Page 12 of City of Wind and Lies

"Knock, knock," an unfamiliar voice calls, knuckles rapping on the glass of my open door.

Humming in response, I look up from my computer to see a middle-aged man with light brown hair and a paunch of a belly standing in the doorway. I’ve been here for two weeks and never seen this man before, but something about him immediately gives me the icks.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm Allen, Allen Whitmore. Head of accounting," he says, stepping into my office with a to-go cup of coffee in each hand. "I brought you a latte and an apology."

My face must be broadcasting my confusion because he jumps into quickly explaining as he hesitantly places the paper cup on my desk and backs away.

He takes a sip of his own cup and lets out a little chuckle. "I'm sure I'm holding up your progress on the reports. I'd asked Mr. Sorrentino for an extension on month-ends, but I'm still not finished with it. We were supposed to be getting a new accountant but, I guess he wanted you for himself." His eyes linger on my cleavage before settling on my face. "I can see why."

"Excuse me!" I huff without an ounce of decorum as I shoot to my feet, folding my arms across my chest.

"Easy, sweetheart. It was just a compliment." His free hand goes up in mock surrender, but the innuendo is clear in his next sentence. "I've heard it's on a trial basis anyway. Still time for you to be under me."

My feet move on their own accord as I step closer, rear my hand back, and slap the smug look from his face.

I should've checked my temper, but I've got a nasty flair for acting first and thinking second. My social worker labeled me as 'impetuous' and 'overly emotional', part of the reason I was deemed “not suitable” for foster care in my teens and left in a group home. If I knew anything about my family, I'd blame it on a fiery, free-spirited mother or a dad who taught me to stand up for myself, but I don't.

His face twists up into a scowl as he snatches my wrist. He opens his mouth to speak, but it's not his voice I hear- it's Bowie's.

"Is there a problem here?"

My stomach knots. Shit, this guy's a department head. I'm totally going to get fired.

Allen's frown tips into a sly smile as his grasp shifts from my wrist to holding my fingers. He lazily shakes my hand before slipping his own into his pocket. "None at all, Mr. Sorrentino."

"Wren- is that true?" Bowie asks, his posture stiff as he eyes me dubiously.

Ugh, why do I like it so much when he says my name?

I weigh my options. Tell the big boss about Allen's predatory comments without any proof to back it up, or let it go. Allen's wearing the evidence of my action on his left cheek and he didn't rat me out…

I slowly let out a frustrated breath, shaking my head as I answer, "No problem. Allen was just introducing himself."

Bowie's eyes narrow as he studies me, like he's trying to decipher my tells. He won't discover them so easily.

"Okay then," he nods, pulling his phone from his pocket and typing away on it furiously. "Allen, you will have the month-end reports to Wren by the end of the week or you'll be training your replacement," Bowie says, not bothering to glance up from his screen.

The shit-eating grin on Allen's face falls quicker than my panties did the other night at Bowie's commanding tone. "Yes sir," he grinds out, shooting me a loathsome glare before hurrying off down the hall.

Bowie tucks his phone back into his pocket and paces off towards the breakroom. I swallow harshly, the knots of panic in my stomach loosening when I realize I'm not getting fired. Returning to my desk and shaking the mouse, my computer screen comes back to life and that feeling of dread crashes back into me the second I see an email waiting from Bowie.

Meet me in the breakroom immediately.

-BS

If my career wasn't suddenly back on the chopping block, I'd laugh at his initials like the mature twenty-three-year-old I am.

I didn't bring lunch, so my eyes dart around the office, looking for an excuse to go to the breakroom.

The coffee.

I smooth my skirt, grab the bribe latte from the corner of my desk, and cross the reception area. Cami smiles and nods at me as I pass her, raising my cup and giving it a gentle shake, saying, "Going to warm this up."

My heartbeat thrums loudly in my ears, perfectly in sync with clips of my heels on the tile of the empty hall. It's a little after ten, too early for lunch and past the morning break. I rack my brain trying to figure out why he wants me to meet him there, of all places, instead of his office.

Every single thought I had in my head evaporates at the sight of his bulky frame bent over the coffee maker. The light blue material of his shirt is putting in extra work for the way it's tightly stretched across his broad, defined shoulders. And don't get me started on how the light gray slacks hug his muscular thighs and ass.

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