Ginger settled in at her scrupulously clean desk, dressed in her perfectly tailored ebony crepe business suit. She had paired it with a white silk blouse that tied into a little bow in the front and finished her ensemble with Jimmy Choo Romy blacks. The heels, lower than her Christian Louboutin work shoes, were definitely more decorous. Unfortunately, they were also more appropriate than the colorful Tory Burch ‘Discodeporte’ pumps complete with a genuine python ankle strap in her closet. It didn’t matter a single bit to her that her boss Calvin “Crash” Abrams hardly spent thirty minutes a month here, the corporate offices of Abrams’ International. It was quarterly report day. She would dress the part of the administrative assistant for the Director of Internal Relations even if no one had a clue what Crash did for the company.

She checked her email for any communication from her boss, but as usual there weren't any. Ginger made sure, for the umpteenth time that the settings were activated to pop-up notification for new messages. She didn’t trust the IT guy’s assessment that there was nothing wrong with the setting, as she never received any messages from her boss.

Ginger liked thinking of her boss as Mr. Abrams even though he was the ne'er-do-well son of the CEO of her company. Abrams’ International (A.I.) was a conglomerate that acquired new businesses ferociously. The list of new companies under the umbrella of A.I. grew at the rate of one or two per month to the point where six different divisions handled new acquisitions. A.I. had its hands in everything, which was the reason Ginger took this job. She had hoped to make connections with some of the publishing firms that Abrams’ owned. Ginger had her own career aspirations. In her heart she was a writer, not some glorified typist, and she desperately wanted to publish her nearly completed novel. But she was no closer to making a connection with a publisher than the day she started here two years ago. Ginger found ironically that she was placed too high up in the structure of the corporation to have any meaningful contact with the publishing houses.

But her writing skills did come in handy. Every quarter she pulled together bits of data and constructed a report about the strength of “internal relations” in the corporation. Usually her efforts passed muster and right now her latest one sat on Crash’s desk waiting his approval.

If he showed up, that is. There were some quarters where she had to send it up the management line with a careful etched forgery of his signature. The guy got into enough trouble already by ignoring the company’s reporting schedule. This, according to company gossip, was akin to breaking all Ten Commandments at once.

As if on cue, the newest story of Crash's latest adventure flashed on her computer. She had set her browser to pick up new stories on Crash activities.

(CMN) Bad boy “Crash” Abrams, only son of billionaire Malloy Abrams, was involved an incident in the Hamptons last night. Allegedly, he drove a Porsche into the pool of movie star Rolfo Rolo. The star of “All Babes All The Time” blames the transmission of the Porsche, which lurched the car forward uncontrollably. Other guests, speaking on the condition of anonymity say that Crash appeared intoxicated prior to sinking his car in the pool. Since the incident happened on private property, the police were not called. However, Abrams’ latest girlfriend, society gal Elaine DuPointe, told CMN, “Who? Crash? He is so last year.”

The photograph with the story showed Crash with two very drenched girls hanging onto him. Their flimsy dresses clung wetly to their skin. Aside from that, it was a dark and fuzzy picture. It hardly displayed Crash’s blazing blue eyes, or the angled cut of his cheeks or jaw, or his broad chest and strong arms. In other words, he was a gorgeous man. If that statement from Elaine DuPointe was true, Crash was officially single again. She wondered if he knew.

She searched YouTube for a video of the incident. Surely someone posted one and Ginger found it. Crash was laughing as he pulled the two girls into the pool along with the 2016 Boxter that sunk in the chlorinated water. The lights at the bottom of the pool shimmered in the clear water displaying the sad, sodden state of the black convertible.

There’s no hope for that engine or the car, thought Ginger. She wondered what Malloy Abrams would say about the destruction of a fifty-five thousand plus dollar car. Did he take such a thing with a shrug of his shoulders and order up a new one? Did he file an insurance claim? Or did people as rich as the Abrams just not bother with such things? It was quite possible that a luxury vehicle wasn’t important enough to register on the radar of men like Crash or his father.

Ginger filed the story and the YouTube video with other ones in the “scrapbook” she kept on him in her computer. It might come in handy some time to know which indiscretion haunted him on a particular day.

One of the pair of glass doors that hung at the entrance of the office swung open suddenly. Crash blazed in, dressed impeccably in a black close-cut Italian suit, red silk tie and cream dress shirt. The only evidences of the excesses of the previous night were the faint dark circles under his eyes. He held his iPhone to his ear.

“Now, Elaine, sweetheart. I was just having a little fun.” His face kept a neutral expression as if he were executing some military campaign. “Sure, darling, if that’s how you want it. No problems. I’ll see you at the Labor Day party as always. Have a great time on the Riviera. Au revoir.”

He clicked off the call, and without looking at Ginger said, “You can move Miss DuPointe from the personal email list to the social one.”

“Yes, Mr. Abrams.”

“And bring your pad and come into my office.”

“Yes, Sir,” said Ginger.

She gave him a minute to situate himself at his desk as she prepared a demitasse of espresso in the kitchenette hiding behind a door on the left hand wall. The espresso machine gave her nightmares in her first weeks of employment. She was an administrative assistant, not a barista, but after it became apparent that she would spend most of her hours alone, she spent considerable time mastering its complexities. She constructed nice creamy foam on the top on the syrupy black coffee. Ginger topped it off with a twist of nutmeg from the grinder sitting next to the behemoth of a coffee machine.

