Page 1 of Merging Wright

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Playlist: “Road Less Traveled” – Lauren Alaina

[Jane]

“Mr. Wright, you have a delivery,” I announce through my boss’s open office door. He hates it when I call him Mr. Wright. I hate how ridiculously handsome he is.

With artfully sculptured hair in a perfect palette of chrome and ink, the same combination lines his firm jaw. His mouth wears a permanent smirk that could either tease you into submission or cut you to the quick. Despite his typical attire of business suits with starched dress shirts and crisp ties, there’s an occasional hint of color on the skin of his hidden arms. The same arms that often bulge underneath the stiffness of his professional clothing.

I hate how attracted I am to him.

“Have Rebecca sign for it.” Mr. Wright—Machlan Wright—mentions his assistant without glancing at me.

He never looks directly at me, and I suppose it’s for the best. If he did, my tongue might freeze under the glare of those earthy-brown eyes. Another part of me never ices over when he looks in my general direction, though. That area is all heat and pulsing thumps of unrequited desire for a man whom I equally loathe and lust.

“She’s at lunch,” I remind him.

Flicking out his arm, he bends his elbow just right to turn his wrist and sexily peers at his oversized silver watch like a practiced male model. He works excessively hard, and it isn’t surprising he doesn’t realize it’s lunchtime for the rest of Chicago. “Just have it brought up.”

Flexing my fingers before forming fists at my side, I take a deep breath and stiffen my shoulders. I’m one of the top account executives at Impact, a media marketing company, working my ass off under this man for eight years in hopes of becoming a full partner one day, and something like this is not my responsibility.

However, no seems to be something I can never say to my infuriating boss.

“Sure.” I force a smile while chewing on the sarcasm. From the moment Machlan and his partner, Tucker Ashford, hired me, I set out to prove my worth. Marketing is not a stagnant field, especially with the boom of social media. For a woman with no life outside of her job, I’ve easily adapted to the industry changes over the past two decades. At the ripe age of forty-five, I’ve been in the business for a long time. I would have eventually retired from my previous employer if it hadn’t been for an epically stupid blunder on my part that I swear will never happen again.

My pride and my heart cannot take another Ripley Edgar incident.

When I call down to reception on the ground floor of our Michigan Avenue building, the security man, Pete, informs me the item is too large for the elevator.

“Is it a freaking elephant?” I laugh into the phone. Pete and I have a good rapport. That tends to happen when you’re the first one in the building or one of the last to leave at night.

“Nope, but close. Mr. Wright needs to come down to sign for it.”

Curiosity has the best of me and knowing Mach—as the rest of the office calls him—won’t take a break long enough to accept his own package, I ride down thirty-four floors to see what’s too big for an elevator.

Mach, pronounced like the industrial truck with a hard k, fits the man who is a little smug and a lot tough.

“Hey, Pete.” My heels click against the pristine white tiles in rhythm with a little wave I give him. The glass walls allow loads of sunshine into the lobby. I love this building. I love this city. Chicago is a heartbeat and a far cry from the small town where I was raised in southern Missouri.

“Hey, beautiful.” The portly, older man smiles at me while tipping his head toward the revolving door. “His Mach-esty’s item is out there.”

I grin at the nickname I often use to describe my boss—along with His Royal Pain in my Hiney-ness, and sometimes just He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, otherwise known as Volde-Mach.

Over the years, there have been all kinds of special deliveries for Mach. Bottles of alcohol with seductive messages. Once, a dozen balloons intended to be popped, revealed sexual suggestions inside. My favorite was the woman dressed like an elf who turned out to be a stripper. She already had carnal knowledge of Mach from a Christmas event he barely remembered attending.

I loathe how willingly women flock to him, including myself, making me one of his many sheep. Darn his charisma. Then again, giving myself away to the shepherd is never going to happen again. I’d gone the route of lost-lamb-found once and been tossed aside by a man who really could have had a bigger staff.

I learned my lesson. Beware of the wolf in sheep’s clothing. Keep my lust at bay.

My tumultuous attraction to Mach is more volatile than puppy love. I waver between deep displeasure with my boss’s work ethic, which ironically matches mine, making me work too hard, too often without appreciation, and an overabundance of sexual attraction including fantasies of him taking me on his desk, showing me his gratitude for my tenacity. Most days, I want him to work me harder in ways that have nothing to do with client needs and market assessments.

Glancing through the immaculately clean glass of the street-facing windows, I crane my neck. People swiftly walk on the sidewalk, rushing to and from their destinations. A row of cars and trucks line the street closest to the building, momentarily parallel parking. Nothing looks out of the ordinary for a busy day in downtown Chicago.

“What am I missing, Pete?”

“That.” Pete points.

Coming into focus better, my gaze lands on something one would rarely see on the bustling streets of a major metropolis.