Suppressing the harsh smile the memory draws from me, I shrug. “I’d prefer Jace. I can't be that much older than you. A year or so—"
"Two. I skipped a grade and you failed a year before you …” Trailing off when her eyes connect with mine, she flinches at how superior she just sounded. She squeezes her glossy lips together and nervously tucks her hair behind her ears. "I could be wrong, though. About the age thing.”
"I doubt you are." I fold my hands over the copy of her resume on my desk. She zeroes in on the tattoos on my fingers, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. I’ve thought about doing that a time or two—sucking on her lip. Her mouth always drove me insane and kissing it until she was speechless seemed like the only way to deal with her.
"Like I told you, I'd rather you call me Jace. After all, we were schoolmates and you’re interviewing for a job at my company. It’s what I want from you, understand?"
My voice breaks the spell my fingers have over her. She snaps her hazel eyes to mine. "Sure ... Jace."
"That's a good girl." She draws in a sharp gasp. It takes all my self-control not to grin because she’s probably never been called that—a good girl. I’m oddly proud to be the first one to do so. “So, marketing?”
"Yes, marketing."
"I would've pegged you as the medical sort." She was always good at science and math and had loved rubbing her A’s in my face. I had been more interested in burying my face in her A, but I’d never pursued more with her. Too uptight. Too untouchable. Too Lucy, even if she was hot. I stroke my chin with my thumb and forefinger then drop my hand to my desk. “You know, physician, scientist, evil pharmaceutical CEO—something like that.”
With her hand to her chest and scrunched expression, she looks offended. Good, let her be. “Marketing better suited me," she responds coolly. “I’m good at talking and promoting my work.”
“You always did enjoy moving that mouth, Williams.”
Instantly, she licks her lips. I can’t help it; I stare at the path her tongue makes, needing to see more. Just because her last name has changed over the last ten years doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the slope of her mouth or the way it opens to form a surprised O. Rubbing the hand on her chest up and down, from the curve of her breast to her collarbone, she exhales.
"I … marketing is why I enrolled in business school after I got my bachelors in sociology.” Her voice goes weak on the last few words, but she straightens her spine, jutting her tits out, and continues, “I found I had a knack for advertising after I promoted a play on campus.”
“What play?”
She swallows hard. Then feeds me a bullshit lie. “I don’t remember.”
I’d bet my business and savings it was The Vagina Monologues, but she’s too damn politically correct to say the dreaded V-word in an interview.
“Sure you don’t.” Rapping my fingertips lightly on my metal desk, I review her resume. She sits in silence, her expression more and more uncomfortable every time I glance up to look at her. Uncrossing her long legs, she gives me a glimpse of the inside of one creamy thigh, but she quickly crosses them again, this time at the ankles.
Yet another shame.
Thighs like hers—firm and soft that smell like the perfume that’s a fucking distraction—deserve attention, and I hope Duncan’s giving them plenty.
I tug at the collar of my flannel, forcing myself to look at her resume. Talking up her many achievements is the easiest way to avoid focusing on the path between her legs that makes me wonder what’s beneath that yellow dress.
"Bachelors from Brown in 2008, MBA from Stanford in 2010,” I read aloud. I lift my brows. Has she spent her entire life in college since we left school? “What Brainiac sorcery is this? We graduated in '06."
She stretches her plastered-on smile. "I did the dual enrollment program, so I came out of high school with my associates degree."
"Impressive."
"Thank you." It sounds more like a question than a statement. Her eyes dart around again, and then she bends forward, her tits pushing together just enough to reignite my reaction to her.
Fuck.
“This,” she starts, giving me the same confident look she used to give our teachers when she was sucking up. I brace myself for the Lucy Williams Experience. "Your business, that's impressive."
I bask in her compliment—because I’m a cocky arse who loves praise. Stretching back in my chair, I link my fingers behind my head. I’m sure she doesn’t give two shits about my history, but she’s in my business. She’s going to listen to what I’ve got to say. "I did the welding program at Middlesex. Nowhere near as illustrious as all this”—I nod down at her resume—“But I was always good with my hands, and I did well. I met all of my current employees while I was enrolled there.”
"I'd planned to apply at the avionics company my uncle used to work for, but then I came into a large inheritance. Rather than blow my load on a bunch of meaningless shit, I decided to set my sights on more ... interesting pursuits.”
While I’m speaking, her eyes glaze over, and I smirk because I can pinpoint the exact moment her thoughts went south—right when I brought up that I’m good with my hands. She’s imagining them now. In her hair. Ripping away her clothes. On her tits, plumping, stroking, teasing. I’m picturing it too, and I hate that because it means one thing:
I can’t hire Lucy Williams because, while I don’t involve myself with married women, I sure as hell don’t screw my employees. The fling with Michaela ended in disaster, and I’m not prepared to go for round two. Not even with someone as delectable as the woman sitting in front of me.
"Your work is incredible," she blurts out. She rips her stare from my hands behind my head, a delicious pink glow spreading over her soft skin as she looks me in the eye. "I've always wished I was artistic, but I can barely draw a stick figure with even lines."
"You've seen my work?" And she still came to this interview? Am I in the Twilight Zone? She moves her head up and down at my question. Uncrosses her ankles and crosses her legs once more. Christ, there’s that thigh again. If she does that one more time, it’s going to be my undoing.
"I saw the clock on Daisy's desk. It's stunning."
"Ah," I murmur, holding back a laugh as I challenge her gaze. Lucy Williams, with all her research and careful planning, doesn’t know a single thing about my company. I should be offended. Should tell her to get the fuck out of my office. I’m not, and I don’t. "Well, call me a cocky motherfucker for saying this, but the rest is much, much better."
She moves her tongue from side to side between her teeth, and I zero in on her mouth again. This time, I don’t look back up. I love how her voice hitches uncomfortably when she says, "There's nothing wrong with being cocky when you're talented."
"Then good on me for being cocky and right."