Sure Thing
Page 19
So I did a six-month stint of the Glorious Britain tour and another six with the Highlights of the United Kingdom tour before I got my first position in the London office. That was more years ago than I care to recall. Rhys’s words regarding my schedule echo in my head. I’ve heard similar words from my father.
I’ve never had a reason to slow down. Not a compelling reason.
Another breeze passes through the garden, causing Daisy’s dress to billow in a way that makes her look pregnant.
My cock hardens.
Jesus Christ, am I disturbed or having some kind of normal prehistoric reaction to the idea of her with child? This is fucked. I’ve never reacted like this before to the idea of a pregnant woman. Or is it to the idea of impregnating her? Bloody hell.
Rhys is messing with my head, is all. Bloody sperm mobility; I shake my head and smile. What an arsehole. Pulling the mobile from my pocket, I thumb open the contacts until I find who I’m looking for and hit dial.
Across the garden Daisy struggles with another strand of hair in her lipstick. She pauses next to a bench and drops her trusty notebook before perching on the edge of the bench beside it. I see her gesturing with her free hand for a moment before setting the phone down face up on the bench, then she’s sliding an elastic off her wrist and gathering her long dark hair back, the movements reminding me of her on her knees before me as she gathered her hair in preparation for sucking my cock.
The memory does nothing to help with the swelling in my trousers. I wonder if I’m now conditioned to get a hard-on every time she pulls her hair into a pony and I’m unsure if that’s a blessing or a curse. A bit of both, perhaps.
“Hey, Jennings, how’s the tour?” My call has connected. It’s Priscilla in the London office.
“Very well. Listen, I need you to do something for me.” I turn from Daisy as I talk, examining the windows on the stately greenhouse as I proceed to outline what I need from Priscilla. I wonder what Daisy thinks when she looks at this building. If the brick is to her liking, if she marvels at the ingenuity in design. If she’s contemplating how she’d retrofit it into condominiums or a mini-mart.
“You’re handing over the Leo project? In its entirety?” Priscilla questions when I’m done speaking. Rightfully so, because delegation isn’t my strongest suit. Or it hasn’t been.
“Yes. You’re more than ready to lead a project of this scope without me. I have complete confidence in you.” It’s true. I can’t recall a recommendation she’s made that I’ve disagreed with. She’s more than fit for the task. And it’s time I started delegating because that’s the bloody point, isn’t it? To hire and develop the best talent so they can do the job you’ve hired them for. It’s part of our corporate philosophy, one I could do a better job adhering to. Cultivating existing talent so that good employees become great and the great ones soar.
I end the call satisfied I’ve sorted that and contemplate my next move.
Then I close the distance between me and Daisy. She tilts her head to the side as I approach, still on the phone, a now-familiar look of skepticism crossing her face. I think she reserves that look for me and I find that I like it. I like that she isn’t polite with me, she’s real. What you see is what you get. Minus all the lies coming out of her mouth, that is. But I’ll figure those out soon enough. I stop in front of her and grin, my plan set.
She looks up at me, saying nothing. I assume whomever she’s speaking with is still on the line because she hasn’t taken the phone from her ear, silently appraising me while listening.
“I’ve got to go,” she says into the phone, her eyes still on mine. She listens for another moment, then if I’m not mistaken says, “You’re my cracker,” and hangs up.
“You’re supposed to be on a tour with the others.” She doesn’t seem amused with me at present, eyeing me warily while capping her pen and dropping it along with her notebook into her bag.
“Mandatory, is it?”
“Well, it’s preferred.” She crosses her legs and I’m momentarily distracted by the movement—one slim calf resting against the other, her knee visible as the sundress she’s wearing settles a few inches above. She rests against the back of the bench and bounces her foot. “So I can keep tabs on you. You’re like a cat. Always popping up when I least expect you.”
I laugh. I’m certain no one’s ever described me as such before.
“Actually, that’s not fair.” She frowns. “I like cats and they’re very rarely sneaky. They’re too lethargic to be sneaky most of the time.”
“So you don’t like me?”
“I do like you. It was a bad analogy all the way around.” She shakes her head then pauses. “Wait.” She grins and snaps her fingers. “I’ve got it. Spy!” She laughs, seemingly amused with herself. “You’re more like a spy. You’d be great undercover. Very stealthy. You should look into it.”
“I’ll give it some serious consideration.”
She leans forward on the bench and holds up her hand in the universal stop motion, as if it’s important she makes this distinction. “Don’t get me wrong. A hot spy. More James Bond than Austin Powers. It’d be sexy if I enjoyed being spied on.”
Right. Rhys’ Undercover Boss comment rings in my ear and I feel abashed for lying to her. Yet what has she got to hide? Isn’t that really the question? I know she’s lying about something. She’s a hot mess of contradictions and things that don’t add up. If I had any sense at all I’d be doing the exact opposite of what I’m about to do, but bloody feelings are the antonym of sense.
My phone buzzes with an incoming call from London. I glance at it before sending it to voicemail so I can focus on the task at hand.
“Normally I’d ask if you were free tonight, but we both already know that you are, so I’ll cut right to the chase. I’d like to take you on a date tonight.”