When she entered, with the coffee in hand for her boss, and her iPad tucked under her arm, he was sitting, his face hidden by the computer. His desk was a huge construction of ultra sleek lines in glossy obsidian wood. His fingers leafed through the report she carefully wrote.

“Tell me, Ms. Williams--”

“Wilmot, Sir. My last name is Wilmot.”

“Yes. Of course. Ms. Wilmot, who does these reports?”

“I do, Sir. With appropriate input from department heads.”

He took his eyes off the pages and looked into hers.

“They give you data?” he said cocking his eyebrow suggesting he did not believe her. And he was right not to. In the competitive culture, information was a valuable asset. Up-and-coming managers tended to guard this asset with the fierceness of bulldog guarding a bone.

“No, Sir. Not directly. I just get you copied on their memos, which then come to me. No one minds cc’ing top managers on their memos because if a boss doesn’t object to them, then they can claim that management knew about it all along. I file them under appropriate headings, and when the time to do the reports comes, I pull the information. There is also something in a memo about what a good job they do. I put that in and attribute the success to the cooperation of all team members and it's done”

Crash looked bemused. “In other words, it’s a pile of horse shit.”

Ginger’s eyes widened. She never heard Crash use a vulgar word. But admittedly they spent little time together, so what did she know about his vocabulary?

“Well. Yes, Sir. Somewhat”

“But it’s very nicely worded horse shit. And my father has never sent a note of reprimand on any part of it?”

“No, Sir. But then again I don’t think he reads it.”

“Oh no,” said Crash rotating his seat to the wall behind his desk where a portrait of his father hung. “He most definitely reads it. He sent me a text saying ‘I hope your report is ready today,’ as if it wouldn’t be.”

Ginger stood quietly not knowing what to do. He had not drunk his coffee so she couldn’t refresh it, and he told her to bring in her pad, implying he had something else for her to do. So she waited as he sat staring at his father’s portrait. Finally, he swung back to the desk and picked up each one of the three copies of the report laid carefully on his spotless desk. He then signed them from an ebony and silver pen he pulled out from his inner jacket pocket.

She stared at his writing hand holding an instrument that cost more than her weekly salary as he scribbled off a signature that looked like interlocking circles. His perfect hand appeared strong as it casually held the pen. His nails were clean and buffed to a dull shine. In a singular juxtaposition of thought, Ginger’s mind strayed to what that hand might have done to one or both of those women from the photo last night. What secret places did it touch? What flesh did it stroke? It made her shiver before she shut her inappropriate and overactive imagination behind the “do not go there” barrier.

No. It would not do to fantasize about Crash Abrams. She had done so, when she first starting working for him, captivated by his handsome body and gorgeous face. She suffered too many nights when she sat alone in her bed in her postage-stamp size apartment fantasizing about him. She'd concoct elaborate scenarios about what that man would do to her, as a flame would rage through her.

She would imagine her hand as his as she let it roam her body, pinching her nipples and dipping her fingers in the wetness below. Even now her mouth grew dry at the thought and she shut that away, too. Those nights proved ultimately far too frustrating when it became apparent to her that she had developed a crush on a selfish man. So she tamed her desires just as she tamed everything else, through the force of her will and solid self-lectures on the reality of her situation.

“You are an administrative assistant for one of the most spoiled, rotten, immature men you ever met,” Ginger would tell herself. “He’s shown no sign that he cares about any of the many women he has been with. You have no reason to believe he would treat you any different.”

Her iPad dinged, jolting her out of her reverie. At that time, Crash’s computer made the same type of noise. She glanced at the pad as he stared at the screen. His lips drew tight, and he drew long breath through his nose. And she understood why. Malloy Abrams had just called his son to his office.

Crash stood in his father’s office which was three times larger than his and the size of a respectable Manhattan living room. The mahogany desk was as sleek and modern. If there was anything Crash shared with his father, it was a love for the novel. Crash only had to look through family portraits displaying five different wives over the decades to know that. Only he and his father were the constants in the line of photographs. While Malloy Abrams aged over the years, the collective faces of the wives did not. When a spouse reached a certain point where plastic surgery would not hide that she was no longer in her twenties, the wife was sent to a nice vacation in the Bahamas. A divorce would follow.

The elder Malloy stared at the report his son handed him, and flipped through the pages as he speed-read through it.

His father sighed and looked at Crash who stood before him respectfully, and waited for word on whether to sit or not. Sitting was bad as it indicated a lengthy conversation including all of Crash’s flaws that, according to his father, were considerable. The elder Abrams pushed the report away from him and waved his hand indicating Crash should take the chair before the desk.

“You are never here,” said Abrams so quietly that Crash barely caught the words.

“Excuse me, Sir?”

“You are never here, yet you produce a report on par with every other manager. What consultant did you hire? Maybe I’ll bring him in to take your place.”

Crash kept his face neutral. He knew from the get go that his father was gearing up for the mother of all lectures.

“Sir, on my word, I did not hire anyone to write it.”

“Really?” said Abrams with sarcasm edging his voice. “You understand about, oh let’s see,” he pulled the report forward again and opened it to a page, “amplification of our human resources index. And I'm sure you are conversant on 'influence marketing’. Here apparently we were able 'to effect a fifty-seven percent increase on our return on relationship quotient’.”

A small smile threatened to play on Crash’s lips that he found difficult to restrain.

“No, Sir, I do not.”

Abrams’ eyes widened at his son’s admission.

“But I’d like to point out no one else does either.”

