The L.A. office occupies the entire twenty-sixth and twenty-seventh floors of a giant skyscraper. I never understood the point of having such tall buildings in L.A., even if land is at a premium. Earthquake evacuation would be a bitch from this high up. But people like to stand on high ground and look down on others, even if it’s only from nine to five.
My temp assistant Melanie waves a well-manicured hand as I approach my corner office. She wears way too much perfume for the office. A thick glob of mascara weighs down her eyelashes, making her green eyes look smaller. Her desk has seven framed photos of her family, including her two boys, and four small potted plants that she dotes on at least once an hour. She likes to bring cookies every Monday, claiming everyone needs something sweet to make the beginning of a brand-new workweek more tolerable. She’s always the first on our floor, if not the entire building, to dash out on Fridays. Her workspace is still littered with cookie crumbs from earlier, and I know they will stay until Friday, when the janitor finally gets fed up and sweeps them off her desk.
“Did you finalize the memo for the meeting?” I ask. It’s a simple one-page document and only needed some corrections I made to an earlier draft entered into the soft copy and printed again.
She shakes her head. “Not yet. Did you get my text? The meeting got pushed back to two.”
I pull out my phone. Nothing. “You sure you sent it?”
“Yeah.” She checks, then frowns. “Oh, wait. Sorry. I sent it to David by mistake.”
I don’t know how that’s possible, since D and W are on opposite ends of the alphabet. First names, last names…either way.
“Have the memo ready for me in the next ten minutes,” I say, because I don’t want her to forget or print it wrong or whatever. Then I step into my office and shut the frosted glass door.
After I sold my patents, part of the deal required that I work at Sweet Darlings Inc. for at least three years. The salary and bonuses I make are separate compensation from the billion bucks they paid me.
At least I enjoy the work, and it keeps me busy, so that’s a huge plus. I text David.
–Me: Sorry my assistant bugged you.
–David: No prob. Melanie’s not the most tech savvy. How’d your lunch go? Dane hook you up?
I feel my whole face purse like I just took a big bite out of a rotting apple.
–Me: No. I need to see that girl you mentioned earlier. Bethany, right?
–David: Yup. Tomorrow night good? She’s gonna be free.
Might as well get it over with. There’s no way Kim’s going to Geneva’s wedding. They get along about as well as two silverback gorillas sharing a four-by-four cage.
I check with Lori, the teenage babysitter I found via Sweet Darlings’ HR. Everyone I spoke to recommended her. Gotta make sure Vi’s properly supervised and fed.
–Lori: Sure, I can watch Vi tomorrow.
I text her my address, then add, Thanks.
–Lori: My pleasure.
I make a mental note to pay her extra for being so flexible. Besides, it’s going for a good cause—her prom and college fund.
I let David know that it’s a go with Bethany, put the phone on the desk and lean back with a sigh. If Kim were half as accommodating as most normal women out there…
A message drifts up from my nether regions. She’s really hot.
Yeah, but that’s about all there is to her. And I need more than a hot body. There has to be a personality, too. A kind heart. I’m not a single guy who can screw around and not worry about consequences. I can handle whatever fallout occurs, but Vi’s been hurt before—Thanks, Geneva—and I don’t want her suffering again because I’ve made a poor decision about the opposite sex.
Besides, so what if Kim’s hot? I’m never going to see her again. She can be relegated nicely back into my past, where she belongs.
Chapter Five
Kim
I grab an extra-spicy taco on the way to the office because it’s that kind of day. Argh. As I gobble up the tongue-incinerating Mexican food, I stew over the fact that I got denied crème brûlée. And not just any crème brûlée, but crème brûlée that’s good enough to cure menopause and erectile dysfunction. And it’s all Wyatt’s fault.
Annoyance still brimming, I suck down an icy lemonade and drive to the office to do my job. Even if my boss thinks I’m something he can just wager, I think what I do is worth more respect than that.
Dane probably led Salazar astray. Everyone knows he’s the Lucifer of the family. But that doesn’t mean I’m okay with my boss betting me. Like the way Wyatt fucked me to win a damned bet. And the salt on the wound? Dane deciding to hand me over to Wyatt. What am I, anyway? An indentured servant?
I shove every ostentatiously expensive location I can find into my boss’s surprise getaway, lengthening it to a month and covering Europe and Asia and hitting all the major tourist attractions. That should do it. If not, he can just cry into his five-figure scotch, because if he complains about his vacation again, I might just strangle him.
Sometime later, Salazar walks up, holding a beautifully wrapped white box in his hand. He stops in front of my desk and smiles.
“I thought you were working from home today,” I say stiffly.
“I thought maybe I should be here.” He gives me another brilliant smile, the one he always flashes when he knows he’s done something he shouldn’t have, but feels pretty confident he’ll be forgiven.
I shoot Salazar a thin smile in return. “That works out, because I was just about to text you about your good friend Churchill Phillips III’s wedding.”
Salazar considers for a second. Churchill is a dick who thinks being rich entitles him to grab a few unsuspecting asses. He almost tried it once with me, except he aborted the attempt when he noticed my boss was watching. However, Churchill’s family was close to Salazar’s late mother, and both families have some mutual business interests, so the ass groper’s assistant sent an email about his fourth—or fifth?—wedding.
“Nah,” my boss says. “Not going to bother attending. Just send him something suitably expensive and useless.”
I raise an eyebrow, but make a note of it.
“Actually…never mind. I’ll take care of it.”
“You will?” Salazar doesn’t know how to shop for anything himself, except possibly for cars, watches and jewelry.
“You look stressed. How ’bout some nice crème brûlée?” Salazar places the box on my desk. “You left before I could order one for you.”
Oh, geez, I wonder why. And he’s gotta do better than this. “It’s fine. I can handle the gift,” I say coolly, trying to stay strong.
“Don’t bother. How hard can it be to send him a ten-thousand-dollar Amazon gift card?”
I almost choke. That is so ridiculous a gift, I can’t even. On the other hand, that’s more than that creep deserves, so maybe I should let Salazar do what he wants.
He continues, “Anyway, forget Churchill’s wedding. Who cares about that ass fondler?” He gestures at the box. “I asked for two crème brûlées because they not only had the regular kind, but a special chocolate one. André came up with the recipe himself.”