Page 3 of Big Boss
“Fine.”I manage at last. “We’re elevator buddies until we get to your floor. But I’m still a little bit mad at you, so don’t expect me to make small talk with you right now.”
He tiltshis head just so. “Really? Well, we’ve got another couple of minutes at least until we reach my floor, so what do you propose we do?”
I feellike this is some kind of trick. Because the answer is definitely not make out, right? Nope. I don’t make out with strangers who steal my coffee. I don’t make out withanybody.
“You still owe me an apology.”I fold my arms across my chest and give him a renewed, extra stanky stink eye.
“Erica,”he murmurs, and the sound of my name in his honeyed voice makes me want to slide closer to him and rub myself all over him like a cat in heat.
How embarrassing is this?I’m definitely not this way around strangers, especially not when it comes to no-good, unrepentant coffee snatchers. Particularly ones who have been working overtime to irritate me. It must be some sort of pheromones. Mercury in retrograde.Something.
I lick my lips,but can’t quite bring myself to look at him because I’m sure he will read all the lustful thoughts written plainly across my face and that is unacceptable because all he’s done is drive me up the wall and then croon my name.
Why doesit feel like he’s flirting with me? Surely not. Not a man like this. Tall and too attractive for anyone’s good. He’s wearing a suit that looks like it was made to kiss every inch of him, and yet he’s got an entire man bun, like some sort of rebellious cousin to a CEO. A man who is old enough to be my father, but looks like every sexy daddy meme come to life.
But what ifhe isn’t flirting with me? I mean, all he said was my name. But what if I’m the only one who feels like the elevator is suddenly too small and about ten degrees warmer than it was when we got in?
“Erica,”he says again, and I can’t resist any longer. I have to look at him again, and this time I find he’s watching me carefully, and somehow he’s even closer to me, invading my personal space with his big, bulky-shouldered body.
“I’msure you’ve already figured out that I’m not the kind of man who ever apologizes. But if you’re a good girl, I’ll be sure to give you twenty bucks when we get to my floor. Then you can buy your own replacement coffee at a very specific time of your choosing.”
I stiffenat the tone of his voice. Silky, smooth, and dripping with disdain. Like I’m somehow trying to shake him down for a few dollars, instead of a victim of robbery who was locked up in an elevator with a gaslighting flirt—extra emphasis on theasssound.
“Huh.And here I was thinking maybe you weren’t actually as bad as you seem. But it turns out you’re worse.”
His lips curlup into a wicked grin and my stomach flips over again as he leans closer, until his lips are right against the side of my face. Probably because the elevator’s moving so fast. I mean, that’s the only plausible explanation.
I can feelhis hot breath against my cheek when he whispers, “Yes, even you can tell that I’m so much worse than I seem, Erica.” He draws my name out, purring it in his sinful voice, and I really want to throw myself at him, coffee be damned.
But the elevatorsighs to a stop, effectively ending our standoff. And right as the elevator doors slide open, he stuffs a twenty-dollar-bill right down into the front of my sunflower dress, nestled between the curves of my cleavage.
I gape at his audacity.
And just then,the pop of a thousand flashbulbs renders me temporarily blind as a throng of reporters take aim and start yelling out questions.
“Mister Tate!”
“Donovan!”
The voices are comingin a roar, washing over me in waves as I stand in the elevator, unable to move from the paralyzing rush of anxiety that’s flooding my veins.
“Who’s the new girl?”
2
Tate
Oh no.This is bad. Really big bad. Fuck.
The goddamned paparazzi has exactly zero business being gathered like a flock of vultures in my office lobby, so someone in building security is definitely going to lose their job later on this morning.
But before I can throw my weight around and officially ruin a deserving person’s day, I can see that I need to help this Erica girl get off the elevator.
She was all cute and fired up when I put that money down the front of her dress, but she froze like a baby deer when the elevator doors opened and we got mobbed with camera flashes and some horrifically embarrassing questions that I’m going to have to buy my way out of later.
I’ve seen a panic attack before. I’ve had them, too. And even if it wasn’t completely my fault she’s caught in the crossfire of my current press shitstorm, I’d still feel obligated to get her out of the elevator and to a safe space to calm down.
I wouldn’t leave my worst enemy stranded like that, and certainly not someone who seemed to have such a sharp wit. And also, this entire shitshow is completely my fault, isn’t it?
