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“Of course. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No, thank you, Beth.” Mrs. Montgomery boards the elevator, her head held high, and I can’t help but speculate on what kind of man it takes to land a woman like that. I’m guessing he’s older than she is, probably middle-aged at least. Undoubtedly handsome. Driven and successful. And loaded.
Someone like her views wealth as a necessity. Even so, I don’t get the sense she’s a snob. If anything, she comes across as polite, despite being straightforward in her interaction with the receptionist. A phone rings, breaking through my assessment of Mrs. Montgomery. The call is short, and after Beth hangs up, she turns her attention to me.
“Mr. Montgomery is ready for you now. His office is right through that door,” she says, pointing to the first door down the hall.
I try not to let out a nervous breath as I rise to my feet. He might be ready for me, but am I ready for him?
Don’t blow this, Jules. Fake it ’till you make it.
I enter through a door that reads Cash Montgomery, CEO in etched gold, and my attention is drawn to the wall of tinted glass that looks out over the city and Elliot Bay. The windows wrap around an entire corner of the office. Jesus, the view is breathtaking. I have a hard time tearing my gaze away, but when I do I take in the man sitting behind the desk.
He’s scribbling something on a pad of paper, his head dipped, and on some subconscious level I recognize his thick dark hair, because my heart thrashes against my ribcage.
“Ms. Harley, thank you for…” Lifting his head, he trails off as our eyes connect, and the earth slams to a halt. Utter shock blankets his face. The time and space separating us seems to shrink, because I fall into the steel of his gaze as swiftly as I did the night I met him. The weeks melt away, and I’m back sitting beside him, 35,000 feet in the air, his hand covering mine.
His breath on my lips. His fingers gripping my hair. The warmth of his goodbye kiss burning my cheek.
Our time together on that plane crackles between us, paired with confusion and lust so strong it almost consumes the entire room.
“Close the door,” he says, clearing his throat. “Please.”
My hand shakes as I push the door shut. I turn to face him, and our isolation is a blast to my senses. We’re alone, blocked off from the bustle of people who have no idea of the magnitude of this moment. And my reaction to him is just as potent as it was three weeks ago. Possibly even stronger, as I’ve built him up in my mind since then. I fantasized about him every night as I drifted off to sleep, thought about him everywhere I went. Some irrational part of me even hoped fate would intervene, and I’d catch a glimpse of him. Just once.
I’m practically in love with a fucking apparition of a memory, except the ghost of the man is very real, and he’s rising from behind the desk. My lips part at the first sight of his tall body encased in a suit he makes look good. In many cases, the suit makes the man, but not my stranger. His broad shoulders fill out the jacket perfectly, never mind the tailored fit of those slacks that hug his manhood.
His hair is a little longer than I remember, and he brushes it back as that stormy gaze ping-pongs between me and his desk…where a wedding photo of him with the stunning brunette sits.
As if to taunt me.
Oh my God. She’s his wife.
Clearing his throat, he gestures toward a chair. “Please, have a seat.”
I’m not sure how my feet eat up the floor without making me stumble, but I manage to reach the chair without tattooing the word fool onto my forehead. I have a million and one questions ready to roll off my tongue, but I can’t find my voice.
Weakness seizes my knees, and I grab the back of the chair, refusing to sit down just yet. Reclaiming his seat on the other side of the desk, he runs a hand through his hair. That’s when the sight of his wedding ring blasts me in the chest, and I manage to squeeze the single most important question past my constricted throat.
“You’re married?”
His wince is slight, but he can’t hide it. “If you’ll sit down, I’ll try to explain.” He’s eying me as if I might run from the building any second.
I’m tempted to keep my feet planted where they are, but damn it, I need answers as much as I need a job. Even more disturbing is how I want to sit and drink in the sight of him for the next decade or so. I lower into the chair and scoot to the edge, as if preparing to take flight, and force my eyes on him. Direct eye contact is a must in this situation, because he holds too much power over me.
If, by some twisted miracle, he does hire me, this is going to be a disaster of epic proportions, never mind the ratio of well to truly fucked.
“I don’t understand, Mr…” I trail off, his surname catching in my throat. It seems so…impersonal. “I thought we…on the plane…you’re married?” I ask again, my voice rising to a high pitch. This man flusters me to no end, and I’m certain two pink spots are spreading across my cheeks.
“It’s Cash,” he says with a meaningful glance that shoots warmth over my body. “My name is Cash.”
There are other jobs out there—there has to be. Because I can’t do this. Not again, and certainly not with him. The pull I feel toward him is too strong.
I jump to my feet, and my purse smacks the front of his desk, making that fucking wedding photo vibrate. “Thank you for your time, but I can’t do this. I’m sorry.” I scurry to the door until the command in his voice halts me.
“Sit down, Jules.”
A thrill travels down my spine, and a vision of him ordering me onto my knees flits through my mind. Where the fuck did that thought come from? I’m not even good at giving head—a shortcoming Chris never failed to point out. I gulp before turning around, knees shaking, and make my way back to the chair I just vacated.
