Charlie
“Oh my God,” I stammer, opening my email to find a picture of a woman suspended from the ceiling, naked and wrapped in black cord. She looks like she was caught in a fishing net, and although I can’t see her backside clearly, I’m willing to bet it’s in a prime location for…access.
Emerson furrows his brow as he glares at me.
“Everything all right?”
“These applications…”
A deep chuckle echoes from his corner of the room, and I look up at him in shock. “I mean, what even is this?”
He stands and walks over to see my computer screen. Resting his hands on the back of my chair, he leans over me and stares at the same image I am. “It’s called Shibari,” he says quietly, his deep voice rumbling through my body.
“Is that something you…hire people for?” I ask, gulping on a breath.
“It was Garrett’s idea to have a rope bondage presentation, so we need a few experts to demonstrate.”
“It looks like it hurts,” I grimace. It’s difficult to look at, and even more uncomfortable to be scrolling through the various pictures this woman has sent with Beau’s dad standing over my shoulder.
“You’d be surprised how many people want to be tied up and…”
I turn my face and gaze up into his eyes. When he looks back down at me, my skin grows hot.
“That’s a little more than tied up,” I reply in a low whisper.
“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” he says.
I drag in a deep breath, inhaling the cedar musk scent of his cologne.
“Have you?” I ask carefully.
“Been tied up like that?” His tone is laced with humor as he leans back. I can no longer smell his cologne, and it’s disappointing. “No.”
“I meant…never mind.” This is getting uncomfortable. The notion I held two weeks ago about being able to be a sex club owner’s secretary without talking about sex is basically out the window. We keep cornering ourselves in conversations that inevitably end up inappropriate. It doesn’t help that I don’t know when to quit. “I ask too many questions.”
“Yes, you do.”
It also doesn’t help that over the past fourteen days, I’ve grown more and more attracted to Emerson. Maybe it’s curiosity or daddy issues or just a plain old crush, but the fact that he’s forty has become attractive instead of sickening. Most guys my age are a mess. Emerson is the epitome of perfection. Everything he owns is upper-echelon expensive and even his skin is clear and perfect. I find myself wanting to run my fingers through his short beard and scratch my nails through his salt-and-pepper hair.
And I bet a man his age has more skills in bed than a guy who’s only been doing it for a couple years. Stop it, stop it, stop it.
Looking back at the image on the screen, I think about the woman in the photo. She’s beautiful with long black hair and a body most of us would kill for. I wish for one moment I could have the confidence it must have taken to be in the life she’s living. And I don’t mean tied up, but knowing what she wants and going out and taking it.
Emerson hasn’t brought me back to the club since the first day, when he caught me in the throne room with Garrett. Even if he mentions needing to go see Hunter or Maggie, he scowls and adds, “I’ll go later.” As if to say, he’d rather go alone.
I find his overprotectiveness both endearing and annoying. My father was vainly protective in a way that never felt genuine. He tried to tell me the boys I couldn’t date but only because he was territorial and stubborn.
Emerson is protective in a different way, although I can’t put my finger on how it’s different.
The job itself is cake. I go through his emails for him, forwarding the applications to Garrett, the mundane stuff to Maggie, the building stuff to Hunter, and the financial stuff to Emerson. Then I bring him coffee, do lunch runs, file paperwork, and take notes while he’s on calls.
And I’m actually starting to get comfortable in my new clothes. I found a boutique online that delivers quickly and has the cutest secretary-style clothing I have ever seen. I love the look on Emerson’s face each day as I stroll in, scanning my body with his eyes. I have learned that when he bites his lower lip and looks away, he dislikes it. When he compliments me with a simple, “You look nice,” he just thinks it’s okay. But when he stares too long, clenching his fists and letting out a deep sigh, then he really, really likes it.
He asks me about my personal life a lot more than I expected him to, and I tell him about Sophie—without giving away anything personal or going into too much detail. And I tell him about my mom, and how my dad left. He scowls when I bring up my dad, but he doesn’t say much, probably feeling like it’s really none of his business to assert his opinion.
And he always asks me about Beau, but I can tell it’s hard for him to bring him up. He doesn’t push me to call him anymore, not after I told him how Beau treated me. And it makes me wonder sometimes if Emerson will still keep me as his secretary when he realizes that I’m not going to lure Beau back home. If I can’t bring his son back, I’m basically useless to him—at least where Beau is involved.
