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He almost smiles, but quickly presses his lips together.
“Knock it off and come into my office.”
“Yes, your highness,” I mutter.
“I told you, I prefer Your Majesty,” he shoots back. I have to smile. A little tendril of warmth fills my chest, and I tamp it down. Jonah Crown is not someone I should feel anything but hatred for.
“Do most of your employees call you Your Majesty, or just me?”
“You’re special,” he mutters. My stupid stomach flips at the phrasing. Silly, Cal. He doesn’t mean you’re special like that.
I drop my purse onto the couch in his office and dig around for my phone.
“What’s under the coat?” His voice sounds angry. My head jerks up.
“Why?”
“Were you working, Thompson? What’s under the coat?” His eyes are hard and his jaw clenched. A total about face from just minutes ago, when he seemed almost normal.
Fuck it. I drop my phone and shuck my wool coat. Raw hunger flashes over his face before he tamps it down. No. I must be mistaken. His eyes trace the tops of my breasts where the corset-like top of the dress has pushed them together, then over the silky fall of material that ends at my upper thigh, down over my stocking-clad legs, to my heels.
His jaw clenches. “Were you on a date?”
“Am I not allowed to date?”
“Not when you’re supposed to be working. I’m here. You’re here. That’s the deal.” His voice is deadly quiet. Where is the man from last night? The one who fed me and left me a stack of cash?
“But you’re always here,” I counter. The wine is making me bold.
His eyes flash. “Funny, Thompson. I don’t recall asking for your commentary on my private life.”
He’s such an asshole. My eyes narrow. He reminds me of a street dog, lashing out at anyone and everyone.
“What private life?” I counter. His brows go up. Shit. That was a dumb thing to say, and now I’ve backed him into a corner.
“What do you know about running a multi-billion dollar company? Do you think I have time to socialize like you do?” He cocks his head.
“I know it seems lonely,” I shoot back. “I know you’re here at all hours. I know you barely sleep. I know you don’t see your family.” I step toward him. “You forget. I know far more about you than you do about me.”
His eyes glitter dangerously. “Is that true? I have very good private investigators.”
“Okay. Let’s hear it. You give me a fact and I’ll give you one in return.” I cross my arms and stare him down, even as my brain screams that this is a bad idea. One that might get me fired.
“I’ll play.” He leans against his desk, looking evil and beautiful all at once. “Your father went to college in Massachusetts. Amherst, specifically. He majored in journalism and had a full scholarship. Just like you did to Columbia.”
I tamp down the surprise before it can show on my face. He really did have me investigated.
“On Saturday mornings, you go to the bagel place on the corner of Amsterdam and 90th street. And you always wear a ball cap so no one recognizes you. Usually a New York Royals hat,” I respond.
His eyes narrow. “I’ve never seen you there.”
“I’m stealthy and you’re not observant. Next.”
“You lived downtown until a year ago, when you moved in with your father.”
Close. Too close to the truth. Which is that my awful ex lives in my apartment and I was left with nothing.
“You’ve lived at 87th street for four years.”