Unexpectedly Malloy Abrams smashed his hand on the top of his desk causing Crash to wince.

“Games! All I get out of you is games! And nonsense like that bit at Rollo’s house last night! This is business, son! The economy is tough out there, in case you haven’t figured that out. And every little tick affects the price of our stock. Our board of directors expects our officers to act with a modicum of decorum."

Crash resisted the urge to sigh. When his father used words like ‘modicum’ and ‘decorum’, it meant that this was going to be a very long lecture. He tried to remember what corporate office Crash held and could not. All of this was damn inconvenient. He had his day planned out and now it was ruined. Crash had looked forward to hitting the casinos in Atlantic City. Before that he was intended to stop by one of the galleries in Soho to find a picture to replace the portrait of his father in his office.

“And you are getting past the age where your antics are considered cute.”

“Cute?” asked Crash incredulously. Now his father was going too far. You did not call a man in his late twenties “cute” unless you were one of those pretty but empty-headed women that Crash liked to spend time with.

“Yes. Cute,” said Malloy staring at his son with what Crash called the “death gaze”. Crash sat up straighter, realizing something serious was about to happen. His father reserved the “death gaze” for a recalcitrant about-to-be ex-wife who refused to sign the settlement papers or for people he fired.

Crash wouldn’t mind getting fired. It would affect him not in the least except to let go of the pretense that he actually did something for the company. He didn’t understand why his father didn’t do just that, but knew he wouldn’t. In Malloy Abrams’ mind, Abram’s International was named Abrams and Son International regardless of what the incorporation papers said.

“I’m sorry to have disappointed you, Father. If you need revisions on the report—”

“This is not about one silly report,” snapped his father, “any more than the eight before that you supposedly produced. This is about revisions in your life.”

Malloy leaned over the desk and stared straight into his son’s eyes.

“It’s time you grow up. You've had the best education money could buy. I’ve given you a position in this office that you could make something of. I’ve watched and waited for you to become the man you should be. But you continue to waste one opportunity after another until it has had a deleterious effect on the company. Calvin, don’t you understand that after that shameful news report about you our stocks dropped five points this morning? I may have to buy some of our own stock to prevent it from sliding further and that won’t be good.”

Crash winced, not just because his father called him Calvin, which he rarely did, but also because he did understand about stocks. He felt a twinge of regret that his father might have to buy stocks to shore up the price even if it signaled a weakness in the company. This could cause the stock to drop even more.

“I’m very sorry.” And this time Crash did mean it. He only wanted to have a good time. Crash did not want to jeopardize his family’s financial holdings.

“Are you, Calvin? I wonder. But things have gone past apologies. It is time for action.”

Crash’s throat went dry even though he returned his father’s steely gaze. When his father geared up into “the time for action” speech, things were extremely dire. At times like this, his father’s mind was an incalculable mystery. To Crash's horror, Malloy Abrams' plan went far beyond the scope of what Crash would guess the man would do.

“It is time, son, for you to marry. I would like you to have someone by Labor Day weekend this year. It’s a few months away. It should be enough time for you to find someone you would like to settle down with. Am I clear?”

“But Fathe…”

“I have heard enough, Calvin. You may leave now.”

“Yes, Father,” said Crash as he got up to leave. He knew there was absolutely no point in arguing any further. At the same time, he was glad the long and awkward conversation was finally over.

***

Crash woke and scrubbed his face with his hands and ran them through his hair. There was a dull thump behind his eyes that worsened when he moved. Slowly, half memories of the previous night seeped through his brain, and he got the impression he was forgetting something. Where was he? This place didn’t look familiar. Focusing, he recognized he was in a hotel. Good. At least he had the sense to check into a hotel rather than drive back to town in whatever state he was in. He glanced to the right-hand side of his bed and didn’t see anyone there. He thought he brought someone with him but no one was there. She probably left.

He picked up his wallet on the nightstand and checked the cash. Yep. Gone. So she did leave, whoever she was and took money for a cab. Or whatever. No matter. He’d get more cash on his way out.

Crash’s phone blipped and he stared at the reminder notice on the screen. No doubt, his administrative assistant put it there. When did the summer get away from him? It was quarterly report day again, but worse yet, it was only three days from his father’s Labor Day party, an Abrams family tradition. He had not done the one thing his father demanded of him.

He did not find a fiancé.

Crash’s father was quite firm on that spring day just before Memorial Day. Crash was to find a girl to marry and present her on the Labor Day Bash. But Crash shrugged his shoulders. Sometimes his father got like that, full of fire and billowing smoke, but he’d let the matter drop over time. This is what Crash counted on when he heard his father’s ridiculous proposal. The old man would come around. Malloy Abrams wasn’t the poster boy for marital bliss. After Crash’s mother died, the old man didn’t seem to have the heart to keep any one woman around for long.

The phone on the nightstand rang. The trilling was a foreign sound, and it made Crash’s head pound.

“Yes,” he said.

“Mr. Abrams, I’m sorry. You’ll have to come to the desk.”

“Is there a problem?”

“Please come to the desk, Sir.”

He threw on the clothes he found on the floor - black jeans and a white sports shirt. Crash would take a shower at his apartment before he went into the office. Unable to find his socks, he pushed his feet into his loafers without them and ran his fingers through his hair to give it some semblance of order. Under the clothes lay an opened condom wrapper, more evidence of his nocturnal activities. At least he was careful. He picked it up and pitched into the wastebasket.

