Having this massive transaction under our name was going to be life altering, not only financially but also in terms of our reputation. We couldn’t let anything screw it up for us.
Even though he’d hung up on me, Dean kept calling me like a desperate ex-girlfriend every day, and I kept on hitting ignore like the bastard who was about to steal his ex-girlfriend. Only she was never his. She was always mine.
Part of the reason for my behavior was to teach him a lesson and part of it was because I was enjoying the New York office too much to hand it back to him. I would, of course, but not yet. Christmas was approaching, and California Christmas sucked.
Besides, I had nowhere to spend the holiday, and at least in New York, I was one of many lonely souls. Dean was going to spend the holidays with his family in Todos Santos, so really, I was doing him a favor.
I arrived at the office in good spirits for a change. I didn’t yell at anyone. I didn’t break anything. I was nice to the secretaries and receptionists and I did not lose my temper even once when a guy tried to cut in front of me when I hailed a taxi. I did step on his foot before I climbed into the car, bypassing him nonchalantly. Guess old habits die hard.
When I arrived in front of my apartment building, my phone beeped. I’d received an email with the contract, signed by both of the corporations. Successfully merged. This shit was going to be plastered on every financial website in North America within the hour.
And it was all us. I couldn’t contain my triumph.
I didn’t even have the chance to stare at the signatures on the screen before Jaime called me. I picked up.
“Fuck. Man, we’re rich!” He laughed.
“Richer,” I corrected dryly. “And you’re welcome.”
“Richer,” he bellowed in agreement, “and you’re a fucking douchebag, bro.”
“This isn’t news to me,” I said, joining his laugher as I heard Mel and his baby, Daria, singing in the background.
“I’m going to celebrate with my family. Speak tomorrow, ass*ole.” Jaime hung up.
Trent called a few seconds later. “Motherfucking God! Is it true?” he shouted, then chuckled.
I rolled with him and snorted out a laugh too. “It would appear that way.”
“Listen, I’m at my parents’. We’re all gonna head for a pre-Christmas dinner with Dean’s folks, but I’ll call you tomorrow to kiss your ass about that deal, Vic. Hope you’re doing something fun tonight. Bye.”
“Bye.” I hung up.
But I wasn’t.
My friends were going to celebrate with their families, and I was going to sit in an empty apartment that didn’t even belong to me and eat takeout or fuck a woman without a last name that I was going to forget a few hours later.
It was depressing.
It was unfair in a whole different way than the unfair way I conducted business.
And it was fucking unacceptable, considering there was something I wanted very much, and that was within reach.
Maybe that was how I ended up in front of her door. Logically, I had no business seeking her out. She was my PA, and a woman I’d wronged. I should’ve just left her alone for once.
But I didn’t want to. What I wanted was to fuck her and get rid of my weird fixation on her once and for all.
I knocked on her door, hoping to fuck Rosie wouldn’t answer.
I pounded my fist on her door again, and this time I heard footsteps. When she opened the door, my first instinct was to jerk her into my body and kiss the shit out of her until her lips bruised. But I couldn’t, so I just smiled, tugging on my tie, loosening it. She had paint all over her face, brown and yellow and green. Earth tones. Her temples were misted with sweat and her crazy lavender hair stuck to them. She wore graphic leggings and a baggy, paint-stained white shirt.
Barefoot.
Natural.
Beautiful.
“Hey,” she said. Her earbuds were still hanging from her shoulders by a thin wire. “Sorry, I was listening to some music. I got the email about the merger. Congrats. Do you need me to do anything?”
Yes. Wrap your lips around my dick and suck. Hard.
“Come to dinner with me,” I said instead. I was breaking so many rules at once, my head spun like a motherfucker.
(1) No dating.
(2) No dating Help.
(3) No risking getting attached.
(4) No deliberately putting myself in a vulnerable position.
But I wanted to fuck her really bad, just so I could tell myself that I had after all these years, before I went back to LA.
She blinked a couple of times before blurting out, “No.” It wasn’t cold or cruel. She sounded surprised and a little confused. Still clutching the edges of the fiberglass door, covering it with paint, she elaborated. “It’s not a good idea, and you know it.”
“The fuck not?”
“Well, I have about five hundred reasons that come to mind, but let’s start with the obvious ones—you’re my boss and you refer to me as Help.”
“It’s a term of endearment,” I fired back. “Which I can drop, if you don’t like it. Go on.”
She let out a brittle laugh. “When you hired me, you promised you wanted to work together, nothing more.”
“Yeah?” I huffed, growing impatient. Did she realize she was turning down what no one else had ever before been offered? “And now I want you to come with me to grab some dinner. I plan to eat a steak, not your pus*y.”
I may have overdone this one, because Help—fuck, Emilia—tried to slam the door on me at the exact same moment I slid my foot inside the gap. She smashed the door against my foot, but I didn’t care.
“Fine. We’ll order in. What’s your problem? You need to eat. Besides, Rosie’s here too, right? You don’t think I’ll try and bang you in front of your sister, do you?”
The look on her face told me that yes, in fact, she was quite certain I’d try to bang her in front of her sister.
I might have deserved that.
I lifted three fingers in the air and sloped my chin up. “Scout’s honor.”
Hesitantly, she cracked the door open, but not all the way. “We can order in, but that’s it.” She stepped aside, giving me permission to enter her little universe.
I bulldozed into her apartment, into her life. The walls and kitchen were minimalist white, the floor a light-colored wood, the design open with very little furniture, white as well. It looked like an insane asylum. There was an easel at the corner of the living room, next to the window overlooking the city, with a big stretched canvas of an in-progress painting. A cherry blossom tree overlooking a lake. It was vivid and sharp, like nature was within reach. Which was a beautiful lie, of course. We were in a concrete kingdom, imprisoned by skyscrapers. Industrial smoke and mirrors.
Interesting. So Help was an artist. It didn’t surprise me. She was actually talented. Her shit wasn’t tacky or good in a generic, mainstream kind of way. Her art was thought provoking. But not enough to be borderline crazy. It represented her quite perfectly, actually.