God, I didn’t even care if I had resting bitch face. Hell, I wanted to active bitch face this chick so bad. She’d been with the company for a hot minute, and I was already done with her.
“Okay, Leslie. Just give me a second and I’ll sign them so you can go about your day,” I responded through a fake smile. I wanted to berate her. I wanted to let her know just how much her interruption could have screwed up an important business deal. But it would’ve been useless. My words would have gone straight through the giant hole in her head.
I gripped my pen, scribbling half-assed sayings about celebrating and happy birthday and have a great day. Five cards later, I handed them back to Leslie and sent her ditzy ass on her way.
I was twenty emails deep before another interruption peeked in my door.
Kline Brooks. He was the kind of man women fantasized about. A quintessential billionaire bad boy—styled, short dark hair, muscles for days, and a panty-dropping smile.
Except—he wasn’t.
His smiles were genuine and his orders gently delivered. He kept to himself, from what I could tell, and didn’t appear to sleep around. Despite his crazy good looks and net worth, I’d yet to see him land an “NYC playboy” spot on Page Six. I’d never seen him execute a salacious glimpse at a single employee—male or female. He was a mystery, hidden under all of that quiet direction with absolutely no chance of being uncovered.
As an employee, he wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole. Honestly, I wasn’t sure he knew I had a vagina. He treated me as an equal and seemed to truly value my opinion on all things business and marketing. His eyes never strayed to my tits. His mouth never flashed a devilish grin.
And I stood strong in my beliefs that business and pleasure may as well have been oil and water. Kline was business, plain and simple.
Plus, he wasn’t at all what I was looking for.
And yes, I can practically see the word billionaire flashing in front of your money-hungry eyes and feel the judgment rolling off of you in thick, disdain-filled clouds.
But this isn’t actually about him. Not really, anyway.
Despite my inexperience with relationships, I knew myself enough to know I liked a straight shooter—both in conversation and the pun that intends. And I wasn’t willing to settle—even if it was on a big, comfy pile of money.
Christ, there had to be a middle ground between soft talkers like Kline and dick pic bandits like BAD_Ruck. Didn’t there?
“Good morning, Georgia,” he greeted with that professional yet handsome smile of his. “Just wanted to check in and see how the Sure Romance deal was doing.”
“Even though I had to threaten Martin with your presence on a video chat, I think we’ll walk out of the deal with a million more than we anticipated.”
“Nice work. Keep me abreast on the progress and let me know if you need backup.”
My mind went straight to the word abreast. I knew my boss wasn’t referring to my breasts, or breasts in general, but I couldn’t stop my thoughts from wandering there.
I doubted Kline Brooks had ever thought about my breasts.
That would have been weird, right?
There was no way he saw me that way. And of course, I didn’t think about him like that either. But it didn’t hurt that he was easy on the eyes. Well, not my eyes, but other women’s eyes. I was sure he was easy on their eyes. My eyes knew not to look at him.
I wouldn’t deny my eyes were thankful he didn’t have a weird comb-over or nose hairs or crusty lips. But Kline Brooks was business, not pleasure. He wouldn’t touch me, and I sure as hell wouldn’t touch him.
“Georgia?” he asked, pulling me from my rambling inner monologue.
Shit.
“Sorry.” I shook the awkward thoughts out of my head. “I will definitely keep you updated on the Sure Romance contract, Mr. Brooks. I’m planning on signatures being finalized by the end of this week.”
“Good to hear.” He rapped his knuckles twice against the doorframe in that way only a man can pull off. “Thank you.”
And with that, through the glass walls of my office, I watched as Kline Brooks strode down the hall with purpose. I knew that look well. Either someone was ready for lunch or they were about two minutes late for a meeting.
Before I could resume the task of responding to the morning’s emails, Dean walked into my office, a shit-eating grin plastered to his face. “Got a minute, sweet cheeks?”
“Of course.” I shut my laptop, giving him my full attention.
He plopped his Prada-wearing ass in the leather seat across from my desk. Dean kept grinning like the fucking Cheshire Cat as he slid a Hallmark card across my laptop.
I raised an eyebrow. “Why are you smiling like that? It’s creepy, dude.”