Do. Not. Cross. Me.
Too late.
She looked thrown off-balance at the sight of me. Her recovery came quickly, and she tried to move around me, but I shifted with her.
“I have work, Nash. Chantilly will dock my pay if I’m late.”
You’re already late. I wonder why, my Trojan horse.
I didn’t budge. “Considering I’m your boss, I’d say I’m more important.”
“Consider this—Bieber bangs would hide that overinflated head of yours.”
I nodded my chin at her chest. “Speaking of inflated things, are your nipples patriotic, or are they saluting me for no reason?”
Douche.
I shouldn’t have brought up her nipples, but one—did she even own a bra? and two—I hadn’t had sex in ages (unless phone sex with Durga counted), and now it seemed like the only thing I could think of, along with exactly how flexible twenty-two-year-olds were.
Stop it, creep. You finished college and knew the ins and outs of anal while she still thought she pees and fucks from the same hole.
Emery’s arms wrapped across her chest, because no, I hadn’t been lying. Her nipples were hard as fuck, and they pointed right at me like two tiny sorting hats choosing my lips as their Hogwarts House.
(Yes, I’d watched Harry Potter after Durga mentioned it.)
Wishful thinking was a real thing, and I had a bad case of it when it came to Emery Winthrop. But I would never give in.
I’d broken Emery, whittled her will down to nothing but rage.
She battered her way past me, ramming my arm.
I latched onto her elbow, buried my face into that wild mane of black hair that smelled like me, and whispered, “Watch yourself, Winthrop. I am the king in this palace, and Prescott Hotels is my empire. If you think you can stand toe-to-toe with me without a fight, an hour of docked pay will be the least of your concerns.”
She needed to realize life was not a game of Chess. It was a game of Battleship, and the last person to sink wins.
I had two assholes following me.
First—Brandon Vu had stalked me to the tent city, shoved a card into my hand, and demanded I take it. Afterward, I realized I still hadn’t shaken the feeling that I knew him from somewhere. Even the way he’d said, “We need to talk.” sounded familiar.
Second—Nash Prescott and his relentless jabs.
If I were being honest, I would have taken an S.E.C. agent—who was probably gunning for Dad and taking it out on me—over Nash any day of the week.
Nash had stood in front of his building in ripe shape, always looking goddamn near murderous. Any resemblance between his behavior and civility was completely coincidental. In fact, I wondered how he conducted business with anyone who wasn't a rabid wolf.
This morning, I’d convinced myself that it would be a good day. For starters, I managed to avoid Nash after the unfortunate shower incident. Then, the gym opened a day sooner than expected, so I showered before work.
I was finally clean, but the second he came near, I felt dirty again.
Evidently, this wasn’t a good day.
I should have remembered that good days didn’t exist at Prescott Hotels. Not when its “king” was a tyrant with an ego so fat, it could break a dollar into change just by sitting on it.
“Why are you following me?” I hissed.
He trailed behind me in the lobby, his threat still ringing between my ears. The man made washed-up child actors look sane.
“I work here.” His offhand comment needled its way beneath my skin.
“Take the next elevator.” I stabbed the elevator button, pulled up my sweats when they slid down again, and turned my nose up to inhale, hoping he read it as defiance.
Did the cleaning products smell like cinnamon rolls or was I actually that hungry?
“You’re having a hard time understanding the employee-boss dynamic.” Nash’s arm shot out, blocking me from entering the elevator. He crept forward, but I felt his presence tumbling toward me at the speed of an avalanche. A cloud of frost and wrath descending on my sanity. “I could give you a refresher course.”
“I don’t need anything if it’s from you.”
Other than money.
The thought tasted bitter. Oh, how the tables had turned.
I dipped under his arm and sliced through his overwhelming scent, clutching onto my sweats so they wouldn’t slip off. I needed my jeans back from his bathroom floor, but A—he had probably burned them and B—on the off chance he hadn’t, asking him nicely would bring attention to that night.
No, thank you.
I continued from the elevator, “Why don’t you take your lessons elsewhere? I’m sure Stalin, Mussolini, and Hitler are begging to learn a thing or two from you.” I pivoted to face him, pressed the close button, and added, “In hell.”
He left without a word. I waited until the double doors shut and jabbed the button for level sixteen, hoping to drop my bags off in the closet before work. Except the doors opened on level two. Nash stood in front of the elevator, so fucking smug, I couldn’t take it much longer.
He must have run up here in order to press the button on time. What kind of person did that?
Devious intent glinted off his eyes. Trouble had found me, disguised as a gentleman in a Westmancott suit and Brioni loafers. He was a gentleman like I was a fairy tale. As in, not at all.
I couldn’t shake Ben’s texts.
Hate-fuck him out of your system.
Could I?
Did it work like that?
A little Vitamin D, and I was suddenly cured of my Nash fixation?
No. Even I didn’t buy my bullshit. It felt like an excuse to scratch the permanent itch that was Nash Prescott.
“See, the thing I can’t quite shake is why you’re even working here,” Nash drawled, blocking the elevator doors from closing with his body. “You’re filthy rich. You were born with a spoon in your mouth, and it fed you opportunity after opportunity. It’s almost as if you have an ulterior motive for working here. Maybe someone asked you to?” He cocked a brow, crossing his arms. “Maybe you’re working here to get close to me?”
Confusion tipped my brows together. I had no idea what he was talking about, but he was high if he thought I would admit how far I had fallen.
Needing a job didn’t shame me.
Needing one from Nash?
That was a knife in my gut.
One I couldn’t pull out.
It kept twisting, the wound festering with each passing second.
I stepped closer to him, forcing him out of the elevator’s trajectory with my movements. The doors began to shut behind me, but I ignored them. “Is this the part of the day where we make up conspiracy theories and accuse each other of ridiculous things? Fun. I would grade yours a D at best.”
My sweats slipped lower, showcasing the top of my panties. I didn’t move to lift them.
He took a step toward me, but I met him head-on. We stood foot-to-foot. Nose-to-chest. I could feel his breaths on me. Could smell him all over me.
It was like that night in the shower, except no glass separated us.
And I wasn’t naked.
But fuck, I wanted to be.
Do it, Emery.
Hate-fuck him out of your system.
He’s a poison, and the only cure is to suck him out.
“Don't stare at me like that.” Nash’s voice caressed my face and lured me in like a fishing reel.