Chapter 6
By the time Mr. L moves from his spot around the desk, I’m not sure how long I’ve been staring at Brexton. The only certain knowledge I have is that I’ve been lost in this man’s gaze for too long.
We’ve been holding each other’s attention like no one else is here. I’m precariously throwing my attention to a man who is a stranger to me. A man whose character should not be so appealing.
I’d usually run from someone like him, so why do I feel like doing the opposite? I’m failing to find an answer, with the way my body is reacting to his presence.
“Thank you so much for coming.” Mr. L shatters through the awe in the atmosphere as he stands in the center of the room. “You’ve met Mr. Brexton.” He gestures at one of his wingback seats. “Won’t you please sit?”
Mr. L being so formal does nothing to improve my uneasy stomach, raw nerves, or heated body. I lower into the chair, worrying I'll set the cloth on fire.
There's no reprieve once Brexton takes the seat next to me. His natural dominance reverberates in the room as he shifts the chair around, angling it. He sits parallel to me and Mr. L's desk, facing us both. The action is an overt power move, putting him in a position of control rather than keeping him a visitor in this office.
“I didn’t know you speak German, Olivia,” Layton pipes up.
Great. I can guess where this is going, and I don’t like it, especially since I did tell my boss that I spoke German when applying here. “Did you not?” A flustered laugh works its way out. “I could have sworn I told you last year.”
“No. I would have remembered that.” He props his elbows up, interweaving his fingers. I can’t tell if the response is fake or genuine. “Who would have thought I have such a clever employee?” His soft face beams with pride, but today, I hate this look.
My throat clogs with a solid lump. The praise for my abilities strikes me like a death sentence, and my only hope is to dismiss the attention.
“Honestly, it's nothing.” I straighten my spine, forcing my posture high. “My German comprehension is subpar at best.”
My heart seems to stop beating, only to pound harder a second later as Grant huffs in amusement.
“Hmm.” Mr. Layton removes his glasses to rub at his eyelids. “Mr. Brexton gave me a different impression.” His line of vision flies to Brexton. “Is ‘subpar’ the word you would use?”
“Not at all. She translated all evening, writing included without hesitation. The Brauns had no issues understanding her.” He lets silence hang for a moment. “Hardly ‘subpar.’”
“Hearing all that, I have to agree.” Mr. Layton nods once and then looks at me again. “If that's the case, then your talents here are being wasted, Olivia.”
I was right. I’m being sent to Grant Brexton. I can’t clutch into the fabric of the chair hard enough, and I probably wouldn’t be able to stand if I tried—I’m too week kneed. A part of my brain likes the idea, since I am attracted to him, and it would be a better use of my abilities. But my heart understands the complications.
Working under Brexton means dealing with high profile events all the time—the exact kind of attention I can’t afford. This low profile I’m trying to maintain is a must as Lonnie gets out. If I’m going to be a smart woman, staying here, where I can remain hidden, is my safest bet.
And I hate how all that sounds. What single woman wastes her life away in this manner? That could be the side of me that does want to go to Brexton—scary as it is, my pace of living does feel a little stale.
The same staleness is also pumping my mind with logic, reminding me I need to remain here.
“Mr. Layton, please.” The risk of not being here anymore makes my voice shake. “Please don't. I want to stay here. I can wor—”
“I'm sorry, Olivia.” Mr. Layton rises to his feet. “But it's already been decided.”
I’m so irritated from my lack of say in the matter. The room spins—blues melding together around me. This can’t be happening. “Please!” The voice doesn’t sound like mine. It’s too urgent. For a good reason.
I could fucking die if any missteps happen now, and I’ve survived too long for this. My teeth clench as a fresh wave of frustration roils under my skin.
I ignore the blatant look of shock on Mr. L’s face at my outburst, standing to my feet and pulling my chin up. “May I speak with you?”
“Oh,” Mr. L says. “But of course. Mr. Brexton and I will listen to any—”
“No.” My refusal rings off the walls. “May I please speak to you alone?”
