Page 5 of Wild Love
So, with one more brief smile, I snatch up the stack of papers from the table in front of me and hustle back to my seat at the boardroom table. The solid pressure from the backrest of my chair has me sighing as I relax back into it.
As someone from accounting takes their turn, Stan leans in toward me, probably to complain about how buying another gravel pit will cost the company money while completely ignoring the fact it will also make them more money.
“You were great. Such a smart girl.”
My lips tug back as I try to swallow a wince.Such a smart girlmakes me want to hurl all over his expensive tan slacks. But I swallow my vomit and force an awkward smile onto my face like I’m flattered by his condescension. “Thank you, Stan.”
The meeting drags on in a boring blur of people talking, spreadsheets on projectors, and me trying to convince myself I’m going to love this job eventually. I have too many student loans to let myself think otherwise.
This is the best job ever!
I repeat the sentiment in my head, thinking about my sizable paycheck. How grown up I’ll feel when I’m debt free. I’m the most educated person in my family. Working in the city at a Fortune 500 construction materials company.
Living the dream.
Before I know it, the meeting has ended and most people have filed out of the room—Faye whispered “you killed it” in my ear before departing—but not me. I’m still the newest employee in the room, which means I’ll be the one cleaning up after the production meeting. As I’m tidying the room, Stan, who is still lingering at the table, gestures me toward him.
“I need you a moment, Rosie.”
“Rosalie,” I correct. Because Stan doesn’t know me well enough to call me Rosie.
He just chuckles, like my request is amusing.
Stan is the best boss ever!
If I think it enough times, maybe I’ll believe that too.
“Can you come show me on this map exactly which property you were talking about?” he asks. “The one that borders our current pit?”
“Of course.”
When I come to stand beside him, he has a satellite image map on his laptop screen, zoomed all the way out like he can’t even figure out which country we’re in.
“May I?” I ask, pointing at his mouse. He nods and lifts his hands, leaning back in his chair but not getting out of the way.
I brush it off and bend down, maneuvering the map to where it needs to go. With a few clicks, I zoom in and shift over until the outline of the property in question comes into view.
“Right there.” I point at it just as I feel a hand on the top of my ass.
Hishand.
I freeze, shocked by the contact and by the absolute gall of this man. He could have claimed he was touching my tail bone or something equally ridiculous, but then he slides his big, meaty palm down over the curve of my butt. His fingers trail over the middle, about to dig in, when I turn abruptly and slap his hand away.
He has the audacity to give me a set of wide, little-boy eyes, like he’s innocent. It pisses me off.
Hepisses me off.
I transform from friendly Rosie into I’ll-fucking-kill-you Rosie. After all, you don’t grow up the only sister to a guy like Weston Belmont and enter adulthood without a scrappy side at least partially intact.
My shoulders go rigid and ice hardens my voice. “Stan, if I wanted you to touch me, I would tell you.”
“Rosie—”
“But now I’ll have to tell HR instead. You’re a pig.”
He looks stunned by my words, by the abruptness with which I scoop up my belongings and storm toward the door.
You’d think he’d apologize, beg for mercy, but instead, he says, “HR is gone for the day. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”