At the desk, the clerk looked uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, Mr. Abrams. Your credit card was declined.”

“What? No. That can’t be right,” said Crash.

“Yes, Sir. It comes up as a code sixty-five, your account limit has been reached.”

“That’s ridiculous. It’s a black card. I have no limit.”

“Sir, I’m sorry. You’ll have to call the number on the back and discuss it with them. Do you have another method of payment?”

Crash offered up one card, then another, and those cards declined as well.

“Mr. Abrams, we need payment on this room.”

“Look, I’ll send the money to you. I just need to get to my bank and straighten this out.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Abrams. But if you leave before you pay for the room, we will have to call the police.”

“What?” said Crash, now getting upset. This was an unfamiliar feeling - not having the money to pay for something. Hurriedly he called his father though it was frightfully early. But the old man was always up early to catch the action on the Asian markets.

“Yes?” asked Malloy coldly from the other end of the line.

“Dad, there’s a problem with my credit cards and I have to get this hotel bill paid. Do you know what the problem is?”

“Yes,” said Malloy.

“Well, good lord, what is it?”

“You,” Malloy retorted. The line clicked off.

“Fuck!” said Crash. What was the old man up to now? This was a new development and entirely unforeseen.

He dialed the number again.

“Dad. Sorry. We were cut off.”

“I know. I ended the call.”

“Dad, tell me what’s going on.”

There was a frosty silence over the line where Crash heard his father breathing. Oh god, the man has gone off his rocker, thought Crash. Who can I call to help him? Crash realized there wasn’t a single person he could call to check on his father.

“Son, I told you what I expected at the beginning of the summer, and to date you’ve done nothing about it. In fact, you haven’t changed your life one bit. You’ve ignored me, and I won’t have it. So as long as you do that, I’ve decided not to fund your lifestyle.” Malloy hung up the phone, leaving Crash in the middle of the lobby of the hotel dazed and confused.

What was he supposed to do now? He considered making a dash out of the door, which was a foolish idea, but he patted his jacket pockets and found he didn’t have his car keys. Maybe he left them in his room. In any case, he needed to make some phone calls and he didn't like the idea of doing that in the middle of the lobby.

“I’m just going to make some calls from my room. I’ll be back in a few minutes and we’ll have this misunderstanding cleared up.”

“I’m afraid I’ve deactivated your key, Sir.”

Crash shook his head with a strange feeling of being stripped naked in front of this stranger. It was a horrible thought that he didn’t have the means to pay for this room.

“The breakfast nook is over in the corner, sir. You can make your calls there.”

 

A notification of an incoming email flashed across Ginger’s screen. Her eyes widened when she saw it was from Crash.

Ms. Williams,

Call my personal number immediately.

CA

 

Hurriedly she called up his number, pre-programmed for a contingency like this, and waited as the phone rang several times before Crash answered.

“Ms. Williams, I need you to bring five hundred dollars to the Harrington Hotel in, where am I?” He sounded like he was speaking to someone else. “Lodi? Oh for— Yes, Lodi, New Jersey.”

Lodi? What the heck was he doing in Lodi? The middle class town was not his kind of neighborhood.

“Sir? Should I draw petty cash for that?”

“Can you do that?”

She looked at her watch. “If I catch Ellen in accounting before lunch, I should be able to, but, Sir, I’ll have to put in your signature, if you know what I mean.”

“Whatever you need, do it.”

“Can I wire the money over? I don’t have my own car and—”

“Do you take wire transfers? No? Sorry, Ms. Williams, you’ll need to bring it yourself. Sign a voucher for a company car, too, one of the limos, and get down here as fast as you can.”

“Yes, Sir.”

It took her an hour to fill out the necessary forms and get them processed through the various departments. She had to wheedle her way to get the limo by smiling a little too much at the transportation manager and showing him a little leg. She didn’t like doing it, but Crash had already texted her five times asking her if she was on her way. At this moment she was gaining a firm dislike of the billionaire playboy. But finally she had the five hundred dollars in cash in her purse and stepped into the limo giving the driver the address.

“Lodi, Miss?” the driver, whose name was Moz, said incredulously.

“Yes. And please hurry. Mr. Abrams is waiting.”

“Is that the young Mr. Abrams, miss?”

“Yes,” said Ginger.

Moz chuckled. “I’ve driven him before, Miss. Leave it to Mr. Crash to end up in a place like the butt end of New Jersey. Don’t you worry, we’ll go rescue Mr. Crash from whatever trouble he’s gotten into.”

They pulled up to the front door of hotel where Crash stood, an impatient look on his face. In a few steps he was at the limo and pulled open the door.

“Do you have the money?”

“Yes, of course.” Ginger handed him the envelope. “Please make sure you get the receipt. I have to file it with accounting.”

“Yes, Ms. Williams. Thank you.”

“Wilmot.”

“What?”

“My name is Wilmot. Ginger Wilmot.”

“Yes, of course,” said Crash. “I’ll be right back.”

Ginger fidgeted in the back seat. She thought about the report that needed to be filed today. In her rush she didn’t think to bring the copies with her. The time stretched on and she looked at her watch. How much longer was it going to take?

The limo door opened and Crash stepped in. His face had a harried look which was unusual for him.

“Where we going, Mr. Crash?” said Moz through the open privacy window.

“Hello, Moz. My apartment.”

“Yes, Mr. Crash. We’ll be there in forty-five minutes.”

“Thanks, Moz.”

