Page 37 of Big Daddy

But there’s fifteen minutes left in the work day. I know I can make her come in less than three.

Pen is talking to J.R., one of the law associates, and has been prattling on for the last five minutes. That’s twenty minutes I could have had with Winnie, but I had manners and gave five of those to Davis post-court. Now, though, he and J.R. need to get the fuck out.

“And I keep saying, it’s gotta be unanimous or else we’ll have a mistrial on our hands,” Pen says, his eyes growing wide, not unlike half dollars. “Mistrial means we go back, do it again, so more money for us, sure, but is that what’s really right for the client?” He poses the question in the phoniest voice. It’s the voice he uses when he wants the associates to think he’s thoughtful and sympathetic.

“Hey,” I say, interrupting him. I hate that he’s sitting in Winnie’s chair. Sure, she’s only sat there twice, but the first time she took it, it was hers. “Get out. I have something to do.”

Unfazed by my usual abrupt approach to communication, Pen gets to his feet. “C’mon J.R., the evening is young. We can continue this in my office.” Pen tips an imaginary hat to me—something he always does, and something that makes my skin crawl. Nodding while shooing them both out, I trail them to the door.

With a tight chest and my hands balled into fists at my side, I finally lay eyes on her.

Her back to me, Winnie sits at the desk right outside my office, a legal notepad next to her. On it are a few names and numbers, likely because I was already on the phone and she didn’t know how to send it to the answering service. But on her computer screen is one of the programs I had IT install for her, and it appears that she’s working on a website. Personal branding for it, or something like it. I’m not sure. In the top corner, a small music player reads “The Best of AC/DC” and when I take another small step forward, I notice Hells Bells is very quietly playing on her computer.

“Stop lingering, Large Father,” she says, still facing her screen.

I clear my throat, stuffing my now relaxed hands into my pockets. Just seeing her sets me at ease. “Try again.”

With a heavy sigh, she spins in the chair, looking up at me. Her eyes are bloodshot from staring at her screen, her curls have more volume, with more strands free, framing her face. Her full lips curve into a smirk that makes my chest thump when she says, “My apologies, Mr. Parker.”

I remain motionless as my eyes dart up, veering around the wide open space. There’s less than fifteen minutes of the work day left for all the assistants and secretaries, so it’s not a surpriseto see everyone’s focus is on tidying their spaces and readying their bags.

Two more minutes and we’ll be nearly alone. And nearly is close enough at this point.

“AC/DC fan?” I ask, because I don’t know much about Winnie, despite the fact I feel so connected. I sound like a hormonal teen with a fucking fortune cookie but I can’t help it.

She slaps her palms onto the arm rests of her chair. “Uh, yeah, and you’d be crazy not to be. Brian Johnson is the king of scream rock.”

I scratch my temple with one finger, tamping down my amusement. “Scream rock?”

Winnie makes a hand gesture and starts whipping her head, chestnut curls flying loose from her bun. “You know,” she says when she stops. “Rock you scream out to. Get the aggression out. No one listens to AC/DC and feels worse after, that’s all I’m saying.”

“I don’t think you’re wrong,” I say, surprised to discover her reasoning. Winnie is continually throwing me for a loop in the best ways, and I don’t know what to do with that information. I rub a palm down my tie under the guise of adjusting, but simply needing to move the air around in my chest. She makes me breathless for no reason and I’m not exactly a breathless type of man.

Asshole? Yes.

Aloof? You bet.

Breathless from tummy flutters? Fuck.

I hate who I’m becoming, but it also feels like breaking the surface and stealing a lungful of air after being underwater for too long.

Necessary, freeing and relieving, too.

“What else do you listen to?” I hedge as my eyes survey the space one more time. A woman struggles to fit an oversizedTupperware container in her purse, while another man ties and unties his shoes. I want them to get the fuck out, but I also realize this means a few more seconds of getting to know Winnie before I bury my face in her cunt and eat my first dinner of the night.

She coils a curl around her finger, and though her face doesn’t read seduction, my cock thickens. “A little bit of everything, I guess. Not a ton of new stuff since most of it is synthesized, or the artist doesn’t write their own stuff or anything. I mean, hey, not everyone is a songwriter. But if you’re not gonna write the music, at least play the guitar or snare drums, you know?”

I smirk.

“I just appreciate an artist who puts in the effort.” She rolls back a foot, allowing me full access to her computer screen. “Speaking of—you like my website? It’s fake, of course, but it’s kind of what I’m workshopping for my final project.”

“Building a site doesn’t seem like it should warrant a master’s degree,” I tell her. “That feels like an undergraduate degree final project,” I add.

First, she gives me the death glare, then she rolls her eyes, pointing to the logo at the top. “It’s not just about building the website. It’s about each design element. These aren’t plug-ins or clip art. I created every single thing. Each button graphic, all of it.” She folds her arms over her chest. “Get it?”

I narrow my eyes, stepping nearer to get a better view of the screen.

“Need your readers, Big Daddy?”

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