Barclay

“Don’t you agree, Mr. Hammond?” Mrs. Ratner, my human resource manager asks, but I have no clue what she wants me to agree on. All my calls have been a blur.

I run my fingers through my hair for the millionth time today. It has to be standing up on end by now. I blame my lack of concentration on the young woman sitting next to me with her shapely legs, long blond hair, and curves so dangerous, they should be illegal.

In fairness, it’s not her fault she was born with everything that drives men wild. She actually comes across as more of an innocent, likely having no idea the effect she has on men—or me, for that matter.

Maybe it’s her Alabama roots. My father often said southern women have a way of stealing a man’s heart without him even knowing it. I believe he was speaking on his own personal experience since he married one. But when Miss Holly smiles up at me while playing with the strands of her hair and blinks her gorgeous blue eyes, there’s a special magic she possesses aimed at me.

I don’t remember ever being this distracted by a woman, even when my teenage hormones raged like wildfire. I’m a grown man and need to get my shit together. Too much is at stake for me to lose my bearings over a beautiful woman, especially one who’s way too young for me.

I need to get laid.

I should take Lucas up on his offer, but who am I kidding? Some random pussy won’t scratch this itch.

“Mr. Hammond, are you there?” Mrs. Ratner asks, her voice laced in concern. I never zone out with my staff. Ever.

“Could you repeat that last thing you were saying?”

“Of course,” she says, graciously ignoring how out of it I am today. “We are still looking for a candidate to head millennial marketing. I feel we need to recruit someone who’s already reaching this crowd. Like a blogger or social influencer.”

“Sounds smart to me.”

“What about the junior executive apartment?” she asks. “You mentioned it last week.”

“Sure, if you find the right person, offer them the apartment at the subsidized discount. If it’s a man, I sure hope he likes pink.”

The apartment I bought for my former girlfriend is empty after our breakup, so I’ve turned it over for the company to use. No reason the place should gather dust. Besides, the housing costs in the city put many young people out of the market.

“Well, I have a résumé in hand that could be promising. It’s a young woman whose blog appeals to twenty-somethings and beyond. Let’s see how it goes.”

“Keep me posted.” We end the call just as the car pulls off the Merritt parkway in Connecticut. A quick glance out the window reveals the familiar winding, tree-lined streets of my hometown.

I glance over at Miss Holly. She types away on her phone, covering her mouth as she giggles. I smile at the sound and laugh quietly too. When she looks up at me with surprised eyes, it feels like she’s been caught doing something wrong.

Was she?

I bet she’s texting her boyfriend back in Alabama. A beauty like her can’t be single. And if he had a brain in his head, he’d be here with her too. I wouldn’t trust any man around her, including me.

“We’re getting close,” I say. She texts one more message, then turns off her phone, giving me her full attention. Take that, boyfriend.

She rises one hip off the seat a couple inches and stares out the car window at the manicured mansions and estates with their long driveways. My suit coat slides down the tops of her smooth thighs. Her skin looks so soft and creamy. My fingers itch to touch her.

“Are those houses or lodges?” She peers over her shoulder, and tilts up one side of her mouth, catching me gazing at her thighs while I drown in my dirty thoughts.

“Homes,” I rasp as the effect she has on me invades my voice.

“Wow. They’re enormous.” My childhood home looks similar and isn’t too far from here. “When I see homes like this, I always wonder what the people do for a living.”

“Most are top executives or business owners working in Manhattan. It’s a bedroom community of commuters.”

“Except Mr. Black,” she mentions with a teasing smile.

“True. There’s always the exception.” I shake my head.

After a few more stops and turns, the car pulls up to Mr. Black’s estate. In classic Connecticut style, a stonewall lines the property. The house sits far off the road, hidden from our view. My driver hesitates, stopping at the stately entrance.

“Go ahead, Lawrence,” I direct. The car enters the property through the open gate, moving along a black paved driveway.

Mr. Black’s estate comes into view, exploding over the rolling hill, and Miss Holly gasps. It contains ten bedrooms, and who the hell knows how many baths. I’ve been here one other time for Black’s sixtieth surprise birthday party. He gave his wife hell about keeping the party a secret.

I hope this surprise visit doesn’t tick him off too. Fortunately, I brought a gorgeous lucky charm with a cherry dessert. Her sweet southern accent and bright smile shouldn’t hurt my cause either.