Hot Water (7 page)

I have no idea what they’re saying, but I’m just happy they’re ignoring me and no one has attempted to put a hand on my backside yet. I start laying out the trays of fruit and breakfast sandwiches, the plates and napkins. Then get out the coffee. This is the part that worried me most. They use real china teacups, so I try my best to put the cups on the saucers without making any loud clinking noises. Then I turn and try to seek out Mr. Williams.

He’s not hard to find. He’s the crusty, mostly-dead man at the head of the table, in a wheelchair. I pour his coffee and bring it over to him, being careful not to spill as I set it down. I set out the creamer and sugar. Then I pour another, and walk around to the next person, and softly ask if he wants any.

The next old man doesn’t answer, so I ask him, louder this time. He’s arguing with the executive across the table. Finally, I just push a cup onto the table next to him.

After the next guy ignores me, I figure I’ll just give them all coffee. If they don’t want it, they don’t have to drink it. I pour another cup and suddenly have the sneaking suspicion that I’m being watched.

I look up. And that’s when I notice two dark eyes fastened on me.

He’s leaning back, like he owns the room, slouched against one arm of the chair with head rested in his hand, finger resting against his temple. His other hand is balancing an expensive looking pen, which he taps on a legal pad.

Angry Guy.

Didn’t my mother say
No slouching
? Well, what the hell does she know, because he’s slumping in his chair like a champ, and still manages to look
tres
professional, important. His expression doesn’t change—his eyes are narrowed, intense—but I know my expression must be running the gamut, since I’m trying, and failing, to keep my cheeks from flushing. He opens his mouth, still staring, and I think he’s going to say something to me, like “What are you doing here?’ Instead, he barks out, “And that’s all the more reason we should wait on that. They haven’t made a move yet.”

What
? The tone of his voice—so authoritative, so self-assured—makes me shiver, and at the same time I realize that though he’s staring at me, he’s not talking to me, I end up pouring hot coffee over my hand. The pain is searing, exquisite, sending fireworks everywhere. “Motherfucker!” I scream out, dropping the teacup onto the cart with a tremendous clatter. It shatters instantly, scattering in pieces over the ground.

The arguing stops. Twenty heads swivel in my direction. Angry guy just stares, at me, but not.
Through
me, is more like it.

Some of the men look on for only a moment, and then continue with their arguing. A couple stare me up and down, as if memorizing my every feature. I’ve made myself noticeable to them. I want to slink into the wall. I reach down and pick up the broken remains of the cup, trying not to give anyone a free peek down my blouse. Nobody offers to help me. Angry Guy just continues barking across the table. He mutters something like, “And that isn’t going to work. We have too much riding on it,” as if I don’t even exist, as if we weren’t just making out in his BMW the other day. Then . . . he does something.

He drops his pen.

It’s a small move, and alone, it means nothing. He picks it up and then drops it again, as if he’d meant to do it all along and it’s just a gesture done out of boredom. But it’s my one clue that maybe, possibly, he doesn’t have it all together, that maybe he is thinking about the beach, about the taste of my skin . . .

And then I realize that someone else, across the table from Angry Guy, is staring at me. Oh, hell. It’s Rhys. The Sex Master himself. He has a big, shit-eating grin on his face. It’s only breakfast, and already I can’t think of a way this day could get any worse.

I pour more coffee and move around the table, behind Angry Guy, trying not to admire the way he looks in that vest.
Just get this done, and get out
, I think, just as I feel a small
ping
at my stomach. Something’s wrong. I look down. The safety pin holding my skirt up is gone, the fabric it once held is now drooping down.

So . . . the day
can
get worse. I’m about to lose my skirt, in front of twenty men. In front of Sex Master. In front of Angry Guy.

I grab a handful to my waist and try to secure it as I pull the cart out, but I don’t have enough hands to keep the cart straight and save my skirt. I waddle behind it and start to push the cart out with my stomach, still clinging desperately to my skirt. Finally, I reach the door. Twenty seconds. Twenty seconds, and I’ll be free. I move to push it open, and that’s when I hear, “What’s your name, sweetie?”

