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Izzy is different. She’s always seemed more genuine and real than the women I’m introduced to at business meetings or social functions. Izzy’s more like…my grandmother. The type of woman a man falls in love with. Marries.
She’s the type of woman a man like me is lucky to have on his arm. And she’s mine. For a little over a week.
Well, kind of mine.
“Maybe we should get our story straight before we land,” I say.
“Story?”
“Yes, I mean our first date, how we got engaged, that kind of thing.”
“Right. And we should maybe tell each other a little about our pasts. Things we would know if we were lovers.”
The moment she says the wordlovers, my cock begins to harden like I’m a pubescent schoolboy who just learned the thing can do more than piss.
Down, boy.
I clear my throat. “Okay, so on our first date, I took you to Terrasse de Jardin.” The fancy restaurant is Angelique’s favorite. It’s frequented by celebrities, and dinner for two runs from three grand on up—that’s before the wine selection. I expect her to be impressed, but her face remains impassive, so I continue, “We dated for a couple of months, covertly since we work together, before I proposed during a party at my villa in Chamonix by hiring a small plane to fly overhead towing a Will You Marry Me? banner.”
I sit back in my seat, pleased with myself, but she wrinkles her nose.
“What?” I ask. “Do you have an alternate suggestion?”
She nods. “Our first date was an evening stroll through Central Park, where we enjoyed an outdoor concert and ate hot dogs from a corner pushcart. We dated for a year, and you proposed privately on bended knee, outdoors on a starry night under the moonlight.”
I stare open-mouthed. This woman would choose New York coneys over foie gras and Dom Pérignon? A stroll through Central Park over a villa in France? There’s something unassuming and earnest about that, and I like it. I can’t remember the last time I ate food from a street vendor. My fiancée is quite intriguing.
Fakefiancée, I mean.
In truth, Ms. Miller has always attracted my attention, and I can’t say exactly why. Maybe it’s her no-nonsense attitude and dedication to her job, but I’ve fought it from the first day she came to work for me. I’ve even lain in bed with her on my mind, then called her in the middle of the night with ridiculous demands just to hear her voice.
Although her style of dress is more modest than a cloistered nun, I’m certain she’s hiding a knockout in there. At least that’s what my imagination has led me to believe for the past four years.
Yes, I admit it. I fantasize about my assistant. Far too often.
“Right,” I say as I look away. “That’s our story.”
I’ve spent so much of the past four years fantasizing about this woman. No matter what I did—scolding myself, chastising myself, cold showers—nothing worked. In the end, I just let myself indulge in the fantasy.
I told myself it was harmless as I jacked off to the mental image of Ms. Miller so many times my palms should be calloused.
It wasn’t until my nightly fantasies began to bleed into working hours that it became a problem.
My first inclination was to fire her and find myself a new assistant—amale. A big hairy man. Named Bruno. Or Thor. But she’s the best I’ve ever had, and I’ve had many. Before her, there was a revolving door of assistants, so I vowed to maintain a completely and totally professional relationship with Isadora Miller.
I may have gone a little overboard. Been a little too harsh with her, too demanding, too demonstrative, but it did the trick of constructing a barrier between us. I was able to keep her in my life while at the same time keeping my hands off her.
Discreetly, I adjust myself while mentally reciting baseball stats in an attempt to force an intruding vision from my mind. It’s a fantasy I’ve indulged in countless times—Ms. Miller bent over my desk with her plump ass in the air as I pummel her from behind.
We remain silent for the next hour as I work on tamping down my runaway libido.
When our flirty flight attendant returns, the scowl on my face is so menacing she won’t even meet my eyes. Good. I won’t have my fiancée disrespected.
Fakefiancée, I mean.
Chapter5
Izzy