“A date?” The skepticism I’ve come to associate with her is back in a blink as a hint of confusion crosses her face.
“Dinner,” I clarify, as it seems she’s not comprehending. “A proper date.”
“Oh.” Her brows rise as her lips form the word and the skepticism on her face morphs into curiosity.
I wait, expecting her to say something. Something like yes, but she’s silent. I’m not sure what the hell she’s thinking about, her head tilted to the side while she stares at me and thinks. Fuck me, she’s cute. She’s stunning, really. But it’s these little moments that charm me. When she drops all pretenses, unworried about impressing me. When she scrunches her nose or rolls her eyes or makes me wait far too long for an answer.
“Eight o’clock, then?” I tell her, because fuck it, she’s going to dinner with me. I’m not taking no for an answer.
“Why?” she asks, without a hint of playing coy.
“Why?” I laugh and shake my head. What does she mean, why? I remind myself she’s a bit younger than me and wonder if dating has completely gone to hell in the decade that separates us or if this kind of a response is simply Daisy. My phone buzzes again. I don’t even look at it as I turn the ringer to silent and wonder how I’ve made it this far without the amusement of a woman requesting I justify why I want to take her on a date.
“Because we like each other and it will be fun. Because we haven’t had a proper first date and you deserve one. Because I enjoy spending time with you.”
“Okay.” She nods her head once in agreement and I think that’s settled. Then she opens her mouth again to provide a list of reasons why I shouldn’t pick her up at the door.
I really, really like her.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Violet
A date.
He asked me on a date. After eye-fucking me across the garden and distracting me from my call—which was a total bust—he asked me to go on a date with him.
I stared at him, suspicious about what he was up to, because who asks a sure thing to go on a date? What is the point in that? A sure thing means you eat a quick sandwich by yourself, brush your teeth and then meet up somewhere for sex. At least I think that’s what it means. I’ve never really done this before but dinner seems unnecessary. I was staring at him trying to figure out if he’d meant dinner or if ‘date’ was British slang for sex when he smiled and tossed in the phrase, “A proper date.”
For the love of all that is holy, why is the word ‘proper’ a turn-on? Because it is, at least when spoken by Mr. Sexy Voice. Then I started daydreaming about how I was going to get a voice recording of him saying ‘proper’ before the week was up so I could play it on repeat after he was gone. Which led to the super-genius idea of developing vibrators that speak dirty to you in a British accent, which was interrupted by Jennings saying, “Earth to Daisy,” and snapping me out of contemplating what the overhead costs would be to get something like that in development.
Once he had my attention he asked again to take me to dinner. “A proper date, love. I’ll take you to dinner and walk you to your door. Tonight,” he added while doing that eye-fucking thing again.
I’ve never had a reason to slow down. Not a compelling reason.
Another breeze passes through the garden, causing Daisy’s dress to billow in a way that makes her look pregnant.
My cock hardens.
Jesus Christ, am I disturbed or having some kind of normal prehistoric reaction to the idea of her with child? This is fucked. I’ve never reacted like this before to the idea of a pregnant woman. Or is it to the idea of impregnating her? Bloody hell.
Rhys is messing with my head, is all. Bloody sperm mobility; I shake my head and smile. What an arsehole. Pulling the mobile from my pocket, I thumb open the contacts until I find who I’m looking for and hit dial.
Across the garden Daisy struggles with another strand of hair in her lipstick. She pauses next to a bench and drops her trusty notebook before perching on the edge of the bench beside it. I see her gesturing with her free hand for a moment before setting the phone down face up on the bench, then she’s sliding an elastic off her wrist and gathering her long dark hair back, the movements reminding me of her on her knees before me as she gathered her hair in preparation for sucking my cock.
The memory does nothing to help with the swelling in my trousers. I wonder if I’m now conditioned to get a hard-on every time she pulls her hair into a pony and I’m unsure if that’s a blessing or a curse. A bit of both, perhaps.
“Hey, Jennings, how’s the tour?” My call has connected. It’s Priscilla in the London office.
“Very well. Listen, I need you to do something for me.” I turn from Daisy as I talk, examining the windows on the stately greenhouse as I proceed to outline what I need from Priscilla. I wonder what Daisy thinks when she looks at this building. If the brick is to her liking, if she marvels at the ingenuity in design. If she’s contemplating how she’d retrofit it into condominiums or a mini-mart.
“You’re handing over the Leo project? In its entirety?” Priscilla questions when I’m done speaking. Rightfully so, because delegation isn’t my strongest suit. Or it hasn’t been.
“Yes. You’re more than ready to lead a project of this scope without me. I have complete confidence in you.” It’s true. I can’t recall a recommendation she’s made that I’ve disagreed with. She’s more than fit for the task. And it’s time I started delegating because that’s the bloody point, isn’t it? To hire and develop the best talent so they can do the job you’ve hired them for. It’s part of our corporate philosophy, one I could do a better job adhering to. Cultivating existing talent so that good employees become great and the great ones soar.
I end the call satisfied I’ve sorted that and contemplate my next move.
