Page 77 of Catfish

“Again, it’s not something we’re concerned about,” Emmy proceeds. “We have a state dinner that we are in dire need of organizing. Unfortunately, we had to let our last event planner go.”

"That is unfortunate," Reagan states, and this is where I get paranoid.

She knows we need her.

Emmy might as well hold up a neon sign and host a firework show to elaborate how much we need a person to run my events. The next things that’ll more than likely come out of her mouth are her demands—how much she wants to be paid and some stupid-ass request about how she wants her coffee made every time she comes in the office.

Little Miss I-Want-to-Fuck-Until-I-Can’t-See-Straight isn’t going to be getting any special treatment.

She’s not getting any perks at all besides the door hitting her, more than likely, amazing ass on the way out.

“Do you have any special connections or things you can bring to the table, Miss Shelton?” I voice cooly. “That will separate you from the other applicants.”

Emmy drops her pen on her pad of paper, exasperated.

There are no other applicants.

Em is solely stuck on Reagan. And so the fuck am I at this moment apparently.

I swear that fuck-me dress has my cock straining to get free from the zipper of my Prada slacks. I want to straddle her legs so she can sit back in her chair and suck my dick while I reach down and play with her tits. To feel every hum and lasp of her tongue along my shaft while I ask her how much she likes it.

"I don't think there is anything you want, Mr. Lockwood, that I can't give you." Her eyes turn a shade lighter as they fasten to mine, and I can feel every double entendre she hits me with.

She's trying to be cute, sexy—shit, I already know she is. It doesn’t impress me as much as the I-don’t-give-a-fuck look on her face, which is easily plausable because, let’s face it, women are powerful and our dicks are powerless.

My first reaction is to play along, even with Em here, it wouldn't sway me not to. But what does stop me from playing into her little cocky comment is that I have an election to win. She's collateral damage I don't need, but a price my damn brain keeps contemplating.

Now she’s sitting across from me at the cherry wood table in one of my conference rooms with the confidence of a stripper in the middle of a pack full of horny men. Her posture is cool, relaxed, and I want to shake it—bad.

Standing from my chair, I button my suit jacket while keeping my eyes bolted on her. She might be beautiful, a fucking hellion in every single one of my fantasies, but I'm in control of my shit.

She's just a beautiful distraction, and I'm not convinced about her working for me while I have a shitload to do over the next few months.

Actually, I know for a solid fact that it’s the worst idea imaginable. You’d have to be Holden Montgomery to have to think so.

Reagan and I, working side by side together—yeah, not in this lifetime.

Then why did you let Emmy Lou interview her?

To get her to shut the hell up.

She’s been driving me nuts since I fired Viola. Confirming with me at least eight times a day that I’m not going to change my mind. That she’s so excited. That I’m the best boss in the world.

Laying it on thick even though she knows I don’t buy into that sort of shit.

However, we do need a replacement, and we need one fast. They'd have to be a perfect fit, less speaking and more doing. Not me doing her over my damn desk.

Geezus Christ.

I didn't overthink firing Viola, just threw her out with, literally, the ass AKA the donkey. I wasn't going to deal with mediocre shit when she was supposed to be the best, but that was more than likely two decades ago. Em was right, she was getting old and not with the times.

The live band, I could deal with, it was classic. The five sets of silverware—whatever. The donkey, eh, creative, dirty, and the thing smelled, but I could get away with it. But the moment Viola let in some loudmouthed rednecks who started talking about using immigrants as free labor, I realized she thought we were running in the eighteenth century, not the twenty-first.

“It was nice to meet you, Miss Shelton,” I quip, needing to get the hell out of this room before I decide her getting this job is a possibility. “Em, I’d like all the applications on my desk tomorrow morning.”

I tear myself from Reagan's face, one that would fit any model or actress, but she has the beauty of a torn soul. Her eyes don't glimmer with happiness or a carefree aura. They look like they've seen shit, from her file she has, and they've never diminished with time.

Something her and I share.

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