He jumped in surprise. Help didn’t flinch.
“And I remind you,” I continued, “I’ve built this company with everything I have in me. I’ll be damned if something as foolish and careless as an office fling will stain the reputation of FHH.”
Recognition dawned in his expression. Floyd knew where I was going with this. Office romances were something I didn’t tolerate. I gave Trent shit about it, and Trent was a childhood friend and the owner of twenty-five percent of the company. He’d fucked his way into three sexual harassment lawsuits in three years. I swear, sometimes it felt like fifteen percent of our revenue went straight to making sure the employees he fucked-and-dumped stayed silent.
Sexual harassment my ass. The women who’d sued had wanted Trent’s dick more than I wanted Floyd’s stupid-ass, tennis-loving, hipster-glasses-wearing limp body out of my fucking vicinity. There was no way I was letting Justin Timberlake Junior with his second-hand Brooks Brothers suits fuck things up for me with Help.
“Do we understand each other?” I said, glancing between them. “No more flirting.”
“Oh, sir!” Floyd looked horrified by the idea. “We were just talking! This is a big misunderstanding. Millie told me she used to work for an accountant. I would never…I’ve worked so hard to get where I am today. We were mingling, that’s all. Actually, I told her about this show I started watching, Arrow. She said she’d look into it too. Anyway, I have a girlfriend.”
Of course he did. And now Help knew that, too.
I could see I’d pissed her off. Her lips had thinned into a hard line. Her small hands curled into fists until she had to tuck them between her thighs. She looked like she was on the brink of punching both of us. Her anger turned me on, and I made a mental note to warn her to keep her feelings to herself unless she wanted me to throw her over my shoulder and fuck her against the glass wall of my office.
“As long as you know the drill,” I told Floyd, deciding I’d inflicted enough torture on him for one day. I threw my phone on the glass desk, shrugging. “You’re excused, Mister…?”
“Hanningham,” Floyd said, nodding at me as eagerly as a newly trained dog. “I understand perfectly, sir. It won’t happen again.” He rushed for the door before I changed my mind and fired him.
After he left, I turned back to my computer and resumed working, ignoring the fact Help was still there, her eyes on me, looking like she was about to stab a stapler into my chest. A grin tickled my mouth, but I didn’t let it loose. She was here, she was angry, and she was going to spend the weekend with me in Todos Santos.
Those were the simple facts.
And I was going to fuck her at some point.
This was an assumption, but I was rarely wrong.
“You’re pissing me off,” she said quietly, her eyes still searching my face.
“And that’s turning me on,” I retorted, my voice flat. “So you might wanna tone down the hate glares if you don’t wanna find yourself being fucked on this desk with the blinds still open.”
I was still staring at my screen, working on the merger deal I was eager to get signed before Christmas, but I could see from my peripheral that she had paled. I liked how—once again—I’d gotten under her skin. Quickly.
“You’re disgusting,” she muttered, still staring at me—but not in a way that suggested she was appalled.
I cracked my neck, opening my browser and checking the stocks on the screen, skimming through the greens and the reds. “That may well be, but I’m balls deep in your fucking head, Help, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
Her eyes glittered with rage, and fuck, I was so hard, and fuck, she was so beautiful. This was so on. I was going to fuck Dean’s ex-girlfriend, use her for my personal needs, and toss her away when I was done.
And after choosing the wrong guy, there was no doubt in my mind, she deserved it too.
“You just gave Floyd a lecture about the inter-office fraternization policy. No mixing business and pleasure.” She leaned forward. Her elbow touched my finger accidentally, and she jerked it away.
I met her halfway, erasing the space between us across the desk. “Correction—guys like Floyd won’t give you pleasure. Men like me would. Besides, the man likes Arrow,” I drawled, as if this alone was a reason to fire him.
To me, it was.
“You know what your problem is, Vicious? You still haven’t decided if you hate me or like me. That’s why you act like this every time I’m around other men.” There wasn’t a trace of embarrassment in her voice. She owned up to this.
What she didn’t know was that I knew exactly how I felt about her.
I hated her, but was attracted to her. It was really that simple.
“You know what I feel right now, Ms. LeBlanc? I feel like you need to pack a fucking bag and start making the necessary arrangements. You’re coming with me to California, whether you like it or not.”
“YOU REALIZE IT SOUNDS SHADY as hell,” Rosie said between coughs while I packed all of our worldly possessions and tucked them into plastic trash bags in our studio apartment.
I was going to miss this place. Even though our mattress was located less than a foot from the stove and had a hole in it the size of my head, and even though we had to jump to reach the top kitchen cabinets where we stored clothes, it still felt bittersweet to let go.
This was where we’d made memories. Happy, funny, sad, emotional memories. This is where we’d danced to music and cried in front of crap B movies and eaten junk food until our stomachs hurt. Where I’d painted canvases and sold my art for actual money. Where I’d helped Rosie with her nursing degree, staying up nights to quiz her from doorstop-thick books.
Now we were moving to one of the most exclusive luxury buildings in Manhattan, but I was anything but happy about it. I was frightened. I knew Vicious had plans for me, and I was absolutely positive that whatever those plans were, he was going to cash in on my fat salary.
But I didn’t want Rosie to worry about it.
“Well, he said it wasn’t sexual or illegal, so at least we know he’s not going to sell me across the border or make me kill someone.” I fake-laughed, balling up another one of my dresses and stuffing it inside a duffel bag.
I was packing up our stuff as fast as I could. I’d changed from work, opting for my black faux-leather tights and pink pom-pom sweater, and I knew I didn’t have time to change again before the limo picked me up to head to JFK. But I tried to convince myself that looking plain and messy was the best approach. I didn’t want Vicious to get the wrong idea. Even though he was still cold and rude to me, I’d noticed the way he looked at me. It was the same way I’d looked at him when I would sneak into the football field in high school to watch him play all those years ago.
We liked what we saw.