Page 12

The office is a ghost town as I expected when I swipe my keycard over the sensor next to the double doors behind the lobby, which won’t be unlocked by the receptionist for another few hours.

After fitting in a quick run on the treadmill and a shower, I spent half an hour reorganizing the contents of my closet, hanging the newly cleaned dress shirts by color.

I made a note to yell at the housekeeper for forgetting the precise order, the darks on one side, the whites on the other with the colors organized by gradient in between.

By the end of that exercise, the haunted darkness inside me quashed to a low simmer, and I felt like I could breathe again.

Then, I came to the one place I knew I’d feel at peace, the place where I understood my role as soon as I stepped through the entrance.

I know a lot of men make much more money than they can spend on Wall Street, and they’d blow some of it on drugs or women, but I prefer to sequester my billions in investments and bank accounts.

It’s not the money that drives me to work each day, but the satisfaction of each kill, each deal, the way the numbers always work in my favor after careful analysis and decisions on my part.

It gives me a thrill, a hit that jolts my system, livening up my senses.

Because only I can do it better than anyone else.

A heated rush churns inside me as I imagine the day ahead, the problems waiting for me to solve, to dismantle, and the last wisps of unease from my troublesome night finally disappear .

I stare at my phone, swiping through the unanswered messages I received last night.

Emily

Adrian and Parker are on their way to NYC. Treat them well…or else.

I smirk, imagining my sister wagging her finger at me like I’m still the short kid in middle school who she can boss around.

Steven

Consider it done. I’ll take great care of your husband, Ems. Don’t you worry about a thing.

Emily

Don’t you dare get him into something he shouldn’t get into.

Steven

You have so little faith in him?

Emily

No, I have zero faith in you. But now that I think about it, what are you going to do to him, anyway? Gourmet fine dining him to death? Have an all-work all-nighter party? Seriously, bro, you need to stop working so much. Do you need me to introduce you to some women?

Chuckling under my breath, I shake my head. Everyone knows my penchant for fine dining, so that’s no surprise. But come on, I have friends. I just don’t see them as often as I should.

The sound of a chair squeaking catches my attention.

My steps slow and I look up, noticing a warm glow radiating from one of the cubicles in the bullpen. The rest of the floor is still dark, the faint blue light from the beginnings of dawn barely filtering through the windows .

Frowning, I slowly approach the cubicle in question—I wonder why maintenance didn’t turn off all the lights before they went home after their daily cleaning.

But instead of finding the space empty, I’m greeted with a sight so jarring and unexpected, I stop in my tracks and blink a few times to make sure it’s not a product of my sleepless imagination.

The intern…Grace, is bobbing her head like she’s at a psychedelic rave, her hands swingingly wildly in front of her, a headset reminding me of the cheap free ones they give out on commercial flights perched on her ears.

Her computer monitor is turned on, and she is now typing manically while looking at the spreadsheet in front of her.

After a few seconds, she glances at an open tablet next to the keyboard and swipes at it.

She stares at the tablet for a few seconds, then emits something confusing like, “Aww…so swoony,” and goes back to shaking her head like nobody’s business, her attention returning to the spreadsheet on her computer.

An interesting sensation flitters inside me, like tingles traveling up my spine, and I bite my cheek to hold back a snort.

I had bumped into her a time or two in the break room and she’d volunteer statistics or updates on her research with pride shining in her eyes.

I’d swallow the urge to ask her more questions about herself, to prolong our fleeting interactions, because she is like a book written in an ancient script I can’t read, and somehow, that makes me more desperate to understand.

Quietly, I creep toward her, wanting to observe this creature in her natural habitat, to see what she is doing at this ungodly hour.

Standing silently behind her, I hear faint strains of music from her headphones and squint at the tablet, reading silently the text that had her so riveted a few moments ago.

Lord Bingley hauled her up on the table and shredded her clothes with the desperation of a dying man.

His teeth nipped at her neck. She moaned, her nipples beaded in sharp points, and she cried, “Craig, it has always been you.” Bingley groaned while his large hands palmed her breasts.