Crash pulled out his phone, and stared it for long time, swiping through several apps. Eventually he put it back in his pocket. He sat looking out of the window for a long time.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Abrams?” she ventured.

He turned his head toward her. “Nothing for you to worry about.” Then he cocked his head and studied her as if figuring something out.

“What are you doing this weekend?” he asked.

“Me? Not much.”

“Hmmm,” he said. “If I needed you this weekend, could you be available?”

“Well, it is a holiday weekend, Sir.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll give you a week off, with pay, if you can help me out.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Let’s have some lunch and talk about it.”

When they reached his apartment he found, to his disgust, that the doorman stopped him at the door.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Abrams. Your father told me to confiscate your key.”

This was entirely enough. Crash was at the limit of his patience. It took all the effort he had not to snap at the man.

“Let me, at least me get some clothes.”

The man hesitated.

“Come on. At least that.”

“Okay, Sir.”

Crash waved his assistant out of the limo. “Would you mind? I need a hand here.”

Ginger followed Crash into the Manhattan condo. The marble walls and floor of the atrium gleamed brightly from the light streaming into the high glass windows of the building’s entrance. She’d never seen a place like this outside of magazines and thought she probably made a fool of herself staring at everything.

Crash stood next to her in the elevator, every muscle in his body tense. She wasn’t accustomed to seeing him so stressed, but then again, he did seem to be having a bad day.

When the door opened it revealed a huge living room filled with massive pieces of furniture. To the left was a staircase with silver metal railings and what looked like frosted glass steps.

“Come upstairs,” said Crash.

She followed him up the stairs, filled with trepidation. What was he doing? Obviously he was leading her to his bedroom. At the top of the stairs she found him pulling out luggage out of a closet on one side of the room. On the other he had another closet open, a walk-in that was the size of her apartment.

“I’m going to need the usual,” he said, “underwear, shoes, socks, shirts, a couple suits and some casual wear.”

“Excuse me?” she said.

He pulled off his shirt.

“I’m going to take a shower, and I’d appreciate it if you pack a few things for me.”

She stared at his broad, muscular chest, and swallowed hard when her eyes wandered to his six pack abs honed to perfection. No wonder so many women chased him. But Ginger’s mouth must have hung open stupidly because he gave her a really surprised look.

“You want me…to pack for you?”

“Is it a problem?” he asked.

“I, well, uh,” Ginger stammered.

“Look, I realize this is not in your usual job description, but you’d be helping me out here.”

“Of course, Sir,” she squeaked. Her mouth was as dry as if it were stuffed with cotton. “What should I pack?”

“It doesn’t matter. Just something of everything.”

He disappeared behind another door and Ginger heard the shower start. This is too much, she thought. There he is naked in the next room and I’m standing out here and he wants me to pack his clothes? And what does he want to talk to me about at lunch?

Within an hour, she found the answers. Crash was dressed in one of his Italian suits looking more composed than she had seen him all day. He gave Moz an address in Soho and soon they were sitting in a very upscale restaurant. The hostess greeted Crash by name and, despite the line of people waiting to be seated, escorted them to a private dining room. The maitre’d entered and immediately poured Crash a small amount of white wine. Crash sniffed it, and then gave it a little taste.

“Perfect, Indo.” The maitre’d poured both of them generous glasses of wine.

“Chef is preparing his special for you today. We’ll start with a pear and prosciutto salad, and for the main dish, grilled salmon with a Tomato-Vinaigrette reduction.”

“Sounds perfect, Indo.”

“Very good, Sir.”

Indo left the room.

“You certainly get good service here.”

“I should. I own the place.”

“You do? I didn’t know you have other business interests.”

He half snorted, half chuckled. “This place is the one thing that is truly my own. I used my graduation present to buy it.”

“So it’s not part of Abrams’ International.”

“No. My father thought I was quite foolish to invest in the restaurant business and I think he’s forgotten it by now. But while it’s not bringing in tons of money, it’s in the black after only two years, so I think we did okay here.”

Ginger looked at him with new appreciation. Building a new restaurant in New York City and have it profitable within two years was quite an accomplishment. Sixty percent of all new restaurants failed.

“Yes,” she said. “You certainly have.”

***

Her green eyes sparkled when she looked at him, and despite the difficult day, the calm in her look made him feel like he could take on any situation in the world. And maybe he could. All he needed was some breathing room from his father’s ridiculous idea of him getting married and could work things out. Maybe he’d cut down on the partying and put some more time in at the office. He hated it there, but if it made his father happy, maybe that’s what he had to do.

“Ms. Williams--”

“Wilmot,” she said.

“Wilmot. Well, I can’t keep calling you that, can I? What’s your first name?”

“Ginger.”

He smiled. That was a name he couldn’t forget, especially because of her fiery red hair. Crash wondered if it was true what they said about redheads being fiery in bed. He’d never known a true red headed woman.

“Ginger, you really do have beautiful eyes.”

She looked down at her glass.

“Mr. Abrams—”

“Crash.”

“Why do they call you that anyway?”

He smiled. “It’s not a story I tell.”

“Why? Is that your way of being mysterious?”

“No. It’s just a very silly story that a grown man wouldn’t tell to anyone.”

“Would I laugh?”

“Probably,” he admitted.

Her eyes twinkled with amusement. “Tell me.”

“When I was a little boy, I had a tricycle I crashed into everything.”

“Everything?”

“Yes. If it was a solid object, I’d run right into it.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Because it was fun.”

