Page 10 of Bidding For Her Curves

I have to trust, to just know that it’s not my imagination, that maybe, just maybe…

A toilet brush appears under my nose, bringing me crashing back down to earth.

“You can start in there,” Karen grunts. “I have to go to the hairdresser’s now, and then pick up my gown that you ruined.”

I look at the phone again, half expecting it to ring. To have Mason’s voice in my ear again, to have him tell Karen she’s fired.

But nothing happens.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” she growls, and I straighten, taking the brush and heading for her bathroom.Chapter SixMasonI know Jules wouldn’t just hang up like that, and glancing over Karen’s photo again, then her employee profile, I get the picture.

How do we hire people like that?

I make a mental note of the charity Karen has chosen and also of the one Jules picked out.

My reflex is to call back, to introduce myself to Karen, and maybe ask her to come down for a little chat about her performance, but my mind is so full of Jules right now.

Glancing at my Rolex… again, it’s a good five hours before I even have to be at the auction.

So much for not even wanting to go.

I’m not sure I feel like going that long without Jules either, plus I never actually confirmed she was going. She mentioned she was feeling sick.

Yet she’s at work on a Saturday.

That’s the kind of employee Thorne Industries is all about.

My hand hovers over the phone, and I imagine her there on the other end, waiting for me to call her back.

I groan to myself. I’m forty not fourteen.

She makes me feel like a teenager all over again though. These butterflies in my stomach. I can’t think about anything else.

Not to mention this damn hard on.

Reasoning with myself that she’s not only in the auction catalog, but also works for the department in charge of organizing the event, I tell myself she’ll be there.

If she feels anything like the way I do, she’ll be there.

If all else fails, I have her home address.

Pacing in front of the huge floor to ceiling windows of my office, I start to feel dizzy myself and wonder if this fever is catching.

It’s doing me no good to mope around here, but it’s too soon to get ready for tonight and I don’t want to ruin my chances or scare her off by just showing up at her office either.

I honestly don’t know if I could control myself if I saw her alone again.

It should be safer at the auction.

Feeling cooped up, I call down for a car to be ready and notice my arousal has finally reached an acceptable level to be seen out in public. I head down and decide to go check out the charity Jules picked.

It’ll also give me a chance to see her neighborhood. Which is about as close as I dare get to her right now.

Traffic is light, and it looks like rain. There’s more than one shitty side to this city and it pains me to think Jules is stuck living in one of the worst.

I find to the soup kitchen she’s nominated as her charity. It’s always open by the looks. Parking out front, I decide to head inside and have a look around.

I wouldn’t describe myself as a celebrity, but people generally know my face. And it seems the tougher people do in life the more they seem to retain the face of the rich.

But I don’t mind. I’m here to do some good, and not wanting to be an asshole, I get in line with everyone else.

A few people frown and point. One guy gets nasty, asking if I really need a free meal.

I crease a smile, figuring I should expect some folks to be taken aback. But I want to get a feel for the place.

I’d like to see the manager if they’re about.

“You looking for someone?” A voice behind me asks, and I turn to see a man who looks more than a little down on his luck, but who can tell based on appearances, right?

I know people who dress better than I do, live larger and have nothing to their name. They just happen to owe a half a billion dollars, but everything is relative, I guess.

“Jules McPherson,” I hear myself saying, sounding protective, feeling myself tense up, and loom over the man slightly.

He shakes his head. “Name’s don’t mean much here, buddy. Maybe you’re in the wrong line.”

I turn away from him, not wanting to start anything.

The line creeps forward and before long I’m facing a friendlier, but somewhat confused looking older woman who blinks over fogged up glasses as she serves some fairly decent looking soup with crusty rolls.

“Can I help you?” she asks, looking me up and down, and eyeing, my Rolex.

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