"I—" But I pause. I flick my gaze down to the dashboard clock then bite the inside of my cheek. Dammit. He sent that text nearly an hour and a half ago. Which, once again proves how much I'm sucking at adulting lately. "I apologize. I had no idea what time it was, and I—"
"Stop saying sorry all the time. It's eleven-thirty, love, not four AM." Heat trickles through my veins. Nobody has ever called me that before—love—and although I’m sure he’s saying it just to try me, it hits me right where it hurts. Deep in the center of my core. I can’t remember the last time a single word did that to me, if it’s ever happened, but it takes me a second to steady myself.
“Still,” I breathe, “it was rude of me to call you so late.” Even if it was an accident.
"My evening is just getting started.” Now, his voice is almost suggestive, and I can imagine him getting dressed for the night. He’ll slide rugged jeans—the kind that are authentically distressed due to hard work and not a fashion trend—over his long legs. Button up some sort of flannel shirt that will make women fantasize about the bronze, sinewy muscles beneath it. I bet his chest is covered in tattoos, just like his arms and neck.
I tug at the neckline of my sweater and shake the image out of my head. "Big plans?”
He laughs. It's a deep rumble. Drawn out. Sexy. "Something like that. Listen, I was calling to offer you the job ... if you're still interested."
If I'm still interested? I'm so interested, I'm practically fist-pumping. Straightening my spine, I take a cleansing breath before I answer in a controlled voice, "Yes, of course. Thank you so much for the opportunity. I'm sure—"
"Yes, yes, I'm sure I will be happy with you, I don't think I'll regret my decision, and I think we'll get along fine—just so long as you learn what I like and don't like. You don't have to keep selling yourself to me. You already have. I've already decided I want you."
"I wasn't selling myself to you,” I say hotly. “I was just stating the facts. I'm excited to join your team, and I think we'll do great things together."
"Great things, hmm?"
"Wonderful, amazing things. By this time next year, we'll have your name out in every corner of the world." I'm breaking rule number one of marketing—big promises—but I don't care. I've seen Jace's work. I can, without a doubt, sell it.
"Right then," he says, his British accent momentarily coming out to play. It’s deliciously lovely, and I feel pathetic admitting to myself how I wish it was so prominent every time he opens his mouth. "You said you couldn’t start until Monday, but I'm meeting with one of my VIPs tomorrow night. I want you there."
There's a forcefulness behind his words that catches my breath and holds it captive for a long pause. He inhales, as if he's preparing to give me an ultimatum, so I hurriedly say, "Yes, of course. Anything you need."
"That's what I like to hear, Lucy." It's the first time he's called me by my first name—other than when he addressed me during my interview—and I'm not sure if I like it. It's almost ... intimate. Given that my thoughts have already strayed to the dark side where he’s concerned, that's not a good thing.
As of a few minutes ago, Jace Exley—former underachiever and object of my school girl fantasies—is my boss.
And boss-related filthiness is at the top rung of unprofessionalism.
"Meet me at the office tomorrow night—say, eightish? No need for fancy dresses or high heels or anything of the sort. And Williams?"
"Yes?" I breathe.
"Clean out your voicemail. I'd like to know you're available to me whenever I’ve a need for you."
"I will," I promise, my voice surprisingly firm despite the dryness in my throat.
He laughs again, that low, sensual rumble that causes a mass of butterflies to race through my chest. The inside of my Jeep is so warm now there’s no longer a need for my coat, but I shiver.
I pray Jace’s laugh won’t be cause for more trembling once I’m in the office.
"I’m going to enjoy this,” he says. “See you tomorrow night."
Enjoy what? Before I can ask, though, there's nothing but silence on the other end, and I'm left staring down at my dark phone screen.
Four
Lucy
5:47 PM: You should wear red. And don’t forget to send me a snap when you’re dressed. Holy shit, I still can’t believe you’re working for tall, hot, and British!
Jamie’s text comes through as I sort through unpacked boxes and my closet, searching for something to wear for my first day—well, night—at EXtreme. I promise her I will then toss my phone on my bed. Keeping Jace’s request in mind—no fancy dresses or high heels or anything of the sort—I finally settle for business casual.
I don a fitted black blazer, a white button-down blouse, and slim lipstick red pants that I pair with black ballet flats. Feeling a bit adventurous, I ramble through my vanity drawers until I find the tube of red lipstick my mother gave me a couple of weeks ago at Christmas because the shade name, Saigon, made her think of home.
I take a photo of myself and send it to Jamie on Snapchat—before she texts me about it again, like she’s done three times in the last two hours—then I leave my room and find Mom. She’s in the living room, curled up on the couch with a crochet blanket pulled to her chin as she watches the episode of Dancing with the Stars she missed earlier this week. Mom's got a thing for the Chmerkovskiy brothers—she swears Maks reminds her of my father when he was young, but I don't see the resemblance since Dad was a green-eyed strawberry blond.
She adjusts the volume down a few notches but doesn’t glance up from ogling Maks. "Leaving now?"
"Almost. Have you seen my keys?"
She jabs her finger in the direction of the kitchen. Good grief, I swear she's another twirl and dip away from drooling all over her blanket. "They’re on the microwave. You shouldn't leave your keys and phone all over the house. It's careless.”
I sigh and back away from the doorway. Thankfully, she has her show to keep her occupied, and she probably won't bring up last month when I lost my old phone. If I’m forced to hear about how I came home after a night out with Jamie sans one shoe and my phone one more time, I’ll bang my head against the wall.
"You think red lipstick is good for your first day?" she speaks up when I return to the living room. Now, I have her full attention and her dark eyes appraise every detail of my appearance. “You should wear something plain.”
"Mom, relax." But I silently wonder if she's right. Knowing my luck, Jace’s client is some old guy with an antiquated belief that red lipstick is for loose women and strippers named Velvet. "If my boss thinks it's inappropriate, I'll wipe it off."
Her own lips set in an opposing line. "It might stain.”
"And whatever I put on will cover it." I sink down beside her on the sofa, securing a deep scowl when I plant a kiss on her cheek. "See, some of it's already wiped off."