“I can’t believe he caved. What do you think was the deciding factor?” Bull questions from across my desk. My best friend of thirty-two years sits with his dress shoes propped up on the edge of the solid mahogany surface, a suspicious glare on his face. For a moment, my focus is drawn to the side of his shoe. A scuff discolors the leather, and I wonder how he got it. It wasn’t there this morning.
Shrugging, I draw my attention back down to the signed contract and away from his insignificant shoe. “I’m not sure. I’ve been wooing his ass for months. The prick liked dangling that carrot. I’d planned on taking him to a Knicks game, but before I could even tell him about the tickets, he called and said he wanted to sell.” I run my fingers through my dark hair and let out a sigh. “Feels too easy. I don’t like it.”
He’s tense as fuck, so I know I’m not out of line here.
“It’s airtight,” I mutter as I thumb through the contract. The wheels inside my head click and whir as all of the data flits through. Nothing stands out. But Collins gave in sooner than I anticipated for a reason.
I want to know that reason.
“Come in,” Bull hollers.
I didn’t even hear anyone knock. He’s my eyes when I’m focused on the sole thing in front of me, whatever that may be. We’ve been this way since we were scrawny little thirteen-year-olds. I was blinded to everything around me by what was right in front of me even then, and he always had my back.
My eyes narrow on the sales price. Fair. Not too high and not too low. Collins and Maxwell Subsidiaries both leave the sale feeling good. Nobody screwed the other. Just business. But that stubborn old fuck has been yanking my chain for months. Milking it for all he could. He knows I wanted that resort. Not because I wanted to plow it down and sell the land. Because I just wanted it. A beautiful New England high-end resort overlooking the glorious Atlantic. I’d stayed there on a business trip and fell in love. I’ve torn apart the owner’s financials, the land records, every single builder who contributed to the construction, the staff, the—
Slap.
I blink away my daze and dart my eyes over to my spotter. His eyes are widened and his feet are no longer on my desk. Something is happening, but I’m so wrapped up in my head I don’t even realize it. This is why I need him. I’m vulnerable without him. Always have been.
“Gray,” he bites out in a firm tone. “Miss Simmons is here to see you.”
I frown at him before dragging my attention to the heavily breathing female standing in front of my desk. Her palm is flat against a piece of paper that she has pinned to the surface of my desk.
My eyes travel up her nicely manicured nails, past her delicate wrist, along her slender arm that’s still visible despite the sheer white blouse she’s wearing. By the time my gaze is on her shoulder, I can’t help but skim across her pert breasts and then up her throat. A strand of old pearls hangs at the base of her neck. These aren’t the type of pearls you find at Tiffany’s or some other high-end shop. And they sure as hell aren’t cheap. These are an heirloom, probably passed down to her. Something my mother would have worn when she was herself. Something that would have belonged to her mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother. The pearls are unique and—
“I quit.”
Her throat is bright red and her chest still heaves. I skim the rest of the way up, bypassing her feminine features, to meet the fiery, brown-eyed gaze of a woman. Miss Simmons, as Bull says.
“What?” My brows furrow together in confusion. This woman, whom I don’t even know, is pissed at me. As if I’ve personally wronged her. I’m careful about the women I sleep with. I have certain requirements. Certain expectations. Not once has that ever come back to bite me in the ass.
“You have my notice,” she snaps, her brown eyes narrowing at me. “Two weeks.”
Her nostrils flare with anger, and the pieces begin to slot together. She works for me. I think. Why the hell didn’t she just take this nonsense to Clint in HR?
“Gray,” Bull says in a calm tone, forcing me to drag my attention to him. “This is your assistant. Miss Simmons. She’s been bringing you coffee and doing other administrative tasks for you for six years.”
“Unbelievable,” she huffs.
Jerking my gaze back over to her, I take in her face more thoroughly this time. She’s pretty. Really pretty. High cheekbones dusted in a rouge color that may or not be dark because of her apparent rage. Intense brown eyes that hold a story locked tight behind them. A small upturned nose that fits her face perfectly. And the most succulent lips I’ve ever seen on a woman. Full. Slightly parted. Painted a color that reminds me of blood. Her silky brown hair has shimmering strands of gold in it. And every time she moves, they catch the light. She fucking sparkles.
How did I not notice her until now?
Bull leans forward and motions for me to look at him. I do. I always do. He knows how I get. And right now, all obsession over the Collins deal is swept to the side as something pretty and shiny takes its place.
