Chapter 2

Tanner

A subtle and annoying pulse throbs at my temples, making my eyes sensitive to any light or sound. I pinch the bridge of my nose, avoiding my sunglasses, and take a sip of hot coffee, praying that it’ll ease the pain.

“Ah, fuck.”

Nope, too hot.

Fucking hangovers. You’d think I’d learn when too much is just that—too much. Or know that the eighth body shot off a random club girl is excessive.

But apparently not.

I never know when to stop. Fuck. I honestly never want to stop.

Who in their right mind wouldn’t want to take advantage of being the prince of lingerie? I’d argue it’s almost as good as being Hugh Hefner—almost.

Regardless, the last two nights—or mornings—haven’t been in vain. They’ve been in dedication to my victorious moment and the night that’ll go down in history.

So, it needed to be celebrated accordingly.

Let’s be honest, I wasn’t going to just go home after seeing Elsa’s reaction to my retaliation. Attacking me for not knowing what I’m doing is offensive, but I can take it. And I did by responding professionally, with my dignity still intact.

But when I get accused of buying people off—women or business associates—I see red.

That’s low, and I don’t do well with low blows.

Especially from Ms. Dirty Little Angel herself. Though, Elsa did make it easy for me to figure out how best to enact my revenge. It was as if she had planned the whole thing for me.

Honestly, Elsa deserved everything she got that night. In fact, I find it hard to believe that she didn’t see it coming. She’s smart enough—or at least I thought she was—to know that I wouldn’t take her bullshit lying down.

Even if I would’ve preferred to.

My body tenses in both irritation and arousal at the sheer thought of her.

She might be one of the most irritating and frustrating women I’ve ever met. Yet there is something about her—there always has been.

Look, clearly I’m not a saint.

I’ll admit that pissing her off turns me into a fucking teenage boy with raging hormones.

Fortunately, I know how to handle and control my urges now. But I like my women fiery and strong. I prefer that they’re appeasable, but with her it’s different.

It’s the tension between us that makes me hard as a fucking rock. And there’s no denying that she’s fucking drop-dead gorgeous. Her long, toned legs and tight ass make her storming away one of my favorite things to watch.

It’s become a fun hobby of mine.

And fuck, those pouty pink lips that always pucker when she’s thinking, ready to spew another insult my way? I’ll always remember how they felt wrapped around my dick.

The amount time I’ve spent imagining it—imagining her—is honestly absurd.

But let’s be honest; I waste my time on much worse things.

“Sir! Where have you been!?” my grumpy old secretary screams at me as I open my office doors.

“Ahh! Shush Marge,” I say, sternly, grabbing onto my head, my headache now pounding.

“No, Mr. Sharpe, I will not shush. I’ve called you more than ten times this morning. Where have you been!? Did you read The Capitalist Chronicle article yet?”

Jesus, this woman is maddening. It’s like the world suddenly stopped turning just because I didn’t answer my damn phone.

I tightly smile and nod at her, slowly taking off my sunglasses.

Her voice knows exactly how to slice right through me, especially when it’s still in the process of de-numbing itself.

Oh, how I wish I could get the hot blondes I used to have. Unfortunately, the higher-ups didn’t appreciate the extra-curricular activities they participated in with yours truly.

I, on the other hand, had found it very productive.

Now, I have Marge...shit, I forgot her full name. Anyway, it’s the secretary from the nursing home of hell.

“Mr. Sharpe!”

“Marge, calm down. Everything will be fine. And good morning to you, too, by the way.”

I smirk at her, hoping that my charm will calm her the fuck down.

I take my phone out of my back pocket to check for her calls. And it’s there—fifteen missed calls from Marge, ten text messages from random numbers, and one URGENT email from Mark, an executive board director.

Fuck.

“Would you care to tell me what is so pressing that you had to call me fifteen times? Or would you like to continue to yell at me for not answering them?” I ask her, my charm quickly dissipating and evolving into anger.

My condescending tone doesn’t go unnoticed.

She moves her feeble and tiny self from behind her desk to meet me head-on. She straightens her shoulders and pats down her blouse, looking as if she is preparing for a show-down.

I ready myself as well. She might be small, but damn she is mighty and slightly scary.

“Mr. Sharpe, if you’d care to get your head out of your ass—or the bottle for that matter—I would like to inform you that the board of directors, including Elsa Blakely and her board are here to speak with you.”

She crosses her arms to polish off her informative insult.

I ignore the part where she calls me an ass and focus mainly on the cluster fuck that is gathered in my conference room.

I knew there’d be a backlash from my stint the other night, but I never imagined that the whole goddamn board—including hers—would come here to reprimand me.

I run my hands through my hair in exhaustion and frustration and take a sip of my coffee.

I secretly wish I made my coffee Irish this morning.