He murmured, “I don’t need anything in the world.

I don’t need success or money. I don’t need my titles or estates. I only need you in my life. ”

Grace pauses her work on the spreadsheet again and turns her attention back to her reading tablet. Her head isn’t moving anymore as she lets out a breathy gasp from those beautiful, cupid’s bow lips of hers.

Heated blood rushes south at the little sound, which registers in my twisted brain as a half moan mixed with a soft sigh.

Coupled with the erotic text and the faint fragrance of jasmine and something spicy lingering in the air, my cock stiffens inconveniently, and I find myself bending down, my nose seeking the source of the alluring scent.

My nose almost grazes her hair, tied in a simple ponytail at the nape, and I suddenly pull back a few inches, feeling every bit of a creep. What the fuck?

“Please, this Craig is just trying to get in her pants. ‘I only need you in my life,’” I scoff, “how ridiculous, ” I murmur, my voice sounding hoarse, even as my eyes wander back to the text, wondering what will happen to Craig and this mysterious woman.

Grace shrieks, her cry sharp in the silence of the office, and she leaps up from her chair, her head smacking me square on my nose.

“Fuck!” I grunt as I jolt back, and cover my smarting nose with my hand, my eyes burning from the piercing pain.

Grace whirls around, her hands covering her mouth, her eyes comically large. “Oh shit,” she gasps. “Sir, I didn’t see you there. I’m so, so sorry.”

She flounders forward, her hands reaching out as if trying to check my face to make sure I’m okay, and I hold her off, blinking away the moisture in my eyes.

The pain slowly dulls, and I scrunch my nose, wincing at the lingering soreness.

Everything appears to be okay. I hope I don’t have a bruise since I have a board meeting later today.

Apparently seeing I’m well, Grace narrows her eyes into slits. “Hold on, why are you looking over my shoulder? And reading my romance novel?”

“Is that what that drivel is?” I arch my brow, setting down my laptop bag on the floor and lean against the cubicle wall .

Grace frowns, her lips twisting in a cute little pout. “It’s not drivel! It’s beautiful writing, and I agree some of it may be unrealistic, but that’s what fiction is all about, for us to escape from reality.”

“Huh.” I cock my head to the side. “At least you and I agree that shit you’re reading isn’t reality. I’d be disappointed if our most promising intern has her head in the clouds.”

She breaks into a smile, as if pleased at my compliment, but her lips quickly flatten as she processes the rest of my sentence. “It’s not shit. And my choice in reading material has nothing to do with my work abilities.”

She tilts up her chin, her eyes defiant, which from up close I can finally make out the color, a brilliant shade of violet.

I cross my arms and level a chilly gaze at her just to see what she’d do.

She mirrors my pose and adds a cocked brow for measure.

We stare at each other for a few silent seconds, faint music humming from her headphones, which are now curled around her slender neck. My lips twitch in an effort not to grin.

The balls on this woman.

I clear my throat and motion to the computer monitor. “What are you doing here so early in the morning?”

She softens, her hands fiddling with the atrocity she has on today, some oversized purple knitted sweater with wide legged pants.

She looks like she has been swallowed up by her clothes.

“I usually come in early to get some work and reading done, but last night, I couldn’t sleep because of the wind. So, I came in earlier than usual.”

It seems like insomnia doesn’t care if you’re rich or working class.

“What are you working on?”

Her gaze flits up to me and she replies, “I’m compiling some statistics from the Voss Industries filings from the last five years.

Just trying to see if I can identify a behavior pattern in their investments and performance.

Maybe something in the past may indicate their strategy toward TransAmerica.

I know your team already has most of the information gathered, but I like to do my own research as well, just in case—”

“Anything is missed,” I murmur. Just what I’d do if I were in her shoes.

An unfamiliar warmth builds in my chest, and in the stillness of the office, I finally allow myself a few seconds to take her in.

My eyes sweep down her face, noticing how translucent her skin is, how her delicate throat flutters when she swallows, to the elegant fingers dipped in a light shade of pink polish, seemingly out-of-place given the rest of her attire and her lack of makeup and adornment on her body.