Page 30 of The Stranger
I’m yet to broach the subject with her, but I’ve had my lawyer look into the dental clinic where she worked. The first interesting fact I found was Delilah’s smiling image is the face of the organisation. It’s everywhere: on their website, on marketing material, and plastered all over the shopfront window.
I need her on board if she’s going to sue them for unfair dismissal, but I’ve instructed Logan to move forward with the cease-and-desist letter in the interim. I want that image taken down. They don’t want her working there, so I refuse to let them use her pretty face, and radiant smile, to drum up further business. It’s a minor hit, but it’s a start. They can put her evil sister’s face in its place for all I care. I’ll take any win I can get on Delilah’s behalf. If it were up to me, I’d crush them all.
Glancing at the time on my computer screen, I see it’s a quarter to nine. My receptionist and my coffee should arrive any minute. Delilah only works Monday to Friday, so I’ve had no contact with her over the weekend. At least on Monday mornings, I get my coffee the way I like it. She can’t accuse me of being extra growly when she hasn’t seen me for two days.
A few minutes later, I hear the elevator ding as it arrives at my floor and a nervous energy gushes through me. It’s not a feeling I’m accustomed to, but it doesn’t takerocket science to figure out why.Delilah St. James.She’s not only infiltrated my company; she’s weaved her way under my skin.
I couldn’t tell you how many times she popped into my head over the weekend, but it was a lot. Whether it was wondering how she was, or what she was up to. Sometimes it was just remembering a funny thing she’d done or said during the week. I tried my best to dismiss them the moment they came because they spooked the hell out of me. It has been a long time since a woman has occupied my thoughts in that way.
I look up when I hear the familiar click of her heels against the marble floor as she crosses the foyer. When she appears in the doorway, my breath hitches in my throat.
Today she’s wearing a formfitting black dress that stops just above her knees. It accentuates every damn curve. The thin belt cinched around her waist, only stresses how tiny she is. She’s loosely braided her long blonde hair, which is currently draped over one shoulder. My eyes briefly move down her bare legs until I reach the black high heels. This pair has a thin piece of leather attached to the back that snakes around her ankles a few times.
I reach for my tie, tugging on it. I’m suddenly finding it hard to breathe. What is it with this woman? Is it the fact she’s forbidden that has me so drawn in?That has to be it.I’m a man who is used to getting what he wants, so it’s only natural I’d gravitate towards something I know I can never have.
I was a fool to organise that damn shopping spree, and I’ve been berating myself ever since. Did my mother purposely choose outfits she knew would drive me to the point of insanity? Or does it have nothing to do with theactual clothes and everything to do with the woman wearing them?
“Good morning, Mr Prescott,” she says, crossing the room with my coffee in hand.
My eyes lock with hers, and I see a slight pink blush form on her cheeks. Is she aware that I was just checking her out?Fuck, I hope not.Get your shit together, Prescott. You are a grown-arse man, not a prepubescent teenager.
I extend my hand when she reaches the desk and try to ignore the tingle that shoots up my arm when our fingers brush. My brain immediately tries to calculate when the last time I got laid was. It’s been a while … a few months at best. I’ve never gone this long without a release. The realisation fills me with relief. That’s all this is—a build-up of testosterone. I need to rectify that stat.
I clear my throat and pray that my voice hasn’t raised a few octaves when I speak. “Thank you, Miss St. James.” My eyes scan over her lovely face, and that’s when I notice the black rings under her eyes. They are faint but despite the makeup she’s wearing, they’re still visible. “How was your weekend?” I ask.
“Busy.”
“What did you get up to?” This is a question I wouldn’t usually ask an employee, but the shadows under her eyes concern me.
A small smile tugs at her lips. “I worked.”
“Worked? Where?”
“I took on a second job.”
Whatever the hell I was feeling a few moments ago is quickly replaced with annoyance. “You took a second job doing what?”
“Waiting tables,” she beams, as if serving people and collecting their dirty dishes when they’re done is somekind of significant accomplishment. It sounds like hell if you ask me.
“Why?”
“I need the money, and besides, it gets me out of the house.”
The last part I can understand, and that only angers me further. She shouldn’t be spending her days off waiting on people. She should be relaxing, enjoying life …living.
“I don’t pay you enough?”
Her eyes slightly widen. “Yes, you pay me well. More than I think I deserve.”
I can guarantee it’s a lot more than she ever got working at the dental clinic. All of my employees are paid well, but unbeknownst to her, the rate of pay that Delilah receives for her current position far exceeds any other receptionist in this building, both past and present.
“Then why are you working a second job?” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “And please don’t tell me it has anything to do with the reimbursement of your new wardrobe.”
“Actually,” she says, opening the flap on the black bag that hangs from her shoulder, “I have this for you.”
She hands me a white envelope and my temper escalates to the next level when I see two fifty-dollar bills inside. “What is this?” I growl.
“Umm … money.”
