips, Lucy Williams-fucking-Duncan has plenty to grip.
It’s a shame another man’s digging his fingers into her hair, tilting her head back until her long lashes flutter over round hazel eyes. Making her lips part just enough for her to say, “More,” before he ruins that sweet pink gloss of hers with his tongue and cock.
Clearing my throat, I lower my fingers from my mouth, gesturing them to the empty seat across from mine. “Sit down,” I repeat in a voice that’s gone rough from the images in my head.
“Yes … okay.”
Her legs are wobbly as she perches her ass on the edge of the chair in front of my desk. I want her to look at me, want to see her skin light up beneath my attention, but she doesn’t. She traces her gaze over the monogrammed letters—LJD—on the edge of her leather folder like it’s the first time she’s ever seen her own initials.
That’s fine with me. I’ll make her look up sooner or later.
"It's been a long time." She sucks in her flushed cheeks at the mockery lacing my tone. I wonder if she remembers the last time we saw each other. She must because she just blinks and sways slightly in her seat. “You look … well.”
Hell, she looks better than well. With legs that go on for days and tits that were made to touch, she’s the sexiest thing that’s ever stepped into this building. Breathing her in is torture because she smells like warmth. Warmth, vanilla, and a hard, noisy fuck.
I bet she’d taste just as good as her scent.
My cock twitches at the thought, and I groan at the effect the presence of this woman has on my little brain. I don’t have a hard time getting soft curves and sweet scents into my bed—well, their bed because I don’t like to take women back to my place, don’t like the sense of attachment it gives them—but I have rules. I don’t do married women. I never have, and it’s not a trend I plan to pursue. That was my father’s MO, and although I never formally met him, I decided long ago that his drive for success is the only inherited trait I want from the git.
I gaze across the desk at Lucy, wondering when she’ll speak. “Ms. Williams?”
Startling at the sound of my voice, she darts her eyes from side to side. I bet she’s trying to come up with something witty. She was so quick to run her mouth in school I’m disappointed it’s taking her so long to get on with it. “Thanks,” she says carefully. “It's good to see you again Jace—I apologize—Mr. Exley."
Fuck me running, she’s lost that touch of smart aleck that made her so aggravatingly endearing.
“You had it right the first time.” Closing my laptop, I shift around in my chair, and the chuckle I release bows her tight body forward. "There’s no need to call me Mr. Exley.”
“You’re interviewing me,” she whispers. “Of course I should call you that.”
I can’t deny that it’s deeply satisfying to see her lips wrap around those words since she’s the last person I ever expected to come to me for a job. I’d be a fool not to get some pleasure out of this. The last time she saw me, she’d all but written me off as “Most Likely to Knock Up Everything in Sight Between Prison Stints.”