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Story of my life.
“Juliet?” Kelsey’s voice breaks through my lustful haze. “You were telling me about your bad make out. Maybe it wasn’t a dealbreaker?” she asks, ever the optimist. “You could train him, if he’s hot enough. And rich enough. Is he?”
I have to laugh. This is why Kelsey has a date every Saturday night, and I… Don’t. “You can’t teach a guy to kiss, not so you feel it right to your toes.” I tell her. “You know when a guy reaches for you and time just stops? And everything disappears, and it’s like you and him are the only two people on earth?” I sigh wistfully. “You can tell everything by the way a guy kisses. Especially how he is in bed.”
And let’s just say, if last night was anything to go by, I would be in for three minutes of sloppy, beer-flavored action if I gave this guy another try. Call me a romantic, but I can’t help feeling there should be more to life—and make outs—than that.
I finally reach the counter to order. “Got to go!” I tell Kelsey. “Wish me luck!”
“You’ll be perfect.”
I hope so. But Kelsey doesn’t know that landing this job is only the half of it.
Because ‘assistant’ wouldn’t be my only task.
But that’s getting ahead of myself. I hang up and order my iced mocha, trying to focus. Wow them in the interview first, worry about the rest of it later. But as I’m striding confidently to the doors, gripping my mocha, someone jostles my elbow. My arm lurches, the cap flies free, and a wave of cold, dark coffee hits me, square in the chest.
“Noooo.” I wail in dismay, looking down at my no-longer-white blouse. I’m soaked to the skin, with cream smeared down my front and caramel sauce dripping from the mess, just to taunt me with my extra treat add-on.
I look a total mess.
And I have exactly ten minutes until the biggest interview of my life.
I quickly run through my options. I can’t go back home and change—I don’t have the time. And all I’m wearing underneath is my lucky pink lace bra, not exactly interview material. Can I find a store open to grab a replacement? Not likely, before nine a.m.
I can’t believe it. So much for turning everything around.
Tears well in my eyes. Everything was riding on getting this job today.
Everything.
“I apologize.”
A voice beside me breaks through my misery. “That was my fault.
“I apologize. Let me cover your dry cleaning.”
I look up and find my day has just turned from ‘bad’ to ‘humiliating’ because, of course, it’s the handsome man from behind me in line. But I’m freaking out too much to care. This is an emergency, and I’m about to lose it: my pride, my self-control, and my future job.
“No… You don’t get it,” I nearly sob, looking around helplessly. “I have a big interview. I can’t show up looking like this!”
The man looks around, and then briskly begins to hustle me to the lobby of the building next door. I’m all out of options, so I follow blindly behind him, but unless he’s taking me to an Ann Taylor outlet, I’m all out of luck.
It’s not a store, but the ladies’ restroom. He guides me inside, locks the door behind us, and then orders:
“Take off your clothes.”
“Umm, what… ?” I stammer, flustered. My cheeks burn hotter as he strips off his suit jacket, unknots his tie, and he starts unbuttoning his shirt.
I gape. This can not be happening.
Am I dreaming? Did someone spike that mocha with some hallucinogenics? Because my walking fantasy is slowly undressing in front of me, totally unconcerned.
He shrugs off the shirt, revealing a set of mesmerizingly solid muscles, gloriously tight and cut. He has the lean physique of an athlete who worked hard for it, too hard to keep it covered with a suit. Broad shoulders taper to a narrow waist, thick biceps and just a smattering of a treasure trove right at his belt buckle. It’s a feast for the eyes. I can’t look away, even if I wanted to.
I don’t want to. That’s a buffet I could happily gaze at for hours. Days, even.
“You can do something with this, right?”
