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“Get Morris on the phone,” he commands without letting me say a word. “And if that bastard tries to push you onto his secretary, so help me god—”
“Done,” I chirp, as any good general might. It takes me ten steps to approach his desk. With honed practice, I shrug my canvas bag from my shoulder and withdraw my first line of defense. “But not until after you eat breakfast.”
“Evelyn…” He scowls while I unzip the posh designer lunch box and withdraw a fresh banana, a steaming container of oatmeal, and exactly a quarter cup of granola. I make a show of arranging them neatly alongside a stack of documents and dig into the lunchbox for a spoon that I brandish in his direction as well.
“Eat,” I tell him, my voice monotone, my face expressionless. “Then I’ll call Morris, and we’ll head to your first meeting.”
His upper lip curls from his teeth in a vicious snarl. “Are you bloody serious right now?”
God, this man. His stare can cut through someone like a razor—and still inflict awe beneath the violence. It’s the blue irises. They suck you in like a riptide, and you’re drowning before you even have the sense to struggle. If only the rest of him wasn’t equally mesmerizing. Maybe then it might have been harder to forgive him for being such an ass.
But no, his face is disgustingly handsome—all chiseled cheekbones, complete with a strong chin. He has that suave, shampoo commercial-hair thing going on and a nose that seems plucked right from some Italian Renaissance statue. Not that I could blame the guy for his looks, but seriously…
Whatever beauty the powers that be couldn’t cram into his face during his inception, they shoved into every inch of his lean, six-foot-and-some-change frame. The bastard even has a mole on his neck that doesn’t diminish his looks any.
He’s basically a grouchy, six-foot-tall Adonis shoved inside a tailored suit.
“I’m not hungry,” he snaps, still fixing me with the same glare I assume sent Branden running for cover. “Though I am quite parched. For blood. Get Morris on the phone…now.”
I hate when he does that—growls. Somehow he manages to seem professional doing it, but it’s a damning sign, nonetheless. It’s already time for phase two, and with my eyes on that ripe banana, I withdraw the second weapon in my arsenal from my canvas bag.
“Unfortunately, exsanguination isn’t on today’s agenda,” I announce while flicking open a leather-bound day planner, though I already know every appointment inside and out. During the past three years, this thing has become my Bible—the codex to all things Graeme Bellamy.
And he has just ten minutes to simmer his temper back to acceptable levels before the next topic on his itinerary.
“Your first meeting is at ten sharp,” I recite without looking up. His guttural sigh is my assurance that he’s listening to every word, however. “A hearty breakfast will keep your blood sugar from crashing to the point that you curse out everyone in the boardroom,” I point out. Maybe it’s not necessarily a medical condition, but a lack of regular meals seems to correlate directly to the severity of his moods. “After that, it’s another meeting down at the Uptown offices to go over the new designs from Stella. Then it’s an hour with Dr. Thorton. And then—”
“Have you become automated now, Evelyn? Like everything else in this damn day and age,” he interrupts. “How do I turn you off?” He makes a show of pushing my banana aside to adjust his already neat stack of papers—but at least his nostrils are no longer flaring. A good sign, but not good enough. With another practiced flick of my wrist, I dig into my bag again.
“We scheduled only five minutes for breakfast, so be quick,” I remind him while nodding at his container of granola. “While you eat, you can take your vitamins, and then it’s straight into the car. James is waiting,” I suspect, naming his personal driver.
“Oh?” His scowl deepens. “Remind me, Evelyn—is it you who pays my bills or vice versa?”
Ah, aMe Tarzan, you worker,quip. It’s not quite as alarming as one of hisI could fire you in a heartbeat and have you replaced before the damn thing can even begin to pump again,threats. Time to draw my last weapon and let the cards lie where they may.
“Fine then,” I say with feigned casualness—but, as predicted, when I palm my cell phone, his entire posture changes—suddenly, he’s a lion crouched on his seat, unsure whether to pounce on his prey or retreat. “But the lunch is withGloria,” I add, invoking his mother's first name, a woman fearsome enough to have raised a devil. “Of course, I can just call her and tell her you’ll have to reschedule. I’m sure she won’t mind…”
I let the threat dangle while my thumb brushes the cell phone. It’s a tense wait. He glares for nearly a full minute before finally snatching up the banana and ripping it open in defeat.
“Lunch will remain as scheduled,” he says after a ravenous bite. “And you can still get Morris on the phone…Now.If you plan on remaining employed, that is.”
“I do,” I simper in a deadpan tone. “In fact, I would like to discuss the particulars of my employment at your earliest convenience.”
He raises an eyebrow. That got his attention. “It isn’t like you to be pushy and overbearing in one morning, Evelyn,” he snipes. “Submit your request in writing, and I’ll schedule you in.”
He’s joking—I think. In any case, I’m too desperate to salvage this morning to push for the raise talk just yet. Thankfully, I see a glimmer of hope on the horizon—he’s no longer growling, and we’re back to terse politeness and thinly-veiled insults.
I try to hide my small smile of triumph as I scroll through my contacts for one Richard Morris, the head negotiator for Atelier Noir. What transpires next is a fascinating study in multitasking, as Mr. Bellamy somehow manages to devour his breakfast in five minutes while simultaneously tearing poor Mr. Morris a brand-new pair of “bloody fucking balls” via a conference call.
I make a mental note to salvage the carnage by sending Morris a gift card, in Bellamy’s name, of course, once he’s cooled down, and I’ve barely finished jotting the note in my planner when Bellamy withdraws from his desk and rises to his feet.
“Damn, we’re already running late,” he declares after glancing at his wristwatch, as though I didn’t suggest the same thing minutes earlier. “We should go. How do I look?”
I bite my lip at the question. We are the only two in his office, but—as always—he preens as though he’s on the world’s stage. His shoulders go back, his chin jutting high into the air, his gaze stern and focused like a laser. There’s no denying the obvious.
“You look perfect, as always,” I declare with a grudging bit of honesty, “but we should really get moving.”
Normally, the reminder would send him storming from the office, shouting orders. Today, he… lingers. With one hand, he smooths the front of his pristine navy suit while the other sweeps a few wayward crumbs of granola from his desk. A tendril of alarm shoots through me. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was stalling.
