Just because Dad never wanted me at SFG doesn’t mean I have to give up on my career aspirations. I’ll show him! Rapid promotions, a swanky corner office, an assistant of my own and everything else that comes with being at the top! I’m aiming for the stars—to be a managing director in the next fifteen years or sooner. Some of the people I worked for at SFG thought I was good enough to be promoted after only twelve months, so I know I can succeed.
Court pushes the cream cheese closer to me. “Yup. I’m sure you’re going to get a lot of amazing offers. You might even get hired at a higher level going in.”
Excitement sparks, and I smile at his faith in my ability. I hadn’t considered the possibility, since I’ve been thinking more along the line of going in as an experienced junior analyst, but why not? I’m good enough to deserve better. “I hope so.” After finishing my egg and bagel, I take the final sip of the coffee. “I need to shower and go home. My personal laptop is at my place.”
“You don’t have to. You could work on your résumé on my laptop. The weather’s beautiful. You can do it by the pool. I’ll even let you borrow one of my shirts.”
I should probably turn him down, but it’s so tempting. The sun is shining and it’d be nice to work by a pool—another thing I’ve never done before. I was always too serious when it came to my education and work. And I don’t want to be that old stodgy Pascal anymore. “Well…maybe just today.”
“Awesome.” He picks up the tray.
“Let me help you clean up,” I say.
“No, no. Today is Court Makes Skittles Smile Day. So, go take a nice, leisurely shower and then come down when you’re ready.” He kisses my forehead.
I feel the soft caress all the way to my heart. I hug him and give him a wide smile. “You’re perfect.”
“Tell me about it.” He walks out, making me laugh.
Court acts like I make him happy, but in reality, I think it’s him who knows exactly how to make me ecstatic. If I were strawberries, he’s the whipped cream. If I were the cake, he’s the frosting… Or maybe it’s the other way around. Whatever it is, we’re compatible and seem to be on the same wavelength all the time.
After the shower, I come out and see my clothes from yesterday, freshly laundered and laid out on the bed. A housekeeper? I go still and listen, but I doubt it. Besides, didn’t he say that he made breakfast?
He must’ve done it. It’s so thoughtful…and surprising. I assumed a guy like him wouldn’t know how to use a washing machine or dryer even if the fate of the galaxy depended on it. If I hadn’t seen it in those articles, I would never guess he’s one of three heirs to a vast fortune and likely grew up as a one percenter.
I can’t wear my work outfit to the pool, so I step into the huge closet for something I can put on. His clothes are laid out neatly, everything pressed and hung or correctly folded. There isn’t as much as I thought there would be. Aren’t billionaires supposed to be clothes whores?
On the other hand, what he does have is very high quality. A few bold, masculine rings sparkle under the light, and the belts are supple leather, the buckles shiny. I spot a midnight-black tux in one corner, and stick my hand underneath the clear dry cleaner’s cover. The fabric feels soft and silky under my fingertips. I bet Court looks mouth-wateringly hot in it. It’s too bad that tuxedos aren’t something a man wears often.
I step back, pulling my hand away. Everything in the closet is also organized by occasion and color. This has to be the work of a housekeeper. I can imagine Court being neat and ironing…kind of. But to be this organized? Nope. That’s definitely not a guy thing.
I change into a white button-down shirt long enough to pass as a micro-mini dress on me. The label says it’s cotton and doesn’t need to be dry-cleaned, so even if it gets a little wet, it won’t matter.
The downstairs level feels different in the morning. The natural light pouring in makes the place appear even bigger and airier, every surface shining. The baby grand positively sparkles like a hunk of polished ivory. I go to the pool, where a huge parasol is set up. Court’s already in a pair of navy bathing trunks. His smooth, bronzed body moves beautifully. This is going to be a great view to work to.
He hands me a bottle of sunblock.
“Want me to put some on your back?” I ask.
“Nah. You see how tan I am? I brought it out for you. You’re probably going to burn.”
I give him a mock glare, but note how pasty I am compared to him. Hawaii was going to fix that, until my stomach decided not to play ball. “Are you calling me ghostly pale?”
“Of course not, Casper.” He gives me puppy eyes and a smile. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Skittles. You’re perfect just the way you are.”
I flush, pleasure and a warm glow mixing together. How can he say things like that without sounding corny and insincere?
Or maybe you’re just that into him.
He takes the bottle and squirts the coconut-scented lotion on his hand, then rubs it between his palms. Slowly, he glides them over my jaw line, neck and below, dipping under the shirt to touch the valley between my breasts.
“You know the sunlight can’t reach there, right?” I say, trying hard to breathe evenly.
“I understand sunlight can penetrate shirts.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“But it’s probably best to focus on the exposed parts first,” he says, way too seriously, even though the corners of his mouth are twitching.