Page 72 of Hold You Close
Ian pushes deeper inside me, and his voice is deep and husky. “You feel like home.”
Tears fill my eyes, blurring his gorgeous face. It’s too much.
“Am I hurting you?” he asks.
“The opposite.”
My hands cup his cheeks and I pull his mouth to mine. Tears run down my cheeks as I kiss him. Every emotion I ever locked away comes flooding forward and I feel each one ten times stronger than when I’d locked it up. I can’t contain it any longer.
I’m irrevocably in love with Ian Chase.
Sixteen
London
“London,” my boss snaps from across the conference table. “Are you even listening to me?”
I straighten up in my chair and refocus on my laptop screen. The truth is I have not been listening to him for at least the last five minutes, and I was probably only half-listening for the hour before that—actually, make that the last month. “Sorry, Casey.” I clear my throat. “You were saying?”
“Christ, London. You’ve been so distracted lately, I don’t even know what to do with you. And you’re late all the time now too. Or you’re leaving early. Is there a problem I need to know about?”
“No. No problem.” Quite the contrary, in fact. Since Ian and I have been—I don’t even know what to call it . . . dating? Sleeping together? Playing house? Whatever—I’ve never been happier.
“Then would you mind paying attention to what I’m saying and not staring off into space like my goddamn sixteen-year-old daughter when I’m talking to her? I get that she couldn’t care less about what I have to say, but you’re still looking at a promotion this year. If you want my full recommendation, you’d better at least do a better job pretending to give a fuck.”
I frown. “I’m sorry. You’re right.”
But the moment he starts to drone on about the economic impact of lower energy prices on the gaming industry in certain states, my mind starts to wander again.
To Ian’s lips. And his eyes. And his hands. And his voice. To the way he curls his body around mine when he crawls into bed with me after work. To the way he kisses me goodbye in the morning before I sneak back to my house, tiptoeing across the lawn with a grin on my face.
I’ve been showering and dressing for work at home, but I go back to Ian’s to help him get the kids off to school before going to the office, which is why I’ve been coming in late. Ian always has a cup of coffee waiting for me when I return. He kisses me hello, as if we haven’t spent the entire night in each other’s arms, and we share a secret smile that leaves me a little breathless. Or maybe it’s his messy hair leaving me breathless. His bare chest and low-slung pajama pants. He’s got that V thing that peeks out above the drawstring waist, and the sight of it sets off a massive wave of butterflies in my stomach.
Sometimes he whispers in my ear about what my high heels are doing to him—or my pencil skirt. He loves the pencil skirts. We work alongside one another in the kitchen, serving breakfast, packing lunches, filling water bottles, signing permission slips, double-checking homework, going over the afternoon schedules, hurrying the kids out the door. It’s noisy and chaotic and sometimes difficult when one child or another is slow to get moving, or refuses to drink their juice, or realizes at the last second they forgot to tell us they need money for a field trip/canned goods for the homeless/a Betsy Ross costume for a book report. But it’s a lovely kind of chaos, and Ian and I handle it together. Lately, I’ve been driving the girls to school while he drops Christopher off just to save a little time. Sometimes we manage one last kiss on the cheek before racing out the door, and sometimes we barely exchange a parting glance, but it’s okay. We’re making it work.
“London, for God’s sake.”
I snap to in time to see Casey roll his eyes at me. “Ah. Sorry. I missed that. Can you repeat the last part about regulatory reform?”
He sighs loudly. “You know, I haven’t mentioned this, and maybe I shouldn’t because you’re not doing much to build my confidence in you lately, but there’s an even bigger spot opening up if we get that Atlantic City hotel and casino account.”
“There is?”
“Yes. I even thought about putting in for it.”
“What is it?”
“CFO.”
I suck in my breath, and my pulse races. “Really?”
He nods. “But it’s a lot of responsibility. And until a couple weeks ago, I’d hardly have hesitated to recommend you. Your credentials are excellent, and your performance here has been stellar. Your work ethic is exemplary, and your conduct has been professional.”
Pride fills me. “Thank you. I work hard, so that means a lot.”
“But,” he continues, ignoring my comment, “if I’m going to throw your name in the ring, I need to know you’d give this job a hundred and ten percent. Corporate won’t stand for any half-assed or distracted efforts. If you’ve got personal issues of some kind that are going to get in the way of your career . . .”
I bristle. “I don’t.”
