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Chapter Four
Vivian
Daniel came into the office whistling, which seemed like a bad omen. I didn’t acknowledge it just to be safe. One can never trust a good mood on that man. A few hours later, I realize my paranoia was spot-on.
“Vandemark,” he growls from the opening of my cubicle.
“Yes?” I don’t turn around, focused on the email I’m typing.
“Nathaniel Owen is here to see you.”
“Me?” I spin in my chair and find my boss’s expression as rough as his voice.
“Yeah. You.”
“I suspect my raise is forthcoming,” I say with a smile. “I nailed his ass to the wall yesterday and left him speechless. It was pretty awesome.”
Aside from my windmilling arms and the breaking of my shoe, that is. Both ruined my exit. However, that graceless tumble gave me a chance to be close to Owen, which wouldn’t have happened otherwise. So, it sort of evened itself out.
I stand and smooth the skirt of my black dress. I bought it at a thrift store, but it used to be expensive. The hem was torn. I mended it with my passable sewing skills. Given I left my best shoes at Grand Marin, I had to resort to a pair of flats. They’re my only other black dress shoes.
“It’s been worked out,” Daniel says. He’s no longer happy, but he’s not unhappy. His neutral reaction is as rare as a winged unicorn. “I’ll send him back.”
“Did he say Nathaniel Owen?” Amber asks from her cube. I peek past my wall to find her leaning out of her own cubicle.
“Yep.”
“Did you really nail his ass to the wall?” Her eyes widen, impressed.
“Not quite,” answers a low voice. I clock the moment Amber sees him for the first time, somewhat justified she hasn’t shut her mouth all the way yet.
Apparently, I’m not the only one gobsmacked by Owen’s looks.
“Nate, good to see you again.” I purposely toss out his shortened name since he corrected me on it yesterday. I do so enjoy irritating him. “Step into my office.”
I welcome him into the gray square I call home. He indulges me and steps inside. There’s a petite plastic chair in the corner for guests. My desk is a wraparound with my office chair under it. His bulk and his ocean-scented cologne engulf me when he enters the tiny space.
I clear my throat and lean on the edge of my desktop, trying for casual as I cross my arms over my chest. “What brings you here, Mr. Owen?”
I find it hard to address him as Nate when he’s standing over me with those piercing blue eyes and attractive bumped nose. He’s authority personified. He’s also disarmingly masculine, and I can’t afford to be disarmed. I haven’t been very, erm, active with the opposite sex in the years since my father’s sentencing. Dating is too awkward, and casual sex unfulfilling. Besides, I can take care of my own needs. There are no strings attached to my vibrator.
“I have something for you.” He hands me a shoebox.
I regard it as if it contains a live rattlesnake, blinking in shock when I recognize the script on the box’s lid. Christian Louboutin. I should have known he was up to something.
I school my reaction, hopefully before he notices. “What’s this?”
“Shoes,” he answers. “To replace the pair you broke.”
Louboutins are not merely shoes. They represent status and wealth. Just being in such close proximity to this box reminds me of my former closet in Chicago. My reaction is borderline Pavlovian.
Drool.
“We started on the wrong foot, so to speak,” he tells me with a half smile. “This is my attempt to make up for it.”
I hum, suspicious. “Where was your charm yesterday?”
“This isn’t charm. It’s a peace offering. I was unprofessional.”