“You’re right. It is a silly story. And probably not true.”

“God’s honest, I swear.”

A smile played across her lips and she shook her head. Then she looked at him again and their eyes met. There was a mystical quality in her gaze that he never saw in another woman. Usually a date would look at him with dollar signs in her eyes, but with this woman it was different. Ginger seemed to look straight into his soul, as if she measured and gauged everything there. Suddenly he felt like he never wanted to come up short in her estimation.

It was an unfamiliar and uncomfortable feeling. Aside from his father, he didn’t care what anyone thought of him. He discarded his unfamiliar reaction immediately as a side effect of his crazy day.

Still, lunch came and went, while they chatted. It was easy to talk to her. She followed his stories with real enthusiasm, and she laughed at the really funny parts, not just the things other girls did because they thought they should. And he learned of where she grew up, went to school, and what she really wanted to do. He was surprised to find she aspired to be a published author.

Indo kept bringing wine, and by the end of lunch they were both a little tipsy.

“I suppose we should get to the office and file that quarterly report,” said Crash.

Ginger bit her lip, which Crash thought was adorable. And when she stood, she swayed a little bit.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. Then she stepped forward and Ginger’s ankle twisted pitching her forward.

Crash caught her in his arms before she fell.

“You’re not used to drinking, are you?” he said.

“Not four glasses of wine in one sitting.”

Crash caught her scent and found it intriguing. Her chest was pressed up against him cutting through any restraint he had. Impulsively, he bent his head and crushed his lips against hers. The sweetness of her mouth enticed him causing Crash to explore the tender flesh of her mouth with his tongue. She responded eagerly to his invasion. Her tongue swept against his teasing him to take more.

He cupped the round globes of her behind and pulled her closer to him and pleasure surged through him. She felt so good, right in a way that no other woman had. His shaft twitched as the first stirrings of arousal pulsed through him.

Suddenly she pushed him away and crossed her arms against her chest. Her cheeks were flaming red, and a pink flush colored her neck and down her chest as far as he could see through the open collar.

“What are you doing?”

“Kissing?”

“It’s not right… We shouldn’t… You’re my boss!”

Crash nodded. “Of course. Sorry.”

“Sorry?” she said. Her eyes blinked and the edges grew red. Oh god, she wasn’t going to cry, was she?

“No, not sorry I kissed you. I’m sorry if I crossed a line. You’re right. We should be more professional. We have to talk anyway. Come on. I’ll explain it in the limo.”

 

Ginger couldn’t believe her ears.

“You want me to what?”

“Just pretend to be my fiancé for the weekend.”

“For the weekend?” she sputtered. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed but fiancés tend to hang around longer than three days. And what are you going to do after three days?”

“That’s my problem.”

“Well, it sounds like it’s my problem, too. If your father thinks I wronged you somehow, or finds out you’re lying and I went along with it, I could be out of a job.”

“After the weekend, he won’t pay attention.”

“Yeah, until Thanksgiving.”

“Thanksgiving?”

“Hello. Traditional family meal? Big holiday in the United States?”

“We don’t do Thanksgiving,” he said. “It’s just me, Dad and whatever wife he has. Usually they go on a vacation.”

“And he leaves you alone?”

“Well, of course.”

“No wonder things are so strange between you two!” she exclaimed.

“Now wait a minute. Maybe we don’t have the most traditional of families, but he’s my father.”

“And what about Christmas? Does he leave you alone on Christmas?”

“No, we get together for an hour or two.”

“An hour or two?”

“Look, all he wants is for me to settle down. I’ll curtail my social life and stop driving Porches into our friends’ pools. When he gets the idea I’m not the maniac he thinks I am, he’ll drop this idea of marriage. And most likely he’ll forget he ever met you.”

“Thanks,” said Ginger sullenly as she crossed her legs.

“I don’t mean it that way. Any man who could forget you isn’t right in the head.”

“You’re not helping yourself here,” said Ginger,

“In the meantime,” persisted Crash, “at this party will be the top management from all our companies. I’m sure the heads of our publishing houses will be there and you can make some friends. Maybe even sell your book. It wouldn’t hurt.”

Ginger was intrigued with that idea, but it felt wrong somehow, trading on a fake relationship to gain entry into her desired career.

“And what happens if your father finds out?”

“Well, I guess you’ll have to marry me then,” he said with a teasing smile.

“You are terrible. What makes you think I’d have you?”

“I’m crushed,” he said dramatically. He leaned over to her ear, his breath sending hot shivers through her.“Come on, baby,” he said. “Make me the happiest man in the world and be my fake fiancé.”

Ginger, sitting in a high backed leather chair in front of Malloy Abrams’ antique mahogany desk, felt like an impostor, which she was. For the life of her she couldn’t remember why she agreed to Crash’s crazy plan except for the fact that she drank too much wine at lunch, and that when Crash whispered in her ear she melted. Oh, she may have looked calm and cool in her business suit, but her brain was a puddle of mush. Now under Malloy Abrams’ piercing stare, her brain fired on all neurons, but mostly in a fright or flight response.

“Well, this is a surprise,” said the older Abrams with a sarcastic edge to his voice. “Son, why didn’t you tell me you were dating your secretary?”

“We didn’t want to start gossip at the office. I didn’t want to cause problems for Ginger.” Crash, standing next to the chair, put his hand on her shoulder. “Employees tend to get jealous and paranoid around the boss’ girlfriend. Besides, I only asked her today. Happily, she said yes.”

