Page 11 of Mr. Perfect

I am taken aback at her outburst. Pissed off about it, actually. “Don’t talk to me that way,” I growl.

“Or what?” she challenges. “You’re gonna fire me? Too late. I already told you, I’m out. And don’t think you’re the reason, either, Mr. Fancy Jet. You’re not. I was planning on quitting before you ever showed up today.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate,” I say.

“Why?” she asks. “No one here respects me. And I’m not sure what that whole promotion thing is about, but it’s about five years too late.”

“That’s not why.” It comes out unexpectedly. It’s not why, but normally I don’t just blurt out the truth to women.

“Then why?” she demands. She wipes the wetness from under her eyes as she tries to regain her composure.

“God,” I say, looking her up and down. Her white ruffly blouse is all askew. I can see her lacy pink bra. She notices where my eyes have landed and looks down.

“Oh, dammit, can this day possibly get any worse?” She undoes the silky tie that is supposed to keep her shirt together and tries to straighten up her wardrobe malfunction. I can’t stop watching her tie the swath of lace acting as a belt into a bow, so when she lifts her gaze up from her task she catches me. “Seen enough? Pervert,” she mutters under her breath.

“I’m not sure that garment is work-appropriate. If one’s clothing can’t withstand a trip down the slide without coming off, perhaps one should consider a more conservative approach to fashion?”

I’m pretty proud of my professionalism. Also that I kept a straight face.

“Well, you don’t have to worry about me, Mr. Fancy Jet. I’m already part of your past.”

Goddammit. I take a deep breath. “Look, Miss Hatcher, I’m sorry you had a few embarrassing moments up there—”

“A few—” Her mouth hangs open incredulously. “For your information, Mr. Stonewall” —she sneers my name—“I was not embarrassed. I was humiliated. There’s a big difference. And you are the person who humiliated me.”

“You were texting me during an executive meeting.” Where the hell does she get off blaming her behavior on me? “And while we’re assigning blame, you were using your phone for completely inappropriate sexual encounters.”

“Sexual—” I seem to be able to render her speechless pretty easily. “That was not—”

“Really?” I interrupt. “Really?” I laugh the word this time. “I’m pretty sure anyone I ask would say those gifs you send of men pawing women—choking them as they kissed—cross the professional line.”

It was pretty hot though. I’d like to press my palm against her throat and kiss the hell out of her myself. Slide my hand up her thigh and slip my fingertips under those pink lacy underwear I got a good look at back in the lobby.

Ellie Hatcher is suddenly silent. She chews on a manicured pink fingernail as she thinks this over, and must decide I’m right, because she purses her plump lips and crosses her arms in front of her chest. Her designer shoe begins to tap on the concrete floor. “Did you read everything?” She doesn’t look at me, just stares down at her feet.

“Everything.”

“Oh, God. Since when?” Miss Hatcher looks up at me, her eyes wide. “I mean, I know all the messages said undelivered. So how the hell did they suddenly become delivered?”

“Heath had to mail me the phone back from China. He forgot to leave it and we needed his contacts. So it was powered down for a few weeks, but as soon as I powered it back up, all your messages came through.”

“Holy shit,” she whispers, pinching the bridge of her nose like she’s getting a migraine.

“You said some very interesting things, Miss Hatcher.”

“Don’t,” she starts. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

I stare down her shirt. I know it’s a dick move since she’s not even paying attention, but that pink bra is driving me crazy. She fixed the shirt, but it’s falling back open again. Is it my fault she’s flashing me some lace? Should I not look?

What kind of dumbass wouldn’t look at a girl like this? And shit, those texts. Jesus. I really didn’t picture her looking so… so… fucking sweet. Some of the texts she was sending Heath would make Christian Grey blush. This woman with the pink panties, conservative skirt, and almost no makeup to speak of might have the dirtiest mind I’ve ever come across. The things she said to Heath.

I want to kiss your cock with my pretty lips, then swallow you whole as you spill your come down my throat.

Who says that?

And then, the really confusing thing was, she’d send Heath pictures of a house for sale over in the ’burbs on the other side of the airport and talk about getting a puppy. An Old English Sheepdog, to be exact.

It’s almost like she’s got a split personality. Or she’s one of those closet kinks. Hell, I wonder if Heath used to take her to sex clubs or something?