“Send them in,” I say. I’m hoping they at least have brownies or something. I could really go for a dessert despite not having dinner yet. Never eat your feelings, that’s what my chef says. Whoever doesn’t eat their feelings isn’t dealing with mishaps and pain correctly.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, it’s fine.”
Jessica leaves my office and while I wait for Emory and Lindsay to come barging in, I reach up to my hair and pull out the pen I have stuffed back there. Just as my hair floats around my shoulders, a tall, broad figure walks into my office.
Starting at his feet, I work my way up past his jean-clad thighs, to the narrow of his waist, to the taut fabric of his button-up shirt that stretches across his chest, to his strong jaw, to . . .
Oh . . .
Mother . . .
Fucker . . .
“Dorothy Domico,” he says with a smile.
My stomach bottoms out. What is he doing here?
Nerves bloom in the pit of my stomach as I try to pick my mouth up off the floor. Standing in the doorway of my office is the one and only Jason Orson.
I swallow hard, digging deep within my soul to find my inner businesswoman and put on a strong face, to not be intimidated by his handsome features or sucked in by his kind eyes. My staff know I’m not a walkover, and this man before me needs to know too.
Pushing my chair away from my desk, I stand tall, and clasp my hands together. “Yes, how can I help you?”
Straight-faced, stiff back, firm set in my shoulders, I don’t show one ounce of insecurity or nervousness, even though I feel like throwing up inside.
Can you believe he’s even more good-looking in person?
The way he just stands there with confidence . . . it’s both enticing and annoying. The sleeves of his button-up shirt are folded to his elbows, showing off the sinew in his forearms that ripples when he moves. His ruggedly handsome face, with a sprinkle of five o’clock shadow, his compelling green eyes, and the firm set in his jaw, it quickens my pulse, speeding up my breath.
He steps farther into my office and shuts the door. From behind his back, he holds out a small bouquet of flowers—daises to be precise—and says, “These are for you.”
Oh God, what is happening?
Flowers?
He’s here in my office?
He’s smiling?
What the hell did Knox and Emory tell him?
“I’m confused, why are you here?”
He steps even closer, but approaches slowly, as if I’m a scared animal, ready to flee any second. He’s right. I’m not above scurrying out of this office when the opportunity presents itself.
“For our date, of course. It’s Friday.”
“That was cancelled. No need to be here. Jessica can show you out.” A firm brush-off, just what he needs.
“Ah, but I don’t work like that, you see.” He takes another step closer, his cologne filtering into my personal space, making me feel dizzy with lust.
Yes, lust.
I’m lusting. I’ve lusted after this man for so long that seeing him here, in the flesh, it’s doing all sorts of weird things to my body, like heating it up inappropriately for the workplace.
“Mr. Orson—”
“You can call me Jason.”
Exhaling, I fold my hands together. “Jason, thank you for stopping by, but I have work to get done.” I motion to the door. “Jessica will see you out.”
“I heard you the first time about Jessica, but I’m in no hurry to leave. You paid for a date with me, so I’m here. Let’s date.”
“First of all”—I hold up my finger, my irritation of him not listening starting to grate on my nerves—“I did not pay for a date with you. My assistant accidentally donated money to your Charity Hustle fundraiser that was supposed to be donated to a different charity. I, by no means, was looking for a date with you, nor do I care to go on one either. So, please leave.”
His face falls and for a brief moment, I feel guilty for telling him the truth. I’m sure no one wants to know a donation to a foundation that’s close to your heart was a mistake. I should clarify that I was impressed with his charity, but hadn’t chosen to donate at this time. But of course, out of my depth, I remain mute.
With a brief nod, he sets the flowers on my desk and then backs away, making my conscience take over my emotions.
Man, I feel like a dick.
And I wasn’t even that bad. I’ve said worse, more harsh things to people, but the way he’s walking out of here like I just told him he has the worst swing in baseball, it cuts me deep. Which is EXACTLY why I need to stay true to my decision. I don’t need someone cutting me deep with emotions.
Emotions can destroy your demeanor in the boardroom, it can throw you off your ability to make a deal. They can affect your head, play games with you, making it impossible to be the stiff-armed, businesswoman I’ve trained myself to be.
One of the biggest things I’ve learned about being in this position of power, one that’s usually held by a person with a penis, is there’s a stigma; women are too emotional. They base their decisions off emotions rather than facts, making them weak. At least that’s what I’ve heard from many chauvinistic assholes—thankfully, none of them have been my dad—and I’ve made it a point to never be that woman they speak of.
I’ve become strong, inflexible when necessary, and I go after what I want with no shame.
That’s not going to change because the boy from college, who I deemed the perfect man, just came waltzing into my office with flowers and the idea of taking me out on a date.
He leaves, and I keep my chin held high when I sit back in my chair and pull myself closer to my desk. That was the right decision.
Sending him on his way so I don’t spend another second soaking in his masculine scent or the smooth, alpha-like movements of his body.
Yup, the right—
“I hope you like burgers,” his booming voice declares. Instead of flowers, he’s carrying a cardboard tray of food and two drinks . . . into my office.
What on earth . . .
Without even asking, he moves some of my papers to the side, along with my jar of pens, and makes room for the food. He unfolds a few napkins and lays them across the cool glass of my desk. Next, he goes back outside and then brings in a canvas bag. Like Mary Poppins, he starts extracting plates, cups, silverware, and a vase for the flowers, which he expertly shuffles the daisies into followed by a dash of water from a water bottle.
“What are you doing?”
“Setting up our date. I know what you said about me leaving. Don’t think I didn’t hear you.” He pulls on his ear. “Because I did, I heard you loud and clear, but I chose to ignore it.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “What did Knox tell you?” I ask, cutting to the chase.
“Nothing actually. So, no wishing one-fifty batting averages on him.”
Okay, sure, Knox didn’t say anything.
“He clearly told you something if he let you know about the threat.”
“Nothing gets by you.” He looks up and smiles, and brilliant white teeth flash at me. Damn it. “But he told me he wasn’t telling me shit because of your threat. Carson was the one who figured everything out.”
Crap, how could I forget about Carson?