Malloy’s eyes narrowed.

“Is that true? He asked you to marry him today?”

“Yes,” said Ginger.

“And how long have you been dating?”

“Since just after Memorial Day,” said Crash.

“Let the girl answer herself, Crash. Tell me, Ms. Wilmot--”

“Ginger, please,” she said.

“Ginger, how did Crash get his nickname?”

Ginger smiled. She knew this answer. “Well, I thought he was teasing me when he told me, but he showed me a crack in the bannister of the staircase when we came in. He used to crash his tricycle into anything solid.”

Malloy raised both of his eyebrows.

“And what’s the size of his shirts?”

“Father,” scolded Crash. “Is this necessary?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Abrams. I don’t understand your question.”

“It’s easy. What’s his shirt size?”

She cocked her head, thinking this man was acting rudely.

“He doesn’t have one. The shirts are hand tailored for him, so they aren’t sized according to off-the-rack standards.”

“Have you had enough, Father? We’ve had quite a long day, and I’ve got to get settled in since you decided to take away my apartment. Which room should we give Ginger?”

Malloy gave a devilish grin to his son.

“I wasn’t expecting you to bring someone, son, and we’re full up for the weekend, so I guess she’ll have to stay with you. That shouldn’t be a problem for your fiancé, is it?”

As they walked up the long sweeping stairs towards the second floor, Ginger grabbed Cash’s arm.

“He knows!” she hissed.

“He knows nothing. He doesn’t trust me and that’s my fault.”

“You told me I’d have my own room!” she whispered fiercely.

“Sorry. It’s a big room. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

“You have a sofa in your room?”

“Yes, and a lot of other furniture. Why are you so freaked out? Just be cool. You did beautifully in there. By the way, how did you know about my shirts?”

“I packed your luggage for you, remember?”

True to his word, Crash slept on the large sofa in his gargantuan sized room, which was the size of three of her apartments. A king sized bed sat under a bank of windows that faced out over the gardens in the back of the mansion. She kicked herself for feeling disappointed that he didn’t try to take advantage of the situation. Why was she so messed up about this? When this weekend was over she’d go back to her tinny tiny apartment, answering phones for a man who was never in the office.

But she couldn’t help stealing glances when he walked to the bathroom and back because, as it turns out, Crash liked to sleep shirtless. Remembering what it felt like when he held her tight against his chest made shivers run through her body. She hated herself for remembering it. It meant nothing to him, of course. He had been with many women. But for Ginger, just for a minute, it felt like he was opening his heart to her. In the end, that night, she couldn’t help but cry for something, or rather someone she could never have. And it was worse, because she had to muffle her sobs in her pillow to keep him from hearing her distress.

How did she get into such a messed up situation?

“What’s wrong?”

She looked up from her pillow at Crash standing over the bed.

“I’m tired. I had too much to drink. Is that all you people do, is drink wine?” Dinner was another wine-laden affair, which she did not expect.

He sat on the bed. “You probably are tired,” he said gently. “And my father can put the fear of God into anyone. He does it to me. It’s been a long day.”

Oh god, he was being nice to her. She couldn’t bear it and tears welled in her eyes again.

“Ssh, ssh,” said Crash. He began to rub her back with his strong hand and the soft back and forth motion calmed her. “See,” he said. “It’s going to be okay.” He stood up but she grabbed his arm.

“Don’t go,” she said.

“Ginger.”

“Please.”

He sighed and slid in between the sheets. “You are testing my resolve.”

“Your resolve?”

“To be good.”

“Oh. Well, don’t hang up your bad boy image on my account.”

He turned toward her. “Are you sure about that?”

She leaned forward and moved to touch her lips to his. In the soft low light of the lamp on the nightstand his eyes burned fiercely. She might not be able to keep Crash, but at least she could have a night of memories of when she had the bad boy billionaire to herself. And it would only be one night because she wouldn’t be able to face him after this. With Crash so close, Ginger admitted something that she hid inside her heart for a long time. She loved Crash Abrams, and had since she first set sight on him.

Crash rained soft kisses on her neck, and behind her ears, murmuring things she did not quite hear. His hand cupped her breast and his thumb played with her nipple sending sparks of desire down her spine. Her back arched up and he dropped his hand to her mound, making delicious circles in her most sensitive places. She felt her juices gather at her opening. He pushed in closer to her and his hard length pressed throbbing into her thigh. She wanted, no needed this. All the months she spent fantasizing about what it would be like to have him touch her was not as good as the real thing.

“Crash,” she said. “I need you.”

“I need you, too, baby,” he said. Then Crash sucked a nipple into his mouth and she cried out with the pleasure of it, of having his tongue play with the hardened nub, the sharpness of him drawing it deeper in his mouth spiking the need in her. She couldn’t hold back when he slid his finger inside her and her hips bucked as waves of electric fire shot through her. He held her as her breathing calmed, but then he fingered her again and her breathing speed up.

“Are you ready for me, baby?” he said.

She nodded her head. Ginger pulled the drawstring of his silk sleep pants and drew them down over his hips. His cock was long and hard. She placed her hand on it reveling in the velvet-in-steel feel of its length.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

“Not half as beautiful as you,” Crash said. “I said I need you, baby.”

