Page 20 of Rules Of Engagement: St. Louis
Coffee. I needed coffee to function properly.
I entered my office to see that the usual steaming cup on my desk had already gone cold. My assistant poured it an hour ago, when I would habitually be entering the office promptly. But I was too distracted by memories of falling asleep against Christian’s shoulder to get here on time. The way his fingers had felt intertwined with mine. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat that lulled me to sleep and the jazz music I’d woken up to.
Then last night, I remembered him in my dreams—that five o’clock shadow, brown skin, heavy lidded gaze unreadable but warm, and those powerful forearms with shirt sleeves rolled up sprinkled with hair. He had that look again, like he saw straight through the façade I was holding on to, and that made me want to fold into his chest and push him away at the same time.
And later, when I leaned into him, when his arm slid around my shoulders, I closed my eyes and let myself pretend, just for a minute, that this was more than an illusion.
“Focus, Naomi,” I muttered to myself, settling behind my mahogany desk and opening my laptop.
The morning light streamed through the windows, illuminating the framed photograph on my desk. It was my parents at their fortieth wedding anniversary last year. My father, even in retirement, maintained that military posture in his dress uniform. My mother was radiant beside him, their love evident in every line of their faces.
I touched the frame, thinking about the way my mother still lit up when my father entered a room. Forty-three years together, and they still held hands during movies. Still laughed at each other’s jokes. Still chose each other every single day.
A soft knock interrupted my thoughts. “Ms. Blackford? Your ten o’clock is here.”
I glanced up at my assistant, Tamara, who stood in the doorway with a file folder in her hands. “Send her in.”
The young woman who entered looked nervous, fidgeting with the strap of her designer purse. She was in her early twenties, with styled black, wavy hair, wearing a black sheath dress, also a designer piece. Ivy League, according to her application. Stunning, certainly. But there was an air of softness about her that made me wonder if she understood what this business required.
“Please, have a seat.” I gestured to the leather chair across from my desk, studying her as she settled herself. “I’ve reviewed your application, Miss...”
“Carter. Jessica Carter.” She meant to sound sophisticated, but I could hear the breathiness in her tone.
“Tell me, Jessica, why do you want to work for me?”
She straightened, launching into what sounded like a rehearsed speech about financial independence and empowerment. But halfway through, she faltered, and her confidence cracked.
“I... the truth is, I need the money. My trust fund got cut off when I dropped out of law school, and I heard you pay your girls well.”
I leaned back in my chair, appreciating the honesty if not the naivety. “You know, Ms. Carter, my clients expect sophistication, intelligence, and complete discretion. They’re paying for an experience, not just a pretty face.”
“I understand that.”
I opened her file and scanned the information again. “What happens if you like one of them?”
The question seemed to catch her off guard. Her expression faltered, and I saw the uncertainty underneath.
“Well... what do you mean?”
“What if you find yourself counting the minutes until you see him again? What if you start imagining conversations with himwhen he’s not there? What if the lines between business and personal start to blur?”
Jessica’s eyes widened slightly. “I... that wouldn’t happen. I mean, that’s what the rules are for, right?”
I smiled, but it was hollow. “That’s what the rules are for.”
After Jessica left with a promise to “think about whether this is really what she wants,” I sat, staring at the wall behind my desk. Hanging there in a sleek black frame was a printed card, the words cursively scripted:
No Explanations. No Expectations. No Complications
The rules that had governed my arrangement with Christian were the same rules that had made everything simple, clean, and manageable. I wrote them. Signed them and built an empire on them.
And now, I wanted to break all three.
My phone buzzed against the glass surface of my desk. It was a text from one of my best friends, Journey Peterson:“Let’s grab some coffee later today? I have news!”
I typed back:“I have a busy day ahead. Let’s do it a different day this week.”
Even as I sent the message, I chastised myself for bailing. I could have made time for Journey. I always did. She was one of the few people who could pull me out of my head when I got like this. But today, I didn’t want to risk her reading whatever was written on my face.
