“No, that was, uh, funny.”
Tell that to your face.
“So, why Vale?”
She chews her lip hard. Am I seriously so intimidating? No matter how hard I try not to be this off-putting, I always notice people shrinking away from me. As if my size and the general aura that a therapist would have a field day with… were something I could help.
“Your low-income housing projects are admirable,” she says after a pause. “Other people in your position would invest in glitzy offices, or use their reputation to get bigger projects. But you seem like you care, sir.”
When she sayssir, a knot tightens in my gut. But there’s something else, too. Warmth spreads through my body, uncoiling some of the tension in me. I bury the sensation as soon as it manifests.
“Thank you,” I tell her. “And remember, you don’t have to call mesir.”
“Old habits die hard,” she murmurs.
“Your last boss was a hard ass?” I ask.
She winces slightly. I wonder if there’s some trauma there? Did he hurt her?
“You could say that,” she says, voice quiet.
“You were on the West Coast?” I ask. “If I remember correctly.”
She chews her lip. Fuck. She looks good when she does that.But I’m not like them. The wolf whistlers, the ogling ogres, the perverts. I’m different. Right?
“Yes,” she says. “My last boss… he insisted everybody call himsir. I think he saw his employees more as chess pieces than as people. Or maybe cogs is a better word.”
“It sounds like corporate doublespeak bullshit,” I say wryly. “But you’re not just a cog here. I won’t say you’re part of the work family, because I think that’s bull too, Izzy. I think people use that as a method of control. Family connections, even when they’re not family.”
A dark look passes across her face. “Family can be controlling too.”
I want to pry, to ask more. Who is she talking about? But the fact I’m even experiencing these impulses is a sign of danger. I’m friendly to my employees, sure, but never overfamiliar.
“I’m sure,” I murmur.
I almost don’t want to do the next bit. She seems like a nice woman. Kind-hearted and keen to get on with her work. But perhaps my past has made me distrustful.
My father's voice comes to me, shrunken to a tiny thing on his deathbed.“Don’t trust anyone. Ever. Unless you know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you can rely on them, assume they’ll betray you.”
“I’ve got a job for you,” I tell her, taking the memory drive from my top desk drawer. “I need you to run this back to the office. It’s highly confidential, so please don’t share it with anybody else.”
“Of course not,” she says, offended. She holds her hand out. For a moment, I almost take it in mine.
“Thank you,” I say, placing the stick in her hand. Our skin touches briefly, a quick moment of contact that sends heat up my arm.
She snatches her hand away as though I’ve burned her. “Is there anything else, sir?”
“Take my cell in case you run into any issues. I need this drive delivered to my office. If security or anyone gives you any problems, call me.”
I scrawl my cell number on a piece of paper and slide it across the desk.
“Okay, thank you.”
She takes it, turning away. Immediately, my animal instincts draw me to her wide hips and the denim that desperately clings to her rear end. I stand and pick her hard hat up from the desk.
“Wait.”
She turns, and again she looks scared. It’s starting to annoy me. Am I really so damn scary?
