It’s after twelve. My head is a little woozy and stuffy as it’s ridiculously hot in the office now, stiflingly so
and it’s making me feel nauseous. I’ve called maintenance twice to find out why they still haven’t fixed
the AC yet, it’s blowing out tropical heat, rather than cold air and baking us all. My face is flaming, and
my pulse is beating so fast and hard, like I’ve been sprinting. My clothes are almost clinging to me with
dampness, and I’m irritated because of the inability to breathe or find relief. It’s oppressive.
Margo has left the floor for lunch and I’m to follow on her return. She was wavering in the heat as much
as me, but I told her I was okay to stay. Wanting to prove my abilities.
Ever the hero, Emma! Good move.
This is a huge sign of trust, and I think she’s testing my capabilities, leaving me to man the fort and
cope alone during a very busy schedule. It’s been three days since Jake returned and I feel like Margo
is relying on me a little more. Living up to her expectations and taking it in my stride.
I can’t stand the heat on my cheeks and my blouse is clinging in places it never has before. Sticking
like a second skin. I’m obsessively clock watching for her to return, to relieve me for an hour, from this
damned infernal sauna before I pass out. My switchboard lights up, my insides tightening as his voice
comes across the buzzer,
“Emma, can you come in here please?” deep, low, and sexy. I get the now familiar tingle in my stomach
at the sound of his voice which I still have no control over.
I falter but reply with a, “Yes, Mr. Carrero.” This is not what I need when I’m melting into a puddle on my
seat and already out of sorts.
Crap. Crap. Crap.
I’m on my feet trying to peel my blouse from between my shoulder blades and smoothing it down
without success. I pick up my notebook and pen, and glide past Margo’s open office door at speed and
into his, pushing the heavy dark wood open and sliding in. I want this over quickly.
“Yes, Mr. Carrero?”
He looks casually seductive today, sitting behind his desk amid an open laptop and piles of folders. His
pale blue shirt has its top two buttons undone at the neck, His dark hair ruffled out of its normally
spiked style, as though he’s been running his hands through it, and his sleeves rolled up, revealing one
of the tattoos on his inner left arm. A reminder of his rebel teen years. I know from images I’ve seen
online that he has a few across his body. All tribal black tattoos and symbols; the effect is devastating
even on me and I try not to react, annoyed that he still does this to me.
“Are maintenance any further forward with fixing the AC? … It’s way too hot up here!” He leans back,
putting his hands behind his head in a very “guy” manner. Stretching out and showcasing that beautiful
physique, his biceps increase in size while straining at the fabric of his shirt. It’s hard not to get a little
heightening of the pulse rate.
Eyes down!
“I’ve called down twice, sir … they’re apparently on it.” I keep my eyes averted, my tone level and
sound as normal as possible.
“Emma, you look like you’re about to pass out, I think you need to head to another floor and cool
down.” His eyes run over me; I’m already conscious that I must look disheveled. I feel it. But the
passing out has more to do with the way he’s sitting now, and my body becomes overly aware of how
much sexier he is in just a shirt. Removes the formality somehow.
Really, Emma? He’s your boss!
“I can’t leave until Margo … Mrs. Drake, returns, sir.” I blink at him and resist the urge to let my eyes
wander over his figure.
“When is she due back?” he frowns at me, oblivious to the riot of hormones raging through my body. Or
just unbothered by them.
“Soon, maybe fifteen minutes or so. She’s on her lunch early, I’ve to go on her return.” I sound polite
and factual. Trying not to squirm in my damp shoes and hoping I do not look as awful as I feel.
“Soon as she’s back, I want you to go cool down, it feels like it’s melting up here … In the meantime, I
need to dictate a letter. Maybe you’ll feel cooler in here, I have the air vents open.” He gestures at the
wall of windows and I note the blinds moving a little as the small amount of air gets in. He’s right, it is
cooler in here—marginally. Well, it would if he wasn’t sitting looking like that.
Emma, again? Really?
“Ready when you are.” I hold up my notebook to move things forward and kill my train of thought. He
turns his chair so he’s facing the couch to the left of me and gazes at it, deep in thought.
“It’s for the CEO of Bridge-stone … A man called Eric Compton. You’ll find his details on the system.”
He is in business mode, tone serious and face focused already.
“Yes, sir.” I scribble down in shorthand.
“Emma?” his questioning tone clicks my attention back to him.
“Yes?” I look up, at the tone of his voice, sure I’ve done something he doesn’t like. Momentarily
phased.
“You can sit down you know?” he’s smiling at me, amused, and nods at a chair at the side of his desk,
pretty much in his line of vision. It’s why he turned his chair. I blush and come around to sit in front of
him abruptly. I hate that since coming to work for him my inability to control my blushing has returned
but he has a knack for making me feel childish.
“I don’t bite … much!” He smiles with his “I know I’m irresistible” look. My eyes snap to him alarmed,
and see the humor veiled thinly. I give a short-embarrassed smile, to cover my reaction, my heart
upping a gear and inwardly chastise my stupidity. He’s a joker. Right. Got it.
Don’t take things so literally!
“I know you don’t. ” I smile coolly. Outwardly un-phased, despite irregular heart pounding and crazy
goosebumps hitting my skin. Annoyed at myself.
“You don’t need to be so … stiff, around me, Emma.” He relaxes back in his chair, dropping his hands
on the arms, casually so.
“Stiff?” I stare at his eyes, avoiding following the motion of his hands. A mild irritation fluttering within
that successfully dampens anything else; I’m not good with male criticism.
Especially about my demeanor.
“You can thaw a little. I know you’re efficient. You won’t get sacked for relaxing.” He looks amused, but
annoyance churns down low inside of me. I came to do a job and I have pride in my professionalism,
it’s the one area I know I excel at.
We can’t all be laid back, Mr. Born Into Money. We don’t all have the ability to sway people with a smile,
have charmed lives with happy childhoods and irresistible faces.
“This is me relaxed,” I respond tightly, training my expression to not betray my mood.
As relaxed as you’ll ever see me, Mr. Carrero, seeing as I’m paid to do a job not pander to your ego.
I pout inwardly, avoiding a direct look. He raises an eyebrow at me and breaks into an unguarded
smile, confidently handsome and yet this time it irks me.
“If you say so.” That irritating smug look he has that’s the other side to Carrero. It’s that face that makes
women drop their panties in a blink, but he also has this annoying male “know it all” cheekiness.
Arrogance. Like he’s always on the verge of a good joke, and it has to be one of his most infuriating
qualities.
“So, to the CEO of Bridge-stone …?” I raise my eyebrows, tapping my pen on my notebook, indicating
we should move on, with a tight tone. I disapprove of his overfamiliarity. As much as I’ve seen him this
way with Margo, I’m adamant that this working relationship will stay on a professional level. I have too
much to lose. I’ve worked too hard to get here.
He frowns at me, holding my gaze for a moment, unphased, but I ignore him, looking down at my paper
expectantly; relieved when he sits back and dictates what he wants me to note down.
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