That’s true. See, he’s a good shrink … he seems to understand.
“What’s wrong with me?”
That’s a good question to ask a shrink, as I want to know.
His face appears above me and I jump a little in fright; I wasn’t expecting him so suddenly, maybe it
wasn’t sudden. I have been taking long pauses to daydream between replies. This is a weird angle, but
even down here he looks gorgeous.
Why can’t you look ugly from at least one angle, Carrero? Even the odds up a little. Maybe have a
double chin or something.
“Nothing … You deserve so much more than someone like him.” He seems serious, and just hot. Too
hot.
“I’m part of him … I have his blood … But he didn’t want to know me.” I sigh dejectedly as he moves
from above me and on to the couch beside me; he has a glass which clinks with ice and slides it on the
low table to my left. He sits near my head so he can look down at my face and he’s no longer smiling.
He seems blank.
“Does he want to know you now? Is that why he called?” he frowns once more, watching me pensively.
“He wants money.” I point out as a matter of fact.
Yes, as much as he can lay his grubby little hands on. Filthy, scum bag, gold digger.
“Money?” he pauses to watch me. His tone that of surprise.
“He thinks I’m loaded, because I’m always in the papers … with you … Probably thinks we’re in love.” I
laugh at this little fact, but Jake doesn’t laugh, he just goes on watching me and sips from his own mug
before looking lost in thought. I can smell coffee and guess he’s not drunk at all.
“Why are you chewing your lip like that?” I ask him, reaching up and prodding him gently in the dimple
again. Jake has a touchable face. I’ve never noticed before how much his face cries out to be touched;
there’s a beauty about his features, even his designer stubble, that makes your fingers itch to trace the
lines and curves. He has a dimple on each side that should be investigated.
“I’m thinking, Emma … stop poking me in the face, woman,” he chides with a frown and I push at it a
little harder with my pointer finger, irritated at him calling me “woman”.
Asshole!
“You’re very touchy-feely when you’re drunk, aren’t you?” he catches my finger and pushes it down. He
has a cheek calling anyone touchy-feely.
Mr. Hands-On, Carrero!
“You’ve a touchy kind of face.” I smile but spinning starts to take over and I decide to lay still to see if it
will pass. I lay watching his green eyes in the dim light and wonder what he’s thinking about.
Mesmerized by the way his eyes change with his moods. Sometimes they’re dark and almost brown,
other times pale and almost aqua. Normally, they’re a very bright, almost emerald green. When I love
them the most.
“Hmmmm.” He looks at me in an odd way, and I can still see the hint of a frown; I stifle the urge to poke
it again.
“Hmmmm!” I mimic in a mock deep male tone. “What’s ‘hmmmmm’ all about?”
Jake can be exasperating! I like Jake. I’m glad he’s my boss! I think we get on better than most boss-
employees do.
“It’s just hmmm … You’re drunk. You’re making very little sense, and your grabby hands are a little
distracting. I think I need to put you to bed.” He’s not in playful mode, which is disappointing.
What does he mean, “grabby hands”?
I hold my hands up in front of me to look but they don’t look “grabby” at all. I was merely having a little
feel of a beautiful thing. He sighs, pushing me to note he’s closer, leaning down to peer at my face as if
he’s trying to gauge just how drunk I still am. I have the urge to say “Hello” or “Peek-a-Boo”.
“Where’s your hot Crone?” I laugh at my own joke. It’s rather funny.
Miss Crane … Crone … Get it?
He smiles, sighing deeply as though he has no idea what to do with me anymore. I notice that when he
moves his jaw in any little way, his ear moves slightly and become fascinated by it. I wonder if all men
have this special talent.
Would you call it a talent? Ear wiggling … Special skill of sexiness.
I giggle again.
“Emma, you’ve seriously lost your filter.” He laughs at me, looking at me in a “what am I going to do
with my plastered PA” kind of way. I reach up to poke his dimple again, but he catches my hand and
pushes it down firmly.
Damn, he’s quick.
“Mr. Cartierro leave my fingers alone,” I sound out properly in a British accent. Amused.
Now that’s funny, because Cartier is one of his favorite places to spend huge amounts of money on
leggy dates like Crone.
I’m making him laugh, when he smiles naturally like that it makes me want to smile too. He’s infectious.
God, I could lick that smile, it’s so delicious. I want to taste it.
“As amusing as this is, Emma, you’re going to have to go to bed. As much fun as you are drunk, I think
I’ll get more sense out of you over breakfast.” He puts his mug down on the table with a decisive glance
my way.
“I don’t want to sleep” I pout, full child mode returning.
“Tough, you’re going to bed. I have a duty of care.” He scolds softly.
“I won’t go, you can’t make me.” I’m sure my childhood sulky face still exists, I’m pretty sure it’s making
a comeback. I try and swat his face and hands as he reaches to help me up.
“Aargh. Emma!” He runs his fingers through his styled hairdo, messing it up. I think he’s frustrated with
me, but I don’t care as I don’t want to go to bed to be alone with my own mind.
I ogle his fussed hair. I like it better like that; less groomed and perfect, a little rugged. It really does
make him look so much hotter. That “just fucked” look.
I didn’t think that was possible.
I reach out and tousle it some more; I’ve never touched his hair and it feels nice, kind of thick and
smooth, a little crunchy with product, yet sensual.
He catches my fingers, pulling my hands in between us and keeps hold of them tightly. He’s giving me
a testy look and I wonder again where his date has gone. She’s lucky, because she gets to run her
fingers through his hair anytime, she wants and that upsets me.
“If I have to drag you in there and put you to bed, I will. I’m not against hauling you and holding you
down.” There’s seriousness in his eye. He looks like boss Carrero and that means no messing about.
“Promises, promises.” I tut, wriggling a hand free to poke him again in the dimple, he’s not smiling but I
remember where it is.
Bullseye.
“Fuck’s sake, Emma. What you do to me woman!” He scoops me up speedily and I squeal. He’s so fast
it makes the room tilt and I grab on for dear life and try not to choke him with my vice like grip, my face
almost pressed into his. He can walk fast and in a few easy strides we’re already in my room and he’s
pulling back my sheets with one hand.
“Are you mad?” I suddenly turn tearful. I don’t want my gorgeous, swoony boss, angry at me.
“No, Emma, I’m not mad.” He lays me in the bed and pushes me onto my pillow softly. He pulls up my
sheets and tucks me in like I’m a child. Taking great care to do so.
I don’t remember my mother ever doing this for me. No one has ever done this for me.
“You don’t like drunk Emma?” I ask warily. Upset at myself now.
He gently smiles down at me and runs a careful hand across my hair then down my cheek, soothing
me. The back of his fingers feathering softly across my face, igniting tingles over my skin. I don’t think
he’s mad, and it makes me feel better. His touch has the same effect as a calming wave; that gentle
look on his face relaxing me back to submissive.
“I do like drunk Emma … maybe a little too much.” He seems distant when he says it and his eyes
darken; he frowns, then quickly smooths it away.
“I don’t like drunk, Emma.” I sigh and close my eyes. I’m jealous that Jake likes drunk Emma.
She’s a bitch.
I close my eyes but when I do, the face of that weasel man at my mother’s table when I was fourteen
sways in. I had just walked in from school and she had figured a cozy dinner to introduce my father was
a good idea. How wrong she was.
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