“Tell them I’ll be there in a minute. I’ll drop my things off and head over there,” I instruct Marge as I enter my office.

I mentally prepare for the onslaught of bullshit I’ll have to go through in the next hour—across from her.

I’m not afraid of losing my job. Hell, if I get fired, she should as well. It was her mouth that started that sparked this feud.

Thinking of her, sitting there, and waiting for me—I start to get jittery.

Again, I’m like a hormonal boy. I can’t help it.

Every time I see her, I get these fucking man-butterflies, and it’s irritating.

But I have to shake this off. I need to bury these old pestering feelings before she eats me alive. I’m sure her teeth are already sharpened.

Grabbing my coffee, laptop, and phone, I head down the hall to the conference room. I can see the whole line-up through the glass walls—all ten suits and one damn fine dress.

I swallow hard and take a deep breath before I open the door. Thankfully, the surge of adrenaline smothers my headache.

“Good morning, gentlemen and Elsa. To what do I owe this honor?” I ask, putting on my most professional and charming smile to win the crowd.

Mark, the man who emailed me earlier, clears his throat.

“Your sideshow the other night, Tanner, was unacceptable.”

Damn, getting right to it, isn’t he?

“How so?” I say sarcastically.

I’m not an idiot. I know what I did would cause some waves. It wasn’t the most professional act, although it was the most reasonable response to Elsa’s formal attack.

“I’m not sure where to begin or how else to describe it to you. But to summarize, your actions do not represent who we are as a company.”

Fuck. This doesn’t sound like a slap on the wrist type of conversation.

But there’s no way in hell that I’ll be the only one held responsible for this. If I go down, she’ll go down with me. Petty or not.

“I see. You must understand that my business decision was in response to a defamatory statement made by Elsa.”

I glare at her, throwing fucking daggers straight at her direction.

Her eyes widen in shock, possibly surprised that I told on her, and her cheeks redden.

From anger, I’m assuming.

She looks pissed, though I can feel her body gravitate toward me.

I gaze down at her tits, not hiding my wandering eyes, and her nipples harden underneath the cream-colored Michael Kors dress.

Yes, I know designers—I am one, after all. I would be a fraud if I didn’t know what a Michael Kors dress looks like.

Mark slams his fist on the table, and my attention is immediately redirected.

Fuck, he’s fuming. I think I almost see steam coming out of his ears.

“I don’t care who started this feud. All I know—all that we know,” he says, gesturing to the other ten suits in the room, “is that this will end now.”

He pauses for dramatic effect or to stifle his anger—or both.

“Either you both grow the fuck up and fix this, or you will be fired.”

My body stills, and I immediately turn toward Elsa who looks just as petrified.

Suddenly, her deer-in-headlights look turns to fury. Her body now radiates anger, and she meets my gaze, fire burning in her eyes.

God, that temper—it’s a frightening turn on.

“If anyone should go, it’s Tanner. He’s the one who’s immature enough to pull off such a stunt during New York Fashion Week. To even think of doing that is mental.”

She smiles sweetly at the board, her charm working overtime.

“Elsa, to accuse someone of bribery and incompetence over and over again in the press could also be constituted as mental. Didn’t you think that I was going to retaliate? You know me, you know that I will not, and do not, take that shit lightly,” I say sternly, forcing myself to keep my voice at an even level.

“At my show? Poaching my models? The ones I’ve handpicked? That’s your way to get back at me? For someone who doesn’t like going low, you sure have outdone yourself.”

“That wasn’t low, angel. That was a justifiable response. That is and was exactly what you deserved. How can you not see that? Are you blind or just ignorant?”

“Excuse me?”

Her voice raises an octave, and she slaps both of her hands on the table, squaring her shoulders.

“Don’t you ever call me that. Your inability to recognize how insane you sound proves me right. You should be fired, seeing as you’re too unstable to run a fucking business.”

I place my hands on the chair’s armrest and begin to stand up.

It’s taking every ounce of strength in me not to go over to her, push her against the wall, and fuck her hard.

Fighting with her is fucking hot—I just wish she wasn’t such a fucking bitch about it.

I ache to shut her up, suck that slick tongue of hers dry, and make her come for me.

But I’m halted by another suit, whose name escapes me. They all look alike.

“That’s it. You’re both going to shut the fuck up and calm down,” he says in a loud yet oddly calm manner.

We both turn toward him and hold our tongues, and I shuffle my ass in my seat to hide my growing desire for her. A current of electricity still lingers between us, but we ignore it.

Instead, for the sake of our jobs, we face forward and listen.

“Since plan A has already failed, we’ll resort to plan B,” Mark chimes in. “If plan B doesn’t work, then you’re both shit out of luck.”

We both nod in acknowledgment, and I relax a little knowing that I won’t be fired today.

“But you’re not off the hook. You’re both not going to like plan B. In fact, you might find it worse than losing your job.”