“Focus.” His one word helps clear my mind. I stare him down as he pops a piece of gum in his mouth.
Smack. Smack. Smack.
“Hello,” Miss Simmons says in an exasperated tone, waving her hands to catch my attention. “In case you missed it, I won’t be here any longer to bring you your scheduled coffee. I won’t be here for the next board meeting where those old pricks get to paw all over me and say crude things. I will no longer be here to save you. If it weren’t for me,” she motions to the contract still in my fingers, “you’d still be having to take that disgusting old man out to dinners and for rounds of golf!”
Click.
Bull’s smacking is helping my focus. The pieces all connect. My constant haze lifts as it always does when I locate my target.
Adjust.
Focus.
Her eyes and mine are locked again. She’s furious and I’m…curious. I want to know how her hair smells. I want to know how her voice sounds when I draw pleasure from her. I want to know how the curve of her ass feels with my cock pressed against it.
“Mr. Barker,” she huffs and waves toward me while speaking to Bull. “Is there something wrong with him?”
He chuckles. “Please, Letty. Call me Jeff. And yes, there’s a whole lot wrong with him.” I don’t tear my gaze from her but I can sense him smirking at me. Unwillingly, I break my stare from her and pick up her résumé.
Letty?
I don’t like the name Letty.
The résumé reads Violet O. Simmons.
Violet?
I like the name Violet.
“Violet,” I mutter and bore my eyes back into hers.
Her withering stare falters a bit as her sexy mouth parts open. I want that mouth. I want to taste it and suck it. I want to fuck it, goddamn it.
“Why don’t you take the weekend to think on it?” Bull interrupts as he stands. His hand takes her elbow, and she stiffens. As if his touch frightens her. Bull would never hurt a woman, but I don’t like the fear rippling from her.
“Release her,” I growl. The words are low and threatening.
Bull sends a shocked look at me but lets her go. The tension in her shoulders relaxes. If I weren’t paying attention to every single detail on her face, I’d have missed the flicker of gratitude in her eyes. I’d have missed the relief.
“There’s nothing to think about,” she tells us both, her chin lifting in a brave way. “I’m leaving in two weeks. You’ll need to hire someone who can do everything I do for this company. In fact, you’ll probably need to hire three people to replace me.”
Bull lets out a grunt, but I find my mouth twisting up.
A smile.
Violet Simmons, my little quitter, made my lips do something they really hate fucking doing. And with it, I feel a strange tightness in my chest. I like the way it feels. The foreign ache that matches the one in my cock coupled with the goofy grin on my face has me feeling more alive than I’ve felt in a really long time.
Oh, dear Violet.
You’re not going anywhere.
I’m still staring at her when she storms off toward the door. Her skirt is tight and hugs her curves in a way that leaves little to the imagination. Irritation flits through me that every other male in this building has probably been drooling over what’s been mine for six years. And my stupid one-track mind is just now seeing her for the first time.
The door slams shut and it reminds me of earlier this morning. A door slammed. I’d been on the phone with Mr. Collins. She’d been upset then too.
Don’t worry, Violet…I see you now.
“Don’t.”
I blink away the thoughts of her and glare at Bull. “What?”
“Don’t do it. Let her go. That woman has been here for six years busting her ass for you, and you’re just now realizing she’s here. But it’s your dick that finally sees her. Call Elisha. She’ll take care of that nosy little dick of yours and you can get back to focusing on shit that matters. Like the Collins deal.” He takes his glasses off and scrubs his face as if this entire afternoon is exhausting him.
And I’ve never felt so refreshed.
I won’t be able to sleep until I’ve learned everything there is to know about Violet O. Simmons.
“You’re right,” I lie as I gather the paperwork on my desk. “Let me finish going over some stuff. I’ll lock up tonight.”
He narrows his gaze at me but doesn’t say a word in argument as he slips his glasses back on and stands. “Want to grab a beer later?”
I nod and wave him off. I’m antsy. I want my best friend to leave me be so I can do a little research. Twenty long minutes later, I hear his keys jangling against the glass of the front doors of our floor as he leaves.
I’m all alone.
The first thing I do is flip open my laptop. Facebook is where you learn a whole lot about a person. It takes a minute to find her, and when I do, I’m disappointed. She has it locked down. All I’m privy to is her name and her profile picture. Instead of her face, she has a picture of the ocean. Her cover photo is some vague quote.
My past has not defined me, destroyed me, deterred me; it has only strengthened me.—Steve Maraboli.