I jolt my head up. All the men are staring at me. Me in my frumpy skirt and blouse. “Excuse me?” I ask, my voice cracking.

“Your name, dear,” Mr. Williams says. He’s very small and hunched, but he has a kind face. He takes a puff on his cigar.

“Cicily.” My voice is mouse-like.

“Our new intern?”

I nod.

He extends a hand out, presenting me. “Our new intern, Cicily!” he says to the men surrounding him. “What do we all think?”

And they all erupt into applause and wolf-whistles. Even the oldest of men seem to use a good portion of what life they have left in them to cheer me on. All except Angry Guy, who just sits there, frowning, unmoving except for that pen, which he picks up and drops, over and over again.

Chapter Eight

Cicily

I’m just getting over the embarrassment of the morning, when Joely taps on my cubicle.

“Well, you must have made an impression. Mr. Williams wants to see you,” she says, eyes raised. “Totally weird. Usually he can’t be bothered with us scrubs.”

“He does? I did?” I cough. “Yeah, I made one. A
bad
one. He probably wants to fire me.”

She massages my shoulder. “No one will fire you. You’re Elena Chase’s daughter. And they practically worship her. Unless . . .you didn’t spill coffee on anyone’s crotch, did you?”

“I burned my hand on the coffee and screamed motherfucker,” I say, cringing at the memory. Then I think of Angry Guy. “And . . .”

She already has her eyebrows raised. “And? You mean there’s more?”

 I take a deep breath. “Well let’s just say, I knew a few of the executives from a . . . previous engagement.”

She wrinkles her nose, and then her eyes widen. “I hope you were clothed during that previous engagement.”

“I was,” I mumble unconvincingly.
Sort of
.

“You’ll have to give me the story on that later,” she says with a wink. I follow her down the hall, and she points to another heavy-looking wooden door. Outside, his blonde and big-chested secretary waves me in. I can see myself in the gold placard that says CADEN WILLIAMS. I take a deep breath as I push open the heavy door, expecting to greet the small, white-haired invalid.

Instead, Angry Guy is sitting there.

He’s staring at me over a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, which manage to make him look even hotter than I ever thought possible. And looking at him, behind that big, important desk, I realize something. He is not just beautiful and perfect. He’s smart, savvy, important, and oh God . . .
He
is my mother’s boss.

I let out an audible gasp. So much for being nonchalant.

Caden

Damn, that girl is beautiful. Those beautiful big eyes, those legs . . . and shit. She’s in my fucking office.

She’s a fucking intern. Here, at Williams.

Perfect.

The minute I’d gotten back to my office, I’d deleted her number from my phone. Limo Girl, my ass. More like Psychotic Stalker Girl. I’ve presented to billionaires, rooms filled with angry shareholders, people who hated my guts. But that had to have been the most disconcerting meeting of my entire career. It had taken all of my energy just to make it out of there in one piece.

I’d taken off my suit jacket, but damned if the temperature doesn’t go up ten degrees when she steps inside, she’s so fucking hot. I need to play it cool. I do not need anyone knowing about what happened last weekend. “Close the door, Miss . . .”

“Chase,” she says in that sweet voice of hers. She’s another one. Comes off as sweet and innocent, but boy how they like to fuck with you. Before she can get the word out, the second the door clicks closed, I’m on my feet. I shoot around to the front of the desk, remove my glasses, and throw them down on it.

“What the
hell
? Did you plan this?”

She looks stricken, confused. “You’re Caden Williams? Of Williams and Williams?”

“You fucking know I am. You came out last weekend to fuck with me because you knew you’d be working here.”

She shakes her head fiercely, trembling. “No. No I didn’t.”

She’s a great little actress, but there’s no way I’m buying it. I keep my voice low. I do not yell. Yelling is for people who don’t have control over the situation. And I always have control. “There are nine million people in this city. This is not just a fucking coincidence!”

She stands in front of me, clutching the notebook to her chest. Her slight body trembles. Are those . . . tears? Her big blue eyes pool with them. Still, she holds her ground. “It
is
a coincidence.”

“And your mother is Elena Chase?”

