Page 8 of Package Deal

“Bumped it?”

“Yeah, you know…” She does little pantomime, twitching out one hip suggestively.

“So you’re admitting it now? Looks like those hips could actually do some damage, you know.”

Her eyes narrow. I bet she's getting mad.

“You're messing with me,” she says. It's not a question.

I back away, letting my eyes trace her outlines from the gleaming tips of her Louboutin pumps to the subtle shadows of her nipples beneath the fabric of her dress. Calvin Klein, I’m fairly certain. Nothing wrong with that. He’s a nice guy. We played volleyball at his place on Martha’s Vineyard once. Memorial Day or something like that.

“Am I messing with you?”

She wrestles a polite little smile onto her face. I'm not sure what's going on there. To be honest, it sort of seems like she dislikes me, so I don’t know why she’s trying to get in my bed.

“I'll have a car come pick you up tomorrow at eight."

She scowls prettily. “You don't know where I live.”

“I own the HR department, though, don't I?”

“I — I suppose you do,” she says finally. It's almost like a little white flag poking over the edge of the bunker. A tiny, adorable surrender.

“How about The Copper?” I ask her, waiting to see how she reacts. There's nothing there, even though she should probably know already that reservations are impossible to get. It's ridiculously exclusive, and she should absolutely be impressed.

“All right,” is all she says.

“Wear something sexy,” I advise her.

She thrusts her chin defiantly a little higher in the air. “Certainly. I can hardly wait."

Just before I back away, I stop and look her over once more. She's quite the contradiction: willingness battling against some kind of natural hostility. I don't understand it, but I find myself eager to explore it more thoroughly.

I am intrigued, I suppose. Well, that's something, at least. Most people do not arouse my interest.

“Til then,” I smile, meaning goodbye.

“Yes,” is her simple answer.

I walk away thinking how nice it is when women answer yes before I've even asked the question.

CHAPTER 4

Emmet

Hannah's office door is closed, I notice as I get off the elevator. Still, her receptionist twitches when she sees me, her eyes automatically rising to meet mine and then slicing diagonally away. She doesn't want to look at me. She's probably been privy to enough email threads that she's worried any interaction with me will damage her career. Like I'm pollution. Or some kind of strange virus.

Which, at this point, I'm too exhausted to care about anymore. The last few months have been harrowing, with paparazzi and reporters dogging my every step. After the first few pictures showed up on TMZ, the story caught fire. Everybody wanted a piece of it. We couldn't even get away.

But still, it's my goddamned company. I think I deserve a little respect. I set my jaw and stride past her, never letting my eyes waver. I can see her breath rate accelerating, and watch her cleavage heave in that designer blouse she can afford because of me.

They all seem to forget that. Everybody on their high horse forgets just who bought the fleet of horses.

But whatever. She keeps her eyes down and types frantically as I pass by her, strolling into my office and closing the door behind me. Some part of me wants to go back out there and ask her to do some stupid task just to antagonize her little bit more, but that would be petty. What am I going to win by antagonizing a receptionist, for chrissakes?

I’m going to need a better sparring partner.

Frankly, I'm not sure why I'm in the building anyway. I squint around my spacious office, trying to remember the last time I was here. A month? No, it has to be longer than that. It was only three weeks ago when Hannah suggested I take an extended vacation, at least from being physically present in the office. Too much press roaming the halls was making people jumpy.

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