Would he have kissed me again?
Would I have let him?
Did I imagine the whole thing?
God... What is wrong with me?
He’s my boss. I should never have kissed him in the closet that first night. He was a stranger, and that’s not who I am.You didn’t know he was your boss.
This is the last time I think about Charles Cavendish in any way past professionalism. Is he attractive? Yes. Have I worked with plenty of handsome men in the past? Also yes. I can do this. Iwilldo this.
I stay in the stall for a full ten minutes, giving myself the pep talk I desperately need, grateful nobody has entered the room to hear my insane rambling. I take a couple of deep breaths and head to the sink, splashing a bit of cold water on my face, feeling better.
Got to simply keep things professional.
On my walk back to my office and see that Charles’s door is still closed. He seems to keep it shut most of the time, and the blinds are typically down as well, so it’s hard to tell what is going on, but as I walk past, I’m almost sure I hear Shelby yell. She doesnotsound happy.
I smirk, wondering how his assistant gets away with speaking to him like that. Most of the men I’ve worked with in the past had such chips on their shoulders they would never have allowed a subordinate to raise their voice to them.
Charles has had two women chastising him well and good in a mere hour. The door cracks, and a small squeal escapes my lips as I rush down the hallway, not wanting to be caught loitering outside the door.
Hopefully, the rest of the day will not be eventful.
16
Charles
It’s beenfour days since Raven took the Diosa position, and I’ve spent the entirety of those days trying to nail down Paxton for a meeting.
The bastard’s doing it on purpose, trying to flex his proverbial muscles before agreeing to the meeting.
A meeting he moaned about not having sooner.
We both know he’d rearrange his schedule if any other agency held the Diosa account, but his so-called best mate gets jerked around like a sure thing. Hell, I bet he’d have met anyone else on one of his precious Saturdays to land this campaign for one of his clients.
I asked Raven to meet me in the parking garage on level B so we could walk in together. Paxton chose this God-awful time because he knows I hate meetings before eight o’clock. It’s seven, and if not for the espresso, which I normally wouldn’t drink, and was crap, I wouldn’t be functioning.
I’m an early riser, waking before the sun, which means I hit a wall around eight every morning. It takes a quick workout to get me back in the game.
Today, I needed caffeine.
I’m standing outside my Aston Martin DBS, the one splurge purchase—aside from my penthouse—I’ve made since arriving in the States, when she strolls up.
“Nice car,” she says in such a way that I question what she really thinks. Her face is blank, void of anything resembling awe, and this car is awe-inducing.
“Nice car?” I question, taking her in. “Tell me what you really think of it, Rae.”
Her hands land on her hips. “Stop calling me that. Why do you do that?”
My eyes narrow in on her. This really bothers her, but why?
“Rae... Raven,” I say, motioning toward her. “You know, a shortened version.”
Her eyes sharpen. “Well, stop it.”
“Has nobody ever called you that before?”
She runs her hands down her thighs, drawing my attention to her body.