Page 7 of Dirty Nasty Billionaire: Part 1

Until I’m staring into Nixon Blake’s gorgeous eyes, that seem to freeze me in place while also burning a bonfire in my core.

Nixon bends down and plucks a gummy bear from the toe of his boot, dropping it into the bag in my hand. Then he locks me into his gaze again.

“Good,” he says, his voice low and gravelly. Just the sound of it causes my insides to liquify. “I’d hate to think I made a mistake bringing you here.”

I suck in a breath, feeling like I’ve been slapped.

He stares at me for a beat longer, making his disappointment known. Then he stands up and heads for the door, crossing the floor in just two strides of his long legs, his boots thudding on the concrete floor. Just before he’s gone, he pauses and turns. I’m still on the floor, a fistful of Swedish fish in one hand, a bag of dirty floor candy in the other.

“I was expecting more, Delaney. A lot more.” He practically growls the words, and in flash, he’s gone.

In that moment, something ignites within me. It’s a swirling, fiery mixture of anger and frustration and a little bit of righteous indignation. Ok, sure, I said a dumb thing. But if he was going to fire me, he should have done it by now. He can’t keep me around, dangling by a thread, so he can toy with me like some sick game of cat and mouse. So I spent part of my first day being less than my best self. But if I’m here to stay, then I’m going to spend the rest of this internship showing him I’m better than that. I’m going to spend the rest of this internship showing him that I deserve to be here, and that in the end, I’m the one who deserves that job.

I rise to my feet and chuck the bag of candy into the trash can, where it swooshes in. Nothing but net. I smooth out my shirt, push my shoulders back, and then march out of the break room. When I get to the elevator, I mash the button like the force will make it come faster. Once inside, I push the button for the tenth floor — the top, where I’m sure Nixon’s office must be. He seems like the kind of guy who stays on top at all times.

And for a split second, that thought gives me pause, because my mind conjures up an image of Nixon, out of that blue cashmere sweater, his bare chest hovering over me, supported by those muscular arms, his eyes on me once again as he —

Oh shit. Cut it out, Delaney.

I suck in a breath and let it out until the elevator doors slide open, my resolve recaptured.

I step out of the elevators into the executive suite. It’s as stark and hermetic as the rest of the building: polished concrete floors, white walls, furnishings of glass and chrome and black leather. It seems like it’s meant to make you feel off-balance, and it does. It definitely does.

The glass-topped desk that I assume belongs to Nixon’s assistant is empty. As is the desk that must belong to his second assistant. I glance at my watch. It’s just after 5pm. I’m guessing they’re gone? It seems strange that someone as demanding and exacting as Nixon Blake, who built an empire from his dorm room, would have assistants who just peaced out when the clock struck five.

The emptiness serves to put me more off-balance, but I have a few seconds to give myself a pep talk before I got knock on his door. That is, until Nixon steps out of the frosted glass door that leads into this office, his face buried in his phone.

Showtime.

“Excuse me, Mr. Blake?”

He glances up, blinking, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m a mirage or a real person.

“What are you doing up here?” He asks.

“I needed to speak with you privately, if that’s ok?”

He glances at the empty desks. “Fine.” He turns and heads back into his office. He doesn’t invite me in, or hold the door for me. I have to let myself in, which feels all kinds of wrong, but I suck it up and go. Operation Boss Bitch starts now.

The office is, if possible, even more austere than the rest of the building. It’s enormous, sure, as an executive suite should be. But instead of luxe furniture, enormous, priceless works of art, or framed photos of achievements, this office is a complete blank canvas. One wall is entirely glass, looking straight out onto the gray afternoon of the Boston Harbor. There’s one desk, a glass and chrome monstrosity, topped with nothing but an enormous desktop computer, a laptop, and a few small tablets and devices. There are no photos, no handwritten notes or file folders, no nameplates. It looks more like a display you’d see in a computer store than a desk an actual human person uses for work. Across from it are two very cold, very hard-looking metal chairs that do anything buy invite you to sit in them. There’s a black leather couch tucked away in a corner. The walls — white — are empty. The floor — polished concrete — is bare. The only color in the room comes from the blue cashmere sweater he’s wearing — and Nixon Blake’s ice blue eyes.

He sets his phone down on the desk and stares at me from behind his desk. He doesn’t say anything, but everything about his posture and expression reads get to it, and get out.

I clear my throat as quietly as possible, then begin, my voice thankfully clear and strong.

“I wanted to apologize for the inappropriate remark I made this morning,” I say. I force myself to keep eye contact with him, even though every part of me wants to stare down at my second-hand shoes. It takes every bit of my concentration to keep my voice from shaking. I continue. “I was trying to be funny — shocking — and I drastically missed the mark.”

I take a breath, ready to launch into the second part of my speech, the part about how that remark doesn’t represent me, and that not only do I deserve to be here, but I fully intend to prove it and earn back his respect. But before I can get there, Nixon speaks first.

“So you weren’t telling the truth, then? You have had an orgasm?” He’s staring directly at me, his mouth set in a firm line. But one eyebrow rises, just a fraction of a movement, that looks like a challenge. When I don’t respond (because my brain still grinding away on the sound of his deep voice saying the word ‘orgasm’), he levels a hard stare at me. “Yes. Or. No?”

He’s not going to let me off easy. He’s not going to let me just apologize. I’m going to have to prove to him that I’m made of just as much concrete and steel as this building. I’m going to have to prove that I’m not going to get rattled, either by saying orgasm, or hearing it said to me (by the hottest man on the planet). So I pull my posture up, raising my chin just a bit.

“No, I haven’t,” I say, willing my voice not to shake. “That was true. But it’s not the point.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, causing his biceps to bulge in a way that begs my eyes to go there and linger, but I don’t.

“What is the point, then?” He asks.

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