I’m dying to know what sort of things she posts, but it’s all fucking private. I can’t even tell how many friends she has. Does she have friends here at the office? Is Bull her friend? Another blossom of irritation surges in my chest. I’ve had this stunning woman strutting into my office several times a day and I have never paid one ounce of attention to her. Granted, I don’t know ninety percent of the people who work for me, but this feels different. This feels like an injustice. Like I’ve been duped.
With a huff, I rise and stride out of my office. Her desk sits right outside my door. Everything is neat and in order. Pride swells inside me. My assistant isn’t messy or disorderly. She’s organized like me. Perhaps that is why she was chosen to work for me in the first place. Bull knows me better than I know myself. I don’t deal with the employees or HR. He does and is good at it.
I sit in her stiff chair and let out a groan. The damn thing isn’t nearly as comfortable as my plush leather one. I’ve just sat down and my back already hurts. I make a mental note to order her a new one. Brown. Like the non-shiny parts of her hair. Everything has a place on her desk. A company coaster sits right beside her mouse. All of her pens and papers have been put away. Nothing except her phone and computer and the coaster adorn the desk. One corner is especially empty. I want to fill it. I will fill it.
Inhaling, I almost crack another rare smile when I catch a whiff of her lingering scent. A hint of coffee mixed with her sweet floral perfume. I wonder how she would smell the exact moment she spritzes on her perfume and steps out of her bedroom. Would it be intense or faint?
I will find out.
Using an age-old trick, I lift her keyboard and am elated to find a sticky note with her passwords written on it. The same one for all of her logins. SurViV0r.
It only takes a couple of moments to get logged on to her computer. All of her folders are arranged neatly. Her spreadsheets of my clients are all in a manner I approve of. She has many detailed notes from meetings. Meticulous logs of calls made to me and visitors who have come to see me. I also see where she’s run data on properties. Checked on sales prices and values. Run comparison analyses. The works. Aside from bringing me my coffee and fielding my calls, I’m not sure what she does for my company. Apparently, though, she does a lot for her own information. None of the data she collects goes anywhere except her spreadsheets.
Skipping over to her email, I’m also pleased to see how neat and organized it is. All that sits in her inbox is an email from HR indicating they’ve also received a copy of her resignation. Ignoring the annoyance that someone else knows about her attempt to quit, I find a folder in her emails called: Ideas for the Idiot.
I pop it open to find hundreds if not thousands of emails to me. I blink several times to allow what I’m seeing to soak in. These emails are simply saved as drafts. She never sent them. Some are of her telling me off. Those make me crack another smile. Most, though, are of her making suggestions. Or providing analytical details on properties. A lot of her emails could have been really damn helpful.
Why didn’t she send them?
I press send on several of the emails that could be useful, especially the data for the Collins venture, before closing out her email and opening the Internet. Once I pull up Facebook, I type in SurViV0r. I’m immediately granted access to her account.
The first place I click is her friends. I’m dying to know who she’s friends with here at my company. I scan through all thirty-six friends. None are Bull. None are Clint from HR. Other than that, I don’t know these people.
I’m not her friend, though.
That’s okay because I want to be more than friends. I will be more than friends with her.
Scanning through her friend requests, I delete all the males who requested to be her friend. I don’t like those creepy fuckers. She doesn’t have any common friends with them. They’re probably just trying to weasel some nude pics out of her. Over my goddamned dead body. Once they’re deleted, I check her messages. Most are silly and lame. People sending her jokes or chain letter shit or funny memes. Her Facebook has no real substance to it. All of her posts are motivational memes and the occasional picture of the ocean.
I make my mind up right then to take her to the ocean one day.
I’m scanning through old pictures when a new message pops up.
Sean Slante: Congrats again! I just wanted to let you know we’re looking forward to having you join the team. I’ve already ordered you a computer and Janine has put in an order for your nameplate. If you have any questions about the job, I’m open to meet up for coffee or even a beer. This weekend is pretty open. Hell, I could even see you tonight if you want to talk about how things went today when you put in your notice. You have my cell so just shoot me a text. Talk soon, Letty.
By the time I finish reading the message, I’m blind with rage. I want to tell the fucker off. Tell him he’s not taking my assistant. That he’s an unprofessional twit to private message her. That she will not be having a fucking beer with him.
Instead, I tamper down my fury and close out of everything. I’ll have to play my cards right. Just like acquisitions. I’ll put in my time. Analyze the details. Make smart moves.
Violet O. Simmons is mine.
She just doesn’t know it yet.
T-minus fourteen days…