Mr. L's face tightens in what I assume to be disturbance. I can guess why. I’m sure snubbing Grant Brexton is a sinful blunder. A nervous sounding breath hits the room. “Olivia—”
“It's fine,” Brexton interrupts, pulling to his feet, no tell of any sort in his tone. “I'll be outside in the hall.” He flicks his eyes over me, and then leaves the room, a strange deadness settling in the air following his departure.
The door has barely clicked to a close and my objections are already pouring out. “I want to stay here, sir. I don't want to work for Brexton. I want to stay here and work for you.”
The kind glimmer, the one I'm used to, returns. “That's great to hear, Liv.” He smiles, the apples of his cheeks rounding and plumping. “As a boss, that's the biggest compliment I can receive.”
A lightness floods my chest and lungs at the encouraging words.
“That said, there’s no possible way I can refuse Brexton.” He returns to his seat, seeming unaffected.
But for me, it's too much. My legs sway, and I collapse back onto the chair. “Sir, I—”
“Mr. Brexton is in business with Alan Hall, as you know.”
I nod. Everyone knows that. Hall and Brexton are like Ben and Jerry's. They go together.
“Alan funded my endeavor years ago in the beginning. To this day, he retains some ownership in my business, so it’s safe to say that part of Layton Interiors is his.”
A hard swallow strains against the collar of my blouse. Alan Hall owns part of Mr. L’s company? I’m screwed. It’s official.
“He has more authority here than he usually pulls.” Mr. L swivels his seat to the side, looking at me past his shoulder. His narrow frame nestles lax into his seatback, but it doesn’t match his tight face. “Plus, I owe him a favor or two.” Thin lips pull down. “Especially after he picked us to do his penthouse. The one I was going to give you.”
“The place on Olive Way?” I remember the H branded at the top of the page.
“Yes.”
It stood for Hall. I was going to decorate a bland penthouse for the prestigious Alan Hall. My fists tighten. I’m getting screwed over in so many different ways today.
He removes his glasses, dropping them on the desk, rubbing at his eyes. The second time in such a short span, he's obviously stressed more than he’s verbalizing. “I'm sorry, Liv,” he says. “My hands are tied. I won't do a disservice to Alan by refusing Brexton. Consider yourself outsourced.”
My inward world pops, deflating my limbs. My shoulders hunker down, and an ache settles in my chest. “Then it's decided.” I won’t be able to stop this—at the pinnacle of chaos, my life is going to be set off-kilter even more. All I can do is try to prepare myself and hope my face won’t make recurring public appearances. “When does he want me to start?”
“Today.”
“Today?” I can’t hide the shock in my voice. “Bu-but so soon?”
“I know.” Sympathy flashes across his features, then soften to a sweet glow. “Don't upset yourself.” He swivels to face me and stands. “The first paycheck you make there will heal the sting you feel today.”
I should have known this would happen. Men like Grant Brexton don’t make idle comments. The moment I walked off that dance floor, my fate was sealed. And while I am worried, there’s a small touch of idiocy hitting my heart, making it patter quicker in fascination.
The thought that a man like him tracked me down.
Why does our ego crave the attention of the powerful even at the expense of its own safety at times?
Still, my guard will have to be up—easier to follow through with when my life is at risk, I’m sure. After managing a weak smile to Mr. Layton, I nod meekly and stand as he comes around to offer me a final handshake.
“Thank you for everything, Liv. Having you here has been wonderful.” He pats the top of my hand twice. “And if the chance to return presents itself, know I’ll have a spot for you. Always.”
“Thank you, sir.” My reply is soft. I wonder if he can hear it.
“Now, go on.” He tilts his head for the door. “Go get whatever you need for the rest of the day. Come back when you have more time to clear everything out. I'll finish up with Mr. Brexton.”
My head ducks low. We release hands, and I head for the exit. I’m certainly going to miss this place.