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"So, I take it she’s in there?" I brush past her, and she jumps to her feet.
"Sir, y-y-you can’t go in there."
"Watch me." I glare at her.
She stammers, then gulps. Sweat beads her forehead. She shuffles back, and I stalk past her.
Really, is there no one who can stand up to me?All of this scraping of chairs and fawning over me? It’s enough to drive a man to boredom. I need a challenge. So, when my ex-wife-to-be texted me to say she was calling off our wedding, I was pissed. But when she let slip that her wedding planner was right—that she needs to marry for love, and not for some family obligation, rage gripped me. I squeezed my phone so hard the screen cracked. I almost hurled the device across the room. When I got a hold of myself, for the first time in a long time, a shiver of something like excitement had passed through me.Finally, fuck.
That familiar pulse of adrenaline pulses through my veins. It’s a sensation I was familiar with in the early days of building my business.
After my father died and I took charge of the group of companies he’d run, I was filled with a sense of purpose; a one-directional focus to prove myself and nurturing his legacy. To make my group of companies the leader, in its own right. To make so much money and amass so much power, I’d be a force to be reckoned with.
I tackled each business meeting with a zeal that none of my opponents were able to withstand. But with each passing year—as I crossed the benchmarks I’d set myself, as my bottom line grew healthier, my cash reserves engorged, and the people working for me began treating me with the kind of respect normally reserved for larger-than-life icons—some of that enthusiasm waned. Oh, I still wake up ready to give my best to my job every day, but the zest that once fired me up faded, leaving a sense of purposelessness behind.
The one thing that has kept me going is to lock down my legacy. To ensure the business I’ve built will finally be transferred to my name. For which my father informed me I needed to marry. Which is why, after much research, I tracked down Priya Kumar, and wooed her and proposed to her. And then, her meddling wedding planner came along and turned all of my plans upside down.
Now, that same sense of purpose grips me. That laser focus I’ve been lacking envelops me, fills my being. All of my senses sharpen as I shove the door of her office open and stalk in.
The scent envelops me first. The lush notes of violets and peaches. Evocative and fruity. Complex, yet with a core of mystery that begs to be unraveled. Huh? I’m not the kind to be affected by the scent of a woman, but this... Her scent... It’s always chafed at my nerve-endings. The hair on my forearms straightens.
My guts tie themselves up in knots, and my heart pounds in my chest. It’s not comfortable. The kind of feeling I got the first time I went white-water rafting. A combination of nervousness and excitement as I’d faced my first rapids. A sensation that had since ebbed. One I’d been chasing ever since, pushing myself to take on extreme sports. One I hadn’t thought I’d find in the office of a wedding planner.
My feet thud on the wooden floor, and I get a good look at the space which is one-fourth the size of my own office. In the far corner is a bookcase packed with books. On the opposite side is a comfortable settee packed with cushions women seem to like so much. There’s a colorful patchwork quilt thrown over it, and behind that, a window which looks onto the back of the adjacent office building. On the coffee table in front of the settee is a bowl with crystal-like objects that reflect the light from the floor lamps. There are paintings on the wall that depict scenes from beaches. No doubt, the kind she’d point to and sell the idea of a honeymoon to gullible brides. I suppose the entire space would appeal to women. With its mood lighting and homey feel, the space invites you to kick back, relax and pour out your problems. A ruse I’m not going to fall for.
"You!" I stab my finger in the direction of the woman seated behind the antique desk straight ahead. "Call Priya, right now, and tell her she needs to go through with the wedding. Tell her she can’t back out. Tell her I‘m the right choice for her."
She peers up at me from behind large, black horn-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. "No."
I blink. "Excuse me?"
She leans back in her chair. "I’m not going to do that."
"Why the hell not?"
"Are you the right choice for her?
"Of course I am." I glare at her.
Some of the color fades from her cheeks. She taps her pen on the table, then juts out her chin. "What makes you think you’re the right choice of husband for her?"
"What makes you think I’m not."
"Do you love her?"
"That’s no one’s problem except mine and hers."
"You don’t love her."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Excuse me?" She takes off her glasses and places them on the table with great care. "Are you seriously asking what loving the woman you’re going to marry has to do with actually marrying her?" Her voice pulses with fury.
"Yes, exactly. Why don’t you explain it to me?" The sarcasm in my tone is impossible to miss.
She stares at me from behind those large glasses that should make her look owlish and studious, but only add an edge of what I can only describe as quirky-sexiness. The few times I’ve met her before, she’s gotten on my nerves so much, I couldn’t wait to get the hell away from her. Now, giving her the full benefit of my attention, I realize, she’s actually quite striking. And the addition of those spectacles? Fuck me—I never thought I had a weakness for women wearing glasses. Maybe I was wrong. Or maybe it’s specifically this woman wearing glasses… Preferably only glasses and nothing else.
Hmm. Interesting.This reaction to her. It’s unwarranted and not something I planned for. I widen my stance, mainly to accommodate the thickness between my legs. An inconvenience… which perhaps I can use to my benefit? I drag my thumb under my lower lip.