She nodded, afraid of saying anything more; terrified she’d utter the secret yearnings of her heart. He leaned over her and kissed her passionately as if all the need and desire in the world was rolled into that one kiss. Slowly he guided himself to her entrance, a deep sigh escaping his lips as the tip of his length entered her inner sanctum. She gasped at how good it felt to have him in her and she thrust her hips to take more of him. Crash moved slowly at first and she writhed beneath him urging him with her moans to give her more. She locked her legs around his hips as he thrust deeper and harder within her. Ginger threw her arms around his neck clinging to him in the wild ride as her body climbed higher on the pleasure he gave her until she burst apart screaming his name.

Crash woke feeling happy and relaxed for the first time in many years. He felt the bed looking for Ginger. Crash had never met a woman that gave herself so freely, was so responsive and as hungry for him as he was for her. And thinking of her, his shaft filled once more, ready for her even though they made love how many times last night? He couldn’t remember. But he did hold her tight vowing in his mind to never let her go.

And his bed was empty.

Damn.

She wasn’t in the bathroom, so he took a quick shower. Ginger couldn’t have gone far and was probably having some breakfast on the terrace. He pulled on some casual clothes, khakis and a polo shirt. While he slipped on his loafers when he noticed something.

Ginger’s clothes weren’t in the closet.

They were hanging there last night.

A cold feeling ran through Crash and he ran down the stairs, and nearly ran over his father walking from the day room.

“What did you do!” demanded Crash. At this moment he didn’t put anything past his father.

“What are you talking about?”

“Ginger. She’s gone!”

“You really didn’t expect your little charade to last, did you?”

“What did you say to her?”

“Me? Nothing. She was perfectly polite when she left in the cab this morning.”

“You let her leave?”

“What else was I supposed to do? We don’t keep guests prisoners.”

“She’s not a guest!” sputtered Crash. “She’s, she’s—”

“She’s what, Crash?” asked his father, looking genuinely concerned.

“Oh hell. What car can I take?”

“Your Porsche is in the garage.”

“You took that, too?”

“Had it towed the night you were in the hotel after Rolo called. He told me you drove off with some woman and left the car at his house. I was intending to teach you a lesson. But apparently I was wrong. I am wrong, aren’t I?”

“Yes. You are most certainly wrong.”

Crash flew back up the stairs and grabbed his phone and his wallet and one other item he kept in a safe in his closet. He ran down the stairs just as fast almost running over his father again.

“Slow down!” called his father.

Crash had never been so frantic in his life. Why did she leave? What happened? And then he realized he didn’t know where she lived. It was Friday. Maybe she went to the office. Yes. She had to go there.

“I have to get to the office. That’s where she’ll be.”

“The roads are insane now with Labor Day traffic.”

“Dad, I have no idea what’s wrong, but I’ve got to get to her.”

“I have the company helicopter here, just in case some guests had trouble getting in or out. I’ll call the pilot. He’s here on standby.”

Crash was never so grateful for his father’s extreme attention to detail. He hugged him roughly and then ran out to the helipad at the far end of the gardens. While in the air he ran over the details of the night, wondering what could have run her off but came up with nothing. He grew a little angry then, thinking her callous for leaving his bed abruptly.

Who are you to talk, he thought to himself. How many times have you done the same exact thing?

Was this some kind of crazy karma, he thought, that he found a woman he loved and she didn’t love him back?

Love? Yes. He loved her. He was sure of it. Crash never felt this way toward a woman before.

After the helicopter landed, he ran through the building to his office, his heart pounding in his chest. He was profoundly disappointed to find she wasn’t in the office. He called down to the guard’s desk.

“Has Ms. Williams entered the building yet?”

“Ms. Williams?”

“My administrative assistant.”

“Oh, Ms. Wilmot. Not yet. She generally doesn’t get in for another half hour, but she’s never late.”

Oh shoot. How could he expect a woman to want him when he couldn’t even remember her name?

Crash paced his office waiting for the minutes to tick down when she would arrive. Finally, the front door to the office opened and Crash sat down at his desk. He heard her moving around, and heard her crying again.

He couldn’t take it.

“Ms. Williams,” he called. “Come into my office.”

He heard a little shriek and something drop. Crash ran out to the outer office and caught her arm, as she was about to flee.

“What do you think you are doing?” he said.

“I, I,” stammered Ginger. “I’m quitting.”

“Ginger, what’s wrong? Tell me. Why did you leave?”

“I couldn’t stay. I can’t work for you anymore, Crash.”

“Why?”

Tears rolled down her cheeks in great big drops. “Because you are you. And you wouldn’t want someone like me, not for real.”

Crash nodded his head gravely.

“Yes, I suppose you are right. Why would you think a rogue like me would stick with one woman? You have no reason to believe otherwise. Just answer me one question. Why would a guy like me get this out of his personal safe?”

He pulled the box from his pocket and gave it to her. She took it, questions in her eyes, and opened it. She gasped at the two-carat diamond ring inside.

“It was my mother’s engagement ring. And maybe you won’t say yes right now, and I’d understand if you didn’t. But please give me a chance to show you I mean it, that you are the woman for me. Because, Ms. Williams, I can’t seem to remember your correct last name. Since I have no intention of letting you go, I’ll have to change it to mine.”

“Are you sure you can’t remember my last name? Not even if I whispered it into your ear every night?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so. You are so beautiful I have trouble concentrating on anything else.”

“I see,” she said seriously snapping the ring box shut. “I’ll hold onto this and if you can’t learn my last name in, say, six months, I guess I’ll have to marry you.”

“Anything you say, Ms. Williams. And then he pulled her to him and crushed his lips to hers.

*****

THE END