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“Uh, no,” I grunt, running a hand down my face. “Just because I don’t have a meeting scheduled doesn’t mean I don’t have work to do.”
“Exactly,” Clementine agrees, nodding. “Like talking with your event planner and helping her get a vibe on what a King’s Holdings party should be like.”
I stare at her blankly, though it’s increasingly difficult not to match her smile. Not that anyone could truly match her genuine, bright, and brilliant smile, but dammit if she doesn’t make me want to try.
Again, what the fuck is wrong with me?
“Serious vibes. Money-making vibes. No-time-for-frivolous-parties vibes. Need I go on?”
Her demeanor never wavers. In fact, her eyes twinkle at my response. Why can’t she take the hint and leave me alone?
No, something in me shouts.Don’t go.
“I didn’t ask for Kingsley Bowman vibes. I asked for King’s Holdings vibes,” she counters, an adorably mischievous grin curling up one corner of her lips.
“Same thing,” I reply as I shuffle through the stack of envelopes and proposals on my desk.
Clementine giggles again, and I have to look away from her. The tugging ache in my chest seems to grow tighter each moment she’s here and not in my arms. Jesus, I need to get a grip.
“Okay, then. What’s the opposite of those vibes? Maybe that’s a better place to start.”
“I’m sure by now you’re well aware that I’m not a huge fan of the holidays or people, so having a party with my employees on the most celebrated holiday in the country is already at the bottom of my list of things I never want to do. You think having me list off the opposite of everything I love will make me want to attend?”
“No, but that’s where negotiations will start,” she quips. I roll my eyes, which of course, only makes her grin. “Fine, how about you take a look at a few themes I’ve picked out? Once we pin that down, I’ll have plenty to do before contacting you again.”
I cross my arms over my chest and stare down at the golden-haired goddess adorned with enough holiday cheer and kindness to put Tiny Tim and Charles Dickens to shame. Clementine mirrors my stance, but when she crosses her arms over her chest, her breasts are pushed up and together, and I can’t stop staring. This woman has zero clue what a temptation she is, which only makes her that much more intriguing.
“It won’t hurt you to glance at a few color palettes and give me your approval.”
“It might,” I mumble, forcing my gaze to meet hers. That was a mistake. Eyes as green as pine trees stare back, and I’m helpless to do anything but nod and agree to whatever she says.
“Yes!” she exclaims, pumping one fist in the air in victory.
How is everything she does adorable? I’ve never used that word before, but nothing else fits. Clementine Clarkson is changing me already, and I’m unsure how much more I can take.
And this is only my second day working with her.
My office door swings open, revealing the last person in the world I want to see. “Kingsley, dear, why haven’t you returned any of my calls?”
“Ben, you’re fired!” I shout to my assistant.
He laughs. “Sure. I’ll pack my desk up right now.” Ben laughs again.
The bastard. He knows all too well I won’t fire him. That man is the only person who can put up with my attitude. Plus, he knows all my passwords. It’d be a hassle to hire and train someone else.
“Don’t blame him. I’m your mother. I have the right to talk to my only child, especially when he’s been ignoring me for the last two weeks.”
I scrunch my nose when I get a whiff of my mother’s overwhelming perfume. Chanel No. 5, of course. She tosses her Marc Jacobs fur purse on the couch in my office and flings off her matching designer fur coat, indicating she’ll be staying for a while. Or so she thinks.
The woman who gave birth to me strides up to me and kisses one cheek, then the other, as if we’re sorority sisters catching up at a reunion. Everything about her is fake and shallow, but that’s nothing new.
For all of her faults, Eloise Bowman has never pretended to be something she’s not. She married for money and has been content to let my father run around with his mistresses their entire marriage. If that’s what having a relationship is like for the rich, I want nothing to do with it.
“We need to discuss the party,” my mother says.
“Same!” Clementine chimes in.
My mother whips her head around so fast I think she might have dislocated a disk in her neck. “Who are you?”
