“What’s your favorite color?”
She blinks a couple times, surprised by my question. “Um, pink.”
“Pink?” it’s my turn to be taken aback. My initial thought was to figure out all the things she liked and then I’d get a suit made, a new car, that sort of thing. I’m going to have to recalibrate.
“It’s a pretty color,” she says defensively.
“Yeah, of course. Really pretty.” I don’t own a thing in pink. Not even a necktie or a pocket square.
“If you didn’t want to know, why did you ask?” She stabs a fork into her brownie.
“I like pink. It’s my favorite color,” I claim.
“I can tell you’re lying.” She mashes the brownie some more.
This isn’t the energy I wanted. How did a simple question about her faves turn into this dessert murder? Maybe she prefers something else.
“Do you like chocolate or ice cream?”
“Why do I have to choose? I like them both.”
The brownie would say otherwise.
“But if you had to pick?”
Her mouth takes on a stubborn expression. She does not want to pick. She wants it all and I want to give it all to her. All the ice cream, all the chocolate, all the pink flowers. I lean forward.
“How about vacations? Do you like island ones or ski ones?”
“Island or ski? I don’t have the money for either.”
“Right. Those are out. I like the…what are they called? Homecations?”
“Staycations.” There’s a slight downturn of her lips. Am I disappointing her with my questions? Quickly I review the conversation and realize it sounds like I’m interviewing her. New tactic, I decide.
“I like brown,” I volunteer.
“Brown? That’s such a boring color.”
I stare at the head of mahogany locks striped with red and gold in front of me and shake my head. “It’s gorgeous. Brown’s the color of the earth, brownies, a chocolate Lab”—the most beautiful hair and eyes—“my office desk. It goes well with pink, too.” At least her pink cheeks and brown hair are a perfect pairing. I’d be willing to look at that palette all day long.
Both her eyebrows go up while her mouth turns down in full-blown skepticism. She pushes her massacred brownie away and leans toward me. “Just be straight with me. Are you firing me? You said you didn’t have the power, but I don’t believe you. Just fire me and be done with it.”
“It’s true.”
“Then what game are you playing because I know you know that I’m the one that slapped you at the restaurant the other night.”
“Oh, that.” I tug on my earlobe, trying to figure out the right thing to say because I know that my honest response—that I was seriously turned on by her reaction—is not the right one. In fact, if I say that, she’s likely to hit me again, which would be hard on her hand and would result in a dozen of unsavory rumors that would make her work here miserable. “I figured you had too much to drink.”
“Me?” she yells, pointing a finger at herself. Nearly every head in the cafeteria turns in our direction. She tries to make herself smaller and repeats in a quieter, but still irritated, voice, “Me? I’m not the one who came up and said I was taking you home for the night.”
“More’s the pity.” I fork some of the brownie crumbs into my mouth. It still tastes good.
“You can’t say that unless you plan on firing me. It’s harassment.”
I will never remember these rules. Monica said there would be a lawsuit and bad press if I didn’t keep my hands off an employee. I pointed out that we celebrated the marriage of two employees just last week, but Monica said it was different because they were equals and I can’t demote myself or promote Lucia. How is the takeover of one person more difficult than an entire company?
“You want honesty?”
“Yes.” She nods emphatically.
“Who hired you in the first place?”
“Monica.”
“Exactly—and she and her team will be the ones doing the firing. I’m sorry I’m the head of the corporation, but I’m not apologizing for wanting you in my bed. If it makes you feel better, I’m willing to marry you for that pleasure.”
I don’t get slapped this time, but the shower of sodas and waters isn’t much better.
Chapter 8
Lucia
There is something wrong with me. I have not one ounce of self-control around that man. Tons of men are pigs. He’s not the first I’ve met in my life. I’ve had worse said to me before. What I don’t understand is why it makes me so angry when it comes out of his mouth. To the point that I lose any rational thought and assault him. And why doesn’t he even look mad about it? That only makes me madder.
“Are you okay?” I look up at Cesar, who is at his desk across from me. I force a smile but inside I feel anything but happy. I’m frustrated.