Page 8 of Reluctantly Yours
See? Maybe I can convince Bea to use her power for good. Hope blooms in my chest, but before I can press her further, my phone buzzes in my purse. My phone never rang, but it appears I have a voicemail.
“Would you excuse me a moment?” I ask Bea, then turn away from her desk.
I click play to hear it.
“This message is for Chloe, this is Angelica calling from Le Pavillon to confirm the private party room for your sixteen guests on Friday…”
I’m listening to the message when the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. The sound of size twelve wing tips striding toward us ratchets up my pulse. Even on carpet, his footfalls echo ominously. And because every villain has a theme song, somewhere an imaginary speaker system pipes in Foreigner’s “Cold As Ice.”
The instinct to not leave my back exposed has me dropping my phone into my purse and turning around.
Barrett’s approach feels like it’s in slow motion. His dark hair is thick and wavy, the kind of hair your hands could get lost in. It’s styled meticulously, not a hair out of place. I doubt he ever has bed head because robots don’t sleep. His hazel eyes, the same as JoAnna’s, are framed by long, dark lashes. Lashes that any woman would kill for and are completely wasted on a man. Perfect nose, square jaw—you know the type.
While I’m aware of his facial features, I try to keep the details of Barrett’s body out of my mind. He’s not just a floating head, so I know he has one. It’s been covered in a suit every time I’ve seen him. A suit that fits over broad shoulders and a trim waist. There’s no need to go into details about the fit of his pants over his muscular thighs or the way they hug his firm ass. We won’t even discuss the slight bulge at the front of his pants that I most definitely do not ever squint to see better.
He's the kind of man that you could stare at for hours imagining all the filthy things he might say to you, but when he opens his mouth to speak, he inevitably ruins everything.
“What are you doing here?” Barrett asks, barely stopping before we’re toe to toe.
I silence the call and drop my phone into my purse.
“Ms. Anderson came by to collect the check for the Books 4 Kids fundraising event,” Bea volunteers, lifting said check in Barrett’s direction.
I’m still as a statue, a tight smile plastered to my face.Just sign the check,I want to say through my teeth. Barrett glances at the check, then back to me. While his hazel eyes bore into me, his expression is unreadable.
Without a word, he takes the check from Bea and walks into his office.
“Mr. St. Clair will see you now.” Bea nods encouragingly, then ushers me toward his office door.
I don’t want to beseen.I want to collect the check and skedaddle. Barrett could have signed the check and carried on without a word. But, that’s not his style. He likes silence, but only as a form of torture. To make the other person squirm. My defense tactic is to talk enough for the both of us.
“Wow, I really like what you’ve done with the place,” I announce, as I take in the entirety of his office. Empty shelves, blank walls. It looks like he’s been here seven minutes, not seven years.
“It’s minimalist,” he says with an edge to his tone as he takes a seat behind his desk. His elbows rest casually on the chair arms, his long fingers intertwine and hang in the space between him and the desk. He looks like he’s in no hurry. Yay for me.
“I actually think you went a step beyond that, this is more like nothingness.”
“I like to keep things tidy. It doesn’t appear that is one of your attributes.” Barrett’s eyes drop to my blouse. For a moment, I think he’s checking out my boobs until I look down to discover there’s a smudge of chocolate on my camisole from the warm, gooey cookie I ate on the way here. I couldn’t not get a cookie for myself. That’s disrespectful to the cookie gods. I pull my pink cardigan farther over to cover the chocolate stain.
I pick up the single pen that is on his desk, the only thing besides his computer and phone, and offer it to him.
He doesn’t take the pen so now I’m awkwardly holding it out and it weighs more than any writing utensil should. It’s got to be encased in gold or lead or something.
“Pitch it to me,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest in a power pose that is both arrogant and sexy at the same time.
“What do you mean?” I say, my eyes narrowing.
“The reason I should donate my hard-earned money to Books 4 Kids.”
A choked laugh escapes me.
“You already pledged the money for the sponsorship.” I can feel myself getting worked up. If Barrett thinks he’s going to mess with me by withdrawing his sponsorship, he’s ridiculous. Books 4 Kids is JoAnna’s pet project. He’ll have to explain to her why he withdrew SCM’s donation. Although, if I come back without a check, I’ll have to explain that, too.
“I want to hear where my money is going. Why I’m donating a million dollars to your cause.”
“That’s a good question. Why are you only donating a million dollars? You’re a gajillionaire. You could afford to donate more.”
He smirks, but doesn’t say anything. Again, silence is his weapon of choice.