But I do not quit, or cry, or tuck my head between my legs like a frightened little baby.
I keep going.
Because that's what Erica Jones does. She keeps going—when her dad abandons the family, when she has to work three jobs to put herself through community college, when everyone says she'll never make it past reception at a cutthroat company like Simon Hospitality with a cutthroat boss like Andrew Simon.
And she keeps going now... even if she can't see where she's headed. The break room is easier. I know where the coffee maker is by smell alone (mostly because nobody ever cleans it properly). I successfully avoid both the refrigerator and the microwave that someone has definitely used to reheat fish again, despite my endless guerrilla campaign of passive- aggressive sticky notes.
Emboldened by my success, I decide to venture further. The executive wing is just down the hall. It's usually off-limits after hours unless you are working directly with one of the C-suite.
But what are they going to do, fire me?
Well, that's certainly an option. God knows Mr. Simon has fired enough people for far more minor infractions. There's practically a trail of tears permanently inked into the carpet leading out from his office.
I glide my fingers along the wall, counting doorways. Conference Room A, Conference Room B, the supply closet where I once caught two sales associates in a decidedly non-professional embrace, and then—The wall ends.
I know this space. It is the informal lounge area outside Mr. Simon's office, complete with gleaming leather couches and a view of the lake that I have never properly appreciated until right this moment when I
can't actually see it.
Andrew Simon. The head honcho himself. He's six-foot-something of blond-
and-blue perfection wrapped in Tom Ford suits and an ego with its own gravitational field. To be fair, it's sort of earned—the man built a hospitality empire from nothing before his fortieth birthday.
The first problem is that he knows he's a genius. The other problem is that he never, ever lets anyone forget it. He goes through assistants like tissue paper and, if the rumors are true, he goes through romantic partners even faster. Given the way half the women on staff look at him, the rumors are probably understating things.
Not that I look at him. Much. Okay, I'm human and possess functioning eyeballs—for the next ninety days, anyway—so yes, I have noticed that he
is unfairly attractive in that way that makes you angry at genetics for being so unequally distributed. He's taller than seems necessary and smells better than the job requires.
But I have also noticed he is an absolute nightmare to work for. The project manager position I currently occupy only became available in the first place because he gave the last girl a mental breakdown when she used the wrong shade of cream in a menu layout.
Fortunately, his office is vacant right now. It is past nine, and even Andrew Simon has to go home sometime. Probably to his Gold Coast penthouse with its wraparound views of Lake Michigan and whichever VS supermodel is gracing his bedsheets this week.
Assuming he has bedsheets, that is. I wouldn't be surprised if he sleeps in a
coffin like Dracula.
I move forward, gaining confidence little by little, step by step. Maybe it is stupid, but I feel almost giddy. Like I'm getting away with something. I'm reclaiming some tiny piece of control in a day that has stripped me of almost everything.I pick up speed. My hands swing freely now instead of clutching at walls. I can do this. I can adapt. I can overcome all things through spite and stubbornness who strengthens me. I am strong, I am powerful, I am woman, hear me—!
What.
My palms make contact with something warm. Something solid. Something
that is definitely not a wall or a piece of furniture or any inanimate object that should reasonably be in an office at 9 P.M. on a Thursday.
It is skin. Warm, bare skin stretched over what feels like an absolutely ridiculous amount of muscle. The kind of torso that suggests its owner either has a serious gym addiction or was crafted by Michelangelo during a particularly inspired phase.
For one horrible, endless second, I keep my hands there. My brain short-circuits as it tries to process what is happening. Then, slowly, with the kind of dawning horror usually reserved for people who've just realized they've replied-all to the entire company with something deeply inappropriate, I open my eyes.
It is, in fact, the worst-case scenario. Andrew Simon stands there, topless, a white dress shirt dangling from one
hand. He's looking at me with that trademark blend of scorn and weariness that he does so well. It's a look that says, You do not even deserve my attention, much less my wrath.
Unfortunately for me, he wears that look well. I blame the chin. It's just shaped too perfectly. No one outside of Cavill Maxwelll should have a chin that artistically cleft, that masculine, that blunt. Although, as I gawk up at Andrew and wonder just how bad the fallout is going to be from this disaster, I'm starting to wonder if maybe the brows are also at fault here.
They slice above his blue eyes, two cliffs overlooking two icy mountain lakes, set on either side of the ever-so-slightly crooked
ridge of his nose. His mouth is a stern slash, twisted up, ten percent smirk and ninety percent scowl.Aw, screw it; I can't decide. The whole face is guilty of letting him get away with saying so much toxic crap. Crap like:
"Ms. Jones." His voice is a baritone rumble. "Care to explain what you're
doing?"
My hands are still on his chest. Why are my hands still on his chest? Why can't I move? Why is he shirtless? Why is my brain choosing this exact moment to notice that he has a small scar just below his left collarbone, and a tattoo on his left pec, and a light dusting of hair leading from his chest, down the valley of his abs, and then teasing me as it descends lower and
lower, into—