Page 92 of Idle

More money.

More problems.

More of the same, only with a shiny new title. Ho-hum.

Ready to go out for lunch, I leave my office—another perk of the promotion—when a noise in the front of the room catches my attention. The normally quiet open desk system has come alive with murmuring. What’s going on? Maybe one of the muckety-mucks is making their monthly visit. Unfazed, I put on my suit’s blazer and shove my cell into my pocket.

One of the guys stands and looks toward the front of the office. “Ho. Ly.”

Interest piqued, I force my gaze in the same direction. “Fuck.”

Paige Hansen has two escorts walking her into the office. Toward me. Wearing a cream pantsuit with a pinkish blouse, she looks like her favorite ice cream cone. Bet she smells better. Her short brown hair appears to have been trimmed recently. The closer she gets, the higher my walls build. She can’t scale them. Not even a fingerhold exists.

Since I never told her what bank I work for, I assume she’s meeting with someone about an account. Maybe I can scoot backwards and not draw her attention? I don’t need this shit in here. The show—which I lost, thank you very much—has never come up in conversation, so my co-workers have no idea we’re acquainted. Intimately.

Echoes of her moans replay and I shut them down. Chest heaving, I slink down a side aisle.

One of her escorts points at me. “Aha! There he is.”

Trapped.

Her other escort yells, “Jesse Dimon. You have a visitor.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

One of the nearby guys complains, “You’ve been holding back on us.”

Frowning, I reply, “She’s my friend’s little sister.” With no other alternative, I mutter, “Excuse me,” and walk toward the trio barreling down on my office. Pain about letting her down on the show and agony over Homer’s mantra of putting career before pleasure battle for supremacy, with neither giving an inch. I can’t look her in the eye.

Her first escort says, “Told you we’d bring you to him.”

Her other escort agrees. “Safe and sound.”

“Thanks so much, guys. You’re the best.” Her throaty giggle makes my cock stir and I rock my ankle to keep myself from jumping them. Or jumpingonher.

Knowing how persuasive she can be, and determined to stay in my new job at all costs, my first words to her are curt. “Let’s take this to a conference room.”

She extends both of her hands. “Jesse. You look so business-y.”

Shit happens when you work at a bank. Not acknowledging her comment, I bark, “Follow me.” Without waiting for a response, I storm toward an empty conference room.

As soon as I enter the room, I do the only sensible thing and press the button to frost all the windows. Don’t need any curiosity seekers witnessing whatever the hell she has planned. Arms across my chest, I spin in her direction, still keeping my gaze averted from her form. This is Homer’s world. “What the hell are you doing here, Paige? We have nothing to discuss.”

She places a bunch of papers onto the table and stands taller. “You need a haircut.”

Steam billows out of my ears. “I’m sure you have much better things to do than comment on my grooming.”

Her chin raises. “You’re right. I do.” She opens a file folder and pulls out a stapled document. Approaching me, she says, “Actually, we have a lot to discuss.”

Do not inhale. Do not look into her mesmerizing eyes.Confused, I snatch the papers out of her hand and skim the three-page document. It’s a contract with Arch Pointe Furniture. “What the hell are you up to, Paige?”

She sighs. “Can we sit down and discuss this like normal people?” Without waiting for me to invite her—wise, because I wasn’t about to—she drags the chair out from beneath the table and sits. When I don’t move, she opens her tote bag and pulls out a pen and her cell phone wrapped in a light blue cover.

Sighing, I sit a few spaces down from her so as to make it the most difficult to look at each other.

She taps her pen against the tabletop. I think it’s Mont Blanc. Pulling my bank’s pen out of my blazer pocket, I click it open and shut. The noise is the only sound in the conference room for a full three minutes. At my wit’s end, I blurt, “Why are you here?”

“Thought you’d never ask. I’m here to present an offer that came to me.” I push away from the table. I’m not her business partner, advisor, or boyfriend. I’m about to tell her this when she continues, “It’s for both of us.”

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