Page 30 of Vivacity
I survey him as I take my seat. He looks weary and inscrutable and gorgeous in a pale grey cashmere sweater, his hair a mess from where he’s probably been taking his stress out on it. It’s the strangest thing. I’ve been intimate with him in a number of ways—very intimate—and yet I feel like I don’t know him at all yet, physically speaking. Still haven’t felt his skin properly. He hasn’t got me naked again since my interview. Hasn’t gone down on me. He hasn’t really let himself go to town on me at all.
I wonder if he will.
I wonder when he’ll break.
‘Help yourself to coffee.’ He reaches out and draws the tray closer to us. ‘So we have a date for the meeting. Montague messaged me last night. We’re going in to present to their board on Tuesday.’
‘Wow.’ This is a turn-up for the books. ‘That’s not long.’
‘Nope. And I want to make sure our numbers are bang on. The strategy team’s sent over a load of data, but I want us to comb through it again. I don’t want a single chink in our armour when we meet these guys. So ideally, we get the numbers finalised today. That gives our bankers and lawyers tomorrow and Monday to get themselves fully acquainted with the data.’
‘Are they coming too?’ I ask in surprise. For some reason, I assumed the initial meeting would be as close to a firesidechat as possible—a way for both parties to test the waters in a tentative way before things escalate.
Clearly, I was wrong.
‘We need a united front, an indisputable show of strength. They need to know we mean business, and they all need a bloody good reminder that we’re the bigger, stronger party here. From the way Montague bawled me out over our friendly offer, it seems I need to show him who’s running this show.’
‘Got it. Makes sense.’ My tone is briskly supportive, but oh boy, is this guy armouring up. Brené Brown would have alotto say about Eight’s brand of armoured leadership. I wonder if sneaking a copy ofDare to Leadonto his desk would be an overstep?
We work hard until lunchtime.Ethan is relentless when it comes to fine-tooth-combing through the numbers. As his stress levels ratchet up, so does his need to be on top of every single detail. I can’t deny the data looks good. The cost synergies, banker speak forjob cuts, are impressive.
Miles is going to hate them.
At one on the dot, a text comes through on Ethan’s phone.
‘Lunch.’ He pushes his chair abruptly back from the table. ‘Come on, let’s eat.’
‘You don’t need to tell me twice.’ I stand and stretch, not missing the hungry way his eyes rake over my sexy leather leggings. Honestly, why won’t he just ravish me? Or ravage me? I’m not quite clear on the difference and I definitely don’t care. I just want some Ethan Kingsley-branded throw-down.
I’m a confident woman, and I assume he’s attracted to me, given his littleyou’re a prizespeech when we first met. But he’spaying a fortune for my services and doing very fucking little with the goods, and it genuinely makes me doubt myself. Maybe he hired me as some kind of status symbol rather than acting from a deep physical desire? Maybe he has buyer’s remorse. Maybe he’s regretting opting for someone like me instead of the usual lean, teeny-tiny type of women he’s gone for in the past? Beautiful, sleek Talia with her washboard stomach and boobs so small and neat that they require little more than a pretty little lace bralet?
I don’t bloody know anymore.
‘That’s a very big sweater,’ he observes as he rises.
‘It’s big because I’m cold.’ I can’t hide my grumpiness.
‘Cold in here? You should have said.’ He looks genuinely horrified.
Yes, cold in this beautiful, frigid mausoleum, oh king of the underworld.
I shrug. ‘Cold generally. All the fucking time. I’d forgotten how much I dislike London weather.’
‘Must make a change from the playgrounds of the Med.’ His tone is distracted, though. He strides ahead, out of the room, my body temperature already forgotten as he likely grapples with whether to lead with IT or human “cost synergies” on Tuesday.
What I’mnotexpecting, as I follow Ethan through into a large kitchen that’s sleekly industrial enough to belong in a Michelin-starred restaurant rather than a home, is to find a tow-headed mini-Ethan slumped at the central (grey marble, you guessed it) island.
I stop dead.
‘Sophia, my son Jamie,’ Ethan says disinterestedly. ‘Jamie, this is my new executive assistant, Sophia.’
The kid looks up from his bowl of soup for a fraction of a second, interest levels in this introduction mirroring his father’s. ‘Hey.’ It’s more of a mutter than anything else.
‘Hi, Jamie. Good to meet you.’
That doesn’t get a response.
I’m a bit dumbfounded. Has he been here all morning? You could have fooled me. Ethan hasn’t so much as glanced outside his study since I arrived at nine. The boy looks to be a young teenager—fourteen or fifteen, maybe? And my god is hesweet. He has his father’s eyes, only brown, and the same lightish brown hair, albeit a lot messier. He’s wearing an oversized Westminster School hoodie—must be a clever boy—but even so I can tell that he’s still slight, all thin, gangly limbs.