Then I close the distance between me and Daisy. She tilts her head to the side as I approach, still on the phone, a now-familiar look of skepticism crossing her face. I think she reserves that look for me and I find that I like it. I like that she isn’t polite with me, she’s real. What you see is what you get. Minus all the lies coming out of her mouth, that is. But I’ll figure those out soon enough. I stop in front of her and grin, my plan set.
She looks up at me, saying nothing. I assume whomever she’s speaking with is still on the line because she hasn’t taken the phone from her ear, silently appraising me while listening.
“I’ve got to go,” she says into the phone, her eyes still on mine. She listens for another moment, then if I’m not mistaken says, “You’re my cracker,” and hangs up.
“You’re supposed to be on a tour with the others.” She doesn’t seem amused with me at present, eyeing me warily while capping her pen and dropping it along with her notebook into her bag.
“Mandatory, is it?”
“Well, it’s preferred.” She crosses her legs and I’m momentarily distracted by the movement—one slim calf resting against the other, her knee visible as the sundress she’s wearing settles a few inches above. She rests against the back of the bench and bounces her foot. “So I can keep tabs on you. You’re like a cat. Always popping up when I least expect you.”
I laugh. I’m certain no one’s ever described me as such before.
“Actually, that’s not fair.” She frowns. “I like cats and they’re very rarely sneaky. They’re too lethargic to be sneaky most of the time.”
“So you don’t like me?”
“I do like you. It was a bad analogy all the way around.” She shakes her head then pauses. “Wait.” She grins and snaps her fingers. “I’ve got it. Spy!” She laughs, seemingly amused with herself. “You’re more like a spy. You’d be great undercover. Very stealthy. You should look into it.”
“I’ll give it some serious consideration.”
She leans forward on the bench and holds up her hand in the universal stop motion, as if it’s important she makes this distinction. “Don’t get me wrong. A hot spy. More James Bond than Austin Powers. It’d be sexy if I enjoyed being spied on.”
Right. Rhys’ Undercover Boss comment rings in my ear and I feel abashed for lying to her. Yet what has she got to hide? Isn’t that really the question? I know she’s lying about something. She’s a hot mess of contradictions and things that don’t add up. If I had any sense at all I’d be doing the exact opposite of what I’m about to do, but bloody feelings are the antonym of sense.
My phone buzzes with an incoming call from London. I glance at it before sending it to voicemail so I can focus on the task at hand.
“Normally I’d ask if you were free tonight, but we both already know that you are, so I’ll cut right to the chase. I’d like to take you on a date tonight.”
“A date?” The skepticism I’ve come to associate with her is back in a blink as a hint of confusion crosses her face.
“Dinner,” I clarify, as it seems she’s not comprehending. “A proper date.”
“Oh.” Her brows rise as her lips form the word and the skepticism on her face morphs into curiosity.
I wait, expecting her to say something. Something like yes, but she’s silent. I’m not sure what the hell she’s thinking about, her head tilted to the side while she stares at me and thinks. Fuck me, she’s cute. She’s stunning, really. But it’s these little moments that charm me. When she drops all pretenses, unworried about impressing me. When she scrunches her nose or rolls her eyes or makes me wait far too long for an answer.
“Eight o’clock, then?” I tell her, because fuck it, she’s going to dinner with me. I’m not taking no for an answer.
“Why?” she asks, without a hint of playing coy.
“Why?” I laugh and shake my head. What does she mean, why? I remind myself she’s a bit younger than me and wonder if dating has completely gone to hell in the decade that separates us or if this kind of a response is simply Daisy. My phone buzzes again. I don’t even look at it as I turn the ringer to silent and wonder how I’ve made it this far without the amusement of a woman requesting I justify why I want to take her on a date.
“Because we like each other and it will be fun. Because we haven’t had a proper first date and you deserve one. Because I enjoy spending time with you.”
“Okay.” She nods her head once in agreement and I think that’s settled. Then she opens her mouth again to provide a list of reasons why I shouldn’t pick her up at the door.
I really, really like her.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Violet
A date.
He asked me on a date. After eye-fucking me across the garden and distracting me from my call—which was a total bust—he asked me to go on a date with him.
I stared at him, suspicious about what he was up to, because who asks a sure thing to go on a date? What is the point in that? A sure thing means you eat a quick sandwich by yourself, brush your teeth and then meet up somewhere for sex. At least I think that’s what it means. I’ve never really done this before but dinner seems unnecessary. I was staring at him trying to figure out if he’d meant dinner or if ‘date’ was British slang for sex when he smiled and tossed in the phrase, “A proper date.”
For the love of all that is holy, why is the word ‘proper’ a turn-on? Because it is, at least when spoken by Mr. Sexy Voice. Then I started daydreaming about how I was going to get a voice recording of him saying ‘proper’ before the week was up so I could play it on repeat after he was gone. Which led to the super-genius idea of developing vibrators that speak dirty to you in a British accent, which was interrupted by Jennings saying, “Earth to Daisy,” and snapping me out of contemplating what the overhead costs would be to get something like that in development.
Once he had my attention he asked again to take me to dinner. “A proper date, love. I’ll take you to dinner and walk you to your door. Tonight,” he added while doing that eye-fucking thing again.
