Page 8 of Miss Taken Identity

And it is my hotel….

Her look of recognition shifts between what I’m pretty sure we both want straight off the bat and that something else I’m sure she thinks I can’t see.

But we can get to the real introductions later. I’m going to be all business and see how far she can take this.

“I can wait while you change if you like,” I offer.

She looks wounded when she agrees, flushing with renewed embarrassment as she hastens back to the bathroom.

“Everything alright?” I call out, hearing a low moan.

“Uh…yeah. Fine. It’s just –,” she starts, but once she comes back out of the bathroom, I get it.

“Hardly dressed for the occasion, are you?” I tease her, cocking a brow and taking a seat to shift attention from my hardness which looks and feels like it’s permanent.

“My luggage –,” she stammers, “It’s being sent on from the airline. They lost my suitcases…and my clothes,” she explains.

I nod my head slowly, taking in the same curves from under her earlier robe, straining against denim jeans and a white top. No bra.

I guess in her hurry. She forgot to put a leash on those puppies. And boy, am I glad she did.

“I’m sure the Condor account can fix you up with some work outfits, suits, and anything else you need,” I muse aloud.

Like my fucking rod buried eight inches inside you while your cream runs over my tight balls…

Grinning like an idiot by now, work’s the furthest thing from my mind.

She opens her mouth to say something. Protest most likely, but having to think carefully at each turn now, I’m pleased when she gives an appreciative smile.

“That would be…suitable,” she says, making a face at her own words but making me laugh in the process with her accidental play on words.

Christ, I can’t even remember the last time I laughed at anything.

Her face falls for a moment until it’s clear I’m laughing with her, not at her.

There’s an awkward silence, so I do a little talking of my own to break the silence in what really should be Ms. De Laurent’s final interview before she starts her new career at Condor.

I casually offer her a seat with a movement of my hand, trying to keep things informal and lifting the few pages of her resume from the file I’m using to cover my Mt. Everest of a lap. I begin to thumb through it.

“No mention here of any family…,” I murmur to myself but loud enough for her to hear.

“Married? Or anyone special?” I ask, trying to sound neutral.

She squirms for a moment, then tells the truth.

“No, nobody but me,” she sighs, her eyes darting to my bulging crotch, making me take a sharper breath.

Even though HR goofed by leaving her photo and first name off, it clearly says on her resume that she’s engaged.

So whoever it really is in front of me has officially outed herself without being aware of it.

Maybe they split up?

Then again, maybe she’d be able to remember her own first name too.

“Must be freeing,” I comment. “Being single, I mean,” I add.

I know full well that being alone and waiting for the right one to come along is as free as being bound with duct tape inside a straitjacket.

I’d rather be freeing Willy right now, giving her a very different kind of interview. But at some point soon, my boss, Condor, is gonna want to know how things went.

“You’ve held your last position for… one year,” I say, changing the actual seven years on the resume to one for her benefit.

I doubt she ran a mercantile agency at age ten, which leads me to my second question.

“How old are you?” I ask.

The question makes her gnaw at her lip thoughtfully, doing some accounting of her own as she works out just how old she thinks the real Ms. De Laurent would be.

“Be honest now,” I caution her with a knowing smile, “Lots of people lie on their resume, you know…and they usually get found out,” I tease, lifting the pages so she can see I have all the correct answers in front of me.

I’m trying to tell her without telling her, giving her the perfect opportunity to come clean so we can start over.

She, as who she really is, and me as a guy who’s already feeling like he’s sliding deeper into the real mystery waiting for us both to be revealed.

Looking like she might actually cry now, my mystery girl stiffens her lip and looks me straight in the eye.

Hoping for the best when she tells the truth for the second time.

“I’m twenty,” she rasps. And I feel proud of her already.

Sure she’s bluffed her way in here somehow, got all the way from across the country to be sitting right in front of me pretending to be my newest executive.

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