She nods slowly. There are goosebumps on her arms. She’s shuddering like a leaf, but she keeps her chin up. All right . . . possibly a coincidence. Sad to say, it wouldn’t be the first seemingly unreal bad coincidence in my cursed life.

This is fucking ridiculous. “Perfect. Just
perfect
. ” I take a breath. I need to keep control. Show her I am in control. I swallow, tempering my words. “Miss Chase. I can’t be . . . doing this. I keep my personal and business pursuits very separate, and so this is . . . awkward. What I mean is . . . what happened this weekend. I would prefer if you not mention it. To anyone.”

She nods. “I understand.”

 “Okay. We have an understanding?”

“Yes,” she says softly.

“Yes?”

“I
said
yes,” she snaps. That little mouth of hers. Fuck, she is sexy.

I inspect her. It’s a good thing those tight curves of hers are hidden by the frumpiest outfit I’ve ever seen, because I don’t think I could stand to see any of them right now. I don’t get the outfit; the old biddies at the country club have better style. It’s like she’s trying to look like a grandmother, but failing miserably. Plus, she was clutching her stomach in the meeting room. What was that all about? There’s something at her waist there . . . it looks like . . . a paper clip?

 I start to move past her to open the door, and then, curiosity gets the better of me. I tentatively touch it. The second I do, it pings open and lands on the floor. A paperclip. She just stands there, trembling, as her skirt slides down and pools around her ankles. Holy shit. All those curves are suddenly front and center. The ugly blouse does little to cover the seam of her nylons and pink panties.

“Oh, my God,” she cries, panicked.

I try to avert my eyes, but it’s too late. My dick immediately swells against my boxers. Her cheeks pool with red, making her even more beautiful.

She reaches down to pull up the skirt, but I grab her wrist at the same time, stopping her. I help to pull it up, and she fastens it around her waist. I know from the other night that she has the tiniest of waists, beautiful, wide hips and a full ass, and here I am, in biting distance of them.
What the hell am I thinking
? I clear my throat. “You need new clothes.”

“I’m an intern. An
unpaid
intern,” she grumbles. She’s so very adorable when she mouths off. I think of how she’d screamed when she spilled the coffee in the meeting. She’d screamed so loud, she’d effectively silenced the Williams elite. The goal of that meeting is to see who can yell the loudest. And she’d effectively silenced all of them. The thought brings a smile to my lips.

 “Right.” I take her hand. The skin is puckered and red from the coffee. “How is this?”

“It’s okay,” she says, pulling it away.

She’s staring at me, so I quickly wipe the smile away and climb behind my desk so she won’t see how hard she’s made me. Then I put my glasses on and lean over this morning’s work.

 “That’s all, Miss Chase. Close the door on the way out.”

Chapter Nine

Cicily

Finally, lunch comes. I’d planned to spend the time in my cubicle, because I’ve managed to mortify myself in so many ways I didn’t know possible. Also, as punishment for the fact that I’d managed to think about sex precisely five-thousand and twenty-two times in my first three hours as a professional woman. Caden is my mother’s boss, and at least a decade older than me—he is totally off-limits. But while I’d gone through the remainder of the morning’s mundane activities, sorting papers, filing, and fetching coffee, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. About us, and what we did. About the way he’d looked at me when my skirt . . . oh, no. That hadn’t really happened, had it?

When he called me into his office, he was the picture of self-control. I was so certain he despised me, couldn’t stand to look at me. And then, that one moment, when my skirt fell, I saw something. It was just like that pen, falling from his hand. His composure melted away, and there it was . . . that raw, animal desire I’d seen in his eyes at the beach. I felt his hands tremble as he helped me with my skirt, and his breath hitch, and it was like I was watching a movie of it, happening to other people. It couldn’t be real. So I kept replaying it over and over in my mind, and I kept arriving at the same conclusion. I hadn’t imagined it. It
was
real. Even if it was only for a second . . . He wanted me. My mother’s boss wanted me. There were a million and one ways in which that was so so wrong, which is probably why I couldn’t stop thinking about it. And for that, I know I deserve to stay hidden and trapped in my dull cubicle—preferably with my legs stapled together. I am not like my mother, the workhorse, who fits into this world like a well-worn pair of jeans.