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It also doesn’t help that over the past fourteen days, I’ve grown more and more attracted to Emerson. Maybe it’s curiosity or daddy issues or just a plain old crush, but the fact that he’s forty has become attractive instead of sickening. Most guys my age are a mess. Emerson is the epitome of perfection. Everything he owns is upper-echelon expensive and even his skin is clear and perfect. I find myself wanting to run my fingers through his short beard and scratch my nails through his salt-and-pepper hair.
And I bet a man his age has more skills in bed than a guy who’s only been doing it for a couple years.Stop it, stop it, stop it.
Looking back at the image on the screen, I think about the woman in the photo. She’s beautiful with long black hair and a body most of us would kill for. I wish for one moment I could have the confidence it must have taken to be in the life she’s living. And I don’t mean tied up, but knowing what she wants and going out and taking it.
Emerson hasn’t brought me back to the club since the first day, when he caught me in the throne room with Garrett. Even if he mentions needing to go see Hunter or Maggie, he scowls and adds, “I’ll go later.” As if to say, he’d rather go alone.
I find his overprotectiveness both endearing and annoying. My father was vainly protective in a way that never felt genuine. He tried to tell me the boys I couldn’t date but only because he was territorial and stubborn.
Emerson is protective in a different way, although I can’t put my finger on how it’s different.
The job itself is cake. I go through his emails for him, forwarding the applications to Garrett, the mundane stuff to Maggie, the building stuff to Hunter, and the financial stuff to Emerson. Then I bring him coffee, do lunch runs, file paperwork, and take notes while he’s on calls.
And I’m actually starting to get comfortable in my new clothes. I found a boutique online that delivers quickly and has the cutest secretary-style clothing I have ever seen. I love the look on Emerson’s face each day as I stroll in, scanning my body with his eyes. I have learned that when he bites his lower lip and looks away, he dislikes it. When he compliments me with a simple, “You look nice,” he just thinks it’s okay. But when he stares too long, clenching his fists and letting out a deep sigh, then hereally, reallylikes it.
He asks me about my personal life a lot more than I expected him to, and I tell him about Sophie—without giving away anything personal or going into too much detail. And I tell him about my mom, and how my dad left. He scowls when I bring up my dad, but he doesn’t say much, probably feeling like it’s really none of his business to assert his opinion.
And he always asks me about Beau, but I can tell it’s hard for him to bring him up. He doesn’t push me to call him anymore, not after I told him how Beau treated me. And it makes me wonder sometimes if Emerson will still keep me as his secretary when he realizes that I’m not going to lure Beau back home. If I can’t bring his son back, I’m basically useless to him—at least where Beau is involved.
“I need your opinion,” he says from his desk as I click Send on the roped-up girl, shooting it over to Garrett with a click of a button.
He’s sitting at his desk, staring at his computer. I pull up the chair across from him and settle on my knees as I lean over his giant mahogany desk.
“What’s up?”
“The club opening party is next month, and I can’t decide between these two suits.” I pause, glancing at his face before turning toward the screen. Emerson Grant is askingmefor fashion advice. That would be like me asking a Golden Retriever to help me do my taxes.
On the screen are two male models, each dressed in formal tuxedos that fit them like they were tailored just for them. The first one is in all-black, even the tie and undershirt, so it’s layers of sable texture, and I’m certain that it would look dashing as fuck on Emerson.
But the other suit is a deep satin blue with broad lapels and a black tie over a white shirt. My lips twist as I consider the two. Then, I look at him, my face only a few inches away as I stare into his rich green eyes.
The black would be sexy, but the blue over his tan skin and with those colorful pupils would be regal.
“The blue,” I whisper, tearing my gaze away from him and looking back at the screen. “What will your date be wearing? I guess you should try and match her.” In my mind, his date is some supermodel with a designer gown handmade just for her and thisoneevent.
“I don’t have one.”
I look at him again. “Why not?”
He shrugs, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t know. Does it matter?”
“I mean…you’re the owner of a sex club. If you walk in there alone, you’re not going to be leaving alone,” I tease him, but the thought sucks a little bit of the humor out of me. Some lucky bitch is going home with the most important, most handsome, richest man at the party. Must be nice.
He looks mostly unamused. “I’m not hooking up with a random girl at my company’s grand opening party.” Okay, I guess the boss man doesn’t do one-night stands. Interesting…
“And no girlfriend?”
“No girlfriend.”
“Then I guess you should take a date.” I lean back, settling in the chair. My eyes pause for a moment on his hands resting on the desk, and I get an idea. It’s probably going to be embarrassing, but I’m nothing if not stubborn and socially fearless. “Can I see your hand?”
“What?” he asks with a wrinkle in his forehead.
“I can read palms, and I just like to see people’s lines.”
His confused expression remains as he says, “You are very strange, Charlotte.”
I laugh easily as I reach for his giant hand. Laying his open palm out before me, I let my touch drift softy from his wrist to the tips of his fingers. It doesn’t take a palm reader to know that Emerson Grant has always been an office man. There are no calluses or scars, and his nails are neatly kept. They’re so soft in fact, that I can’t seem to stop stroking his skin and the room grows silent.
