I was less disappointed with that realization than I expected to be. Not that I loved being mentally undressed all day long by one of the skeeziest people I had ever met, but maybe the expectations I’d put on myself to climb this company ladder and make a name for myself had been somewhat contrived. Maybe. Possibly… Consider me still undecided.
The weather had shifted now that we’d made it to the end of March. I could smell spring in the air, feel it in the fragrant breeze, although there was still a chill, and the temperature always dropped when it started to get dark. But the days were gradually getting longer. It felt so good to leave work at five o’clock and walk out into early twilight instead of black night. The sun was warming and brightening and the trees had started blooming.
My phone buzzed in my purse. I reached for it, struggling to pull it free while also carrying an empty coffee thermos and my office parking pass.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: March 31, 2017 17:11:38 EST
Subject: Re: Re: Tonight
We’ll ride together. We can talk website on the way. I’ll pick you up at 6:45.
Ezra
P.S. Curmudgeon? I thought you had more moxie than that, Molly the Maverick.
Something fluttered low in my belly, making me decidedly hot and also cold and also queasy. I slid onto the driver’s seat of my two-year-old Volkswagen Jetta that I had named Joan—Joan Jetta—and allowed myself one, brief, necessary smile. Depositing my things on the passenger’s seat, I tapped the screen of my phone with nails that needed a manicure badly and decided my next move. I had moxie. I had moxie in spades.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: March 31, 2017 17:18:06 EST
Subject: Re: Re: Tonight
I’m a professional, Mr. Baptiste. It’s not my style to insult clients. Or accept rides from them to dinner parties.
MM.
There. That settled it. That would put an end to this email string and his ridiculous notion of working tonight.
I pulled out of the parking garage and headed home slowly, smashed between the rest of downtown traffic anxious to get to their Friday night plans. My phone buzzed in my cup holder, but I waited three entire stoplights before I let myself check it.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: March 31, 2017 17:29:27 EST
Subject: Re: Re: Tonight
Excellent. Since you, the consummate professional, don’t want to insult me, the curmudgeon client, I’m happy to hear you’ll accept my offer to drive you this evening during our mobile meeting. I’ll pick you up at 6:45, Miss Maverick. Bring your notes.
Ezra
P.S. This is fun. Does that count?
I blinked at my phone trying to distinguish between the bubbly feeling in my belly and the irritated tension settling on the back of my neck. Of all the high-handed, bossy bosses, Ezra Baptiste was the worst.
The. Worst.
Which was why I ignored the email totally. And why I practically ran inside my apartment building and then smashed my floor button convinced that I could make the elevator move faster. It was why I threw all my things on the kitchen counter in a messy pile and stripped on the way to the bathroom so I could take the world’s fastest shower. It was also the reason I picked out a subtly slutty outfit—my most flattering skinny jeans that made my butt look banging, my favorite and only pair of Jimmy Choo heels, and a cream, long-sleeved, wrap blouse that tied at the nape of my neck and was mostly backless. I would have to get creative with the bra situation but it was worth it.
I had just finished applying my last layer of lip gloss when my phone buzzed. A text this time. From a number I didn’t have programmed into my phone yet, although we’d shared texts for work for the last two weeks so I had it memorized.
If you buzz me in, I’ll be a gentleman and come get you.
The clock read 6:39. He was early. And sexy as hell chivalrous. And confusing because I knew he was up to something, but I didn’t know what.
I stared at the phone for another minute, deciding what to do with him. There was a lot I had thought about doing with him. Quitting the EFB Enterprises account just to teach him a lesson, or driving myself tonight just to spite him, or throwing myself at him and sucking his face like the sex-starved hermit I was were just a few ideas I’d tossed around.
In the end, I chickened out completely and didn’t even text him back. I grabbed my purse, locked up my apartment and managed to get downstairs all on my own.
He was standing next to the lobby door when I stepped off the elevator. There was a narrow hallway that led to glass doors so I could see his profile perfectly as he stared at the buzzer waiting for me to let him inside.
I bit my cheek to keep from smiling, blushing, or reacting in any way. He’d dressed subtly sexy too. But I doubted he’d done it on purpose. His jeans were casual and strange after seeing him so often in suits and tailored pants. He wore a heather gray sweater that clung to firm, corded muscles. And he’d styled his hair in a more casual way than usual. Or maybe he hadn’t styled it at all and that was the problem. The stupid, delicious, irresistible problem.
The ends still looked damp from a shower and it was disheveled in a way that made me want to run my fingers through it.
My movement must have caught his attention because he turned to face me fully and my heart kicked once, twice… three times. A patient smile broke free, and his eyes squinted with disapproval.
“I’m an independent woman,” I told him before he could say anything. “Which means I know how to take an elevator all the way to the ground floor without help.”
“Yet, you still can’t remember to wear a coat,” he said pointedly.
I looked up at him, annoyed with how much taller he was than me. It made me feel too small, too delicate. Too vulnerable. “You’re not wearing one either.”
His head dipped and he hummed his agreement. “You’re a bad influence.”
My mouth dried out and for one senseless second, I imagined leaning forward, closing the distance between us and kissing him.
That would be crazy, right? He was bossy. And irritating. And my client now. Maybe the Black Soul project hadn’t panned out like I’d wanted it to, but EFB Enterprises could. And with a client like Ezra Baptiste in my portfolio, I could avoid working with Henry Tucker ever again and grab creative director spots instead.
Clearly, I was losing sight of what was important. My mom’s warnings clanged through my head. Don’t mess this up, I scolded myself. Focus.
I patted my purse and took a step back. “I have my notes,” I told him. “So if you want to go over them in the car, I guess we can.”
He straightened, pulling back like he’d been trapped in the same spell surrounding us as me. Even though I knew that wasn’t right. Ezra Baptiste didn’t kiss girls like me. As in normal, common, boring girls. Ezra Baptiste, CEO of EFB Enterprises dated exotic women named Lilou, Bianca, and Sarita. They were as wild and passionate and dysfunctional as you could imagine. And when they left him, he named high-end restaurants after them that garnered Michelin stars and boasted James Beard winners for executive chefs.