Page 8 of The Playboy Project

CHAPTER TWO

Ashlyn

I couldn’t stop tapping my foot. The repetitive, irritating motion was enough that I had to keep a tight hold on the stack of documents sitting on my lap. Otherwise they’d be spread across the ugly gray carpet that Liam Macklen’s office alcove was covered in.

Again.

I couldn’t seem to get a grip on the nervous reflex today. It didn’t help that I could feel his assistant’s eyes on my every motion, every breath. Her desk may as well have been a throne for the scornful looks she cast toward those who came and went from the CEO’s small waiting area. On the surface she might look like somebody’s grandmother, but I saw that flash of steel in her eyes. She was like my mother, not someone to be trifled with in the least. I straightened my papers again, and then my shoulders followed.

As much as I hated waiting, at least seeing her interact with others made me feel good about how she’d treated me. Heck, comparatively she’d been sweet as honey.

Others were not so lucky.

I twisted my face away from her. I knew already that meeting that soul-searing gaze was enough to push me over into crazy land.

I sighed. Maybe I was already there. I fidgeted in my chair.

My meeting should’ve started over thirty minutes ago.

I just needed ten minutes. Guessing how he was approaching this meeting, I may have already lost my chance.

I tossed my head, casting a wary glance at the enormous double doors that blocked me from Mr. Macklen’s office. I was pretty quick. Maybe I could just slip in there.

Patience be damned.

As if reading my mind, his assistant glued her eyes to me again. The command in her eyes was enough warning. I swallowed, offering her a tentative smile and crossing my restless limbs once more.

Okay, no barging in. Noted.

I heard a rumble of male voices behind the door. I jolted to my feet, clutching my portfolio in my arms and willing the trembling in my legs to subside. His assistant also stood, huffing out a short breath as I moved directly to their path.

I didn’t care who I had to knock aside. I was getting my meeting. It had already taken too long to get to this point, and I couldn’t go home and face Cici empty-handed. I raised my chin, my slender body—a product of aforementioned anxiety and late-night coffee runsbraced for the first confrontation with my very own playboy project.

I took a deep breath as the door opened, painting a welcoming, professional smile on my lips.

A group of three men, maybe four, suddenly encompassed me in a blur of navy suits and white button downs. Their low voices stumbling to a halt as they realized I was not going to move.

One by one they looked to the last man to leave the office behind them. As if expecting him to do something about the literal block in the road. I too raised my eyes to the door, feeling my heart pound loudly in my throat.

Slowly, as if walking onto a stage, my client sauntered into the waiting area. Two hands, long-fingered and precise, were buttoning the jacket on his pinstriped navy suit jacket. Seeing his companions halted, light eyes rose to mine, watching through thick lashes as he gave me a careful once-over.

His lips quivered ever so slightly, as if they considered smiling before opting out.

“Mr. Macklen, we have a meeting.” I swore my voice was soft, low. But the sound snapped across the space like the crack of a whip. Several of the men surrounding him chuckled. I could see their feet shuffle nervously. I held his stare, praying to whatever god was listening that my cheeks didn’t flood with color.

Liam Macklen, the soon to be elected CEO of Leden Co., walked straight up to me. Close enough I could see that he had an old scar across his forehead, faded and smoothed by time.

Holy shit. Even without the four-hundred-page analysis and history of his time in the limelight, I recognized him immediately. He’d cut his hair and gotten rid of the scruff that had lined his jaw at the gala, but it undoubtedly the same person. Bag holding Prince Charming with an eye for orgies.

I couldn’t help it.

I squirmed.

Just a bit.

Would he recognize me? I almost snorted. Of course not. He’d picked up my bag, handed it to me, and then fallen into what was probably the softest bed in the hotel, surrounded by a bevy of half-dressed women.

I hadn’t needed to google him or find him on social media to know what kind of guy he was. A different woman every night, a different city every week.

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