“I need your opinion,” he says from his desk as I click Send on the roped-up girl, shooting it over to Garrett with a click of a button.
He’s sitting at his desk, staring at his computer. I pull up the chair across from him and settle on my knees as I lean over his giant mahogany desk.
“What’s up?”
“The club opening party is next month, and I can’t decide between these two suits.” I pause, glancing at his face before turning toward the screen. Emerson Grant is asking me for fashion advice. That would be like me asking a Golden Retriever to help me do my taxes.
On the screen are two male models, each dressed in formal tuxedos that fit them like they were tailored just for them. The first one is in all-black, even the tie and undershirt, so it’s layers of sable texture, and I’m certain that it would look dashing as fuck on Emerson.
But the other suit is a deep satin blue with broad lapels and a black tie over a white shirt. My lips twist as I consider the two. Then, I look at him, my face only a few inches away as I stare into his rich green eyes.
The black would be sexy, but the blue over his tan skin and with those colorful pupils would be regal.
“The blue,” I whisper, tearing my gaze away from him and looking back at the screen. “What will your date be wearing? I guess you should try and match her.” In my mind, his date is some supermodel with a designer gown handmade just for her and this one event.
“I don’t have one.”
I look at him again. “Why not?”
He shrugs, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t know. Does it matter?”
“I mean…you’re the owner of a sex club. If you walk in there alone, you’re not going to be leaving alone,” I tease him, but the thought sucks a little bit of the humor out of me. Some lucky bitch is going home with the most important, most handsome, richest man at the party. Must be nice.
He looks mostly unamused. “I’m not hooking up with a random girl at my company’s grand opening party.” Okay, I guess the boss man doesn’t do one-night stands. Interesting…
“And no girlfriend?”
“No girlfriend.”
“Then I guess you should take a date.” I lean back, settling in the chair. My eyes pause for a moment on his hands resting on the desk, and I get an idea. It’s probably going to be embarrassing, but I’m nothing if not stubborn and socially fearless. “Can I see your hand?”
“What?” he asks with a wrinkle in his forehead.
“I can read palms, and I just like to see people’s lines.”
His confused expression remains as he says, “You are very strange, Charlotte.”
I laugh easily as I reach for his giant hand. Laying his open palm out before me, I let my touch drift softly from his wrist to the tips of his fingers. It doesn’t take a palm reader to know that Emerson Grant has always been an office man. There are no calluses or scars, and his nails are neatly kept. They’re so soft in fact, that I can’t seem to stop stroking his skin and the room grows silent.
I feel his eyes on me, so instead of letting myself dwell on my insecurities, I lean forward and let my touch trace the lines of his palm.
His large hand dwarfs my tiny one as I hold it out before me. “You have a long heart line. That’s a good thing,” I add, glancing up into his eyes. He’s not looking at the lines, though. His gaze is fixed on my face, and I have to swallow down my nerves. He’s your boss, Charlie. And Beau’s dad. Get your mind out of the gutter.
“What does that mean?” he asks.
“People with a long, straight heart line are usually good lovers,” I say with a playful smirk.
“Makes sense,” he jokes, and I find myself giggling and my cheeks warming.
“It also means you are expressive, romantic, and value true love in your life.”
“Hmm…”
“Look, mine is long too.” I open my palm for him, showing him where the horizontal line starts at my index finger and stretches all the way across my hand, without any breaks or curves.
“Doesn’t everyone have love in their life?” He sounds unimpressed.
Squeezing his open hand in mine, I give him a terse glare. “Not just any love, Emerson. It means you’ll have true, all-consuming, intoxicating, life-changing, earth-shattering love. Love you would die for. That you couldn’t possibly live without. Love that makes it hard to breathe. Like you can feel it not just in your heart but in your veins and your bones and your muscles. Everywhere.”
My hand moves to my chest and I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I didn’t mean to get so carried away, but I can literally feel tears sting my eyes, and it’s humiliating, because there’s no way he understands what I’m talking about.
But when I open my eyes, he’s staring at me with an expression I haven’t seen on his face before. The wrinkle that usually settles between his brows is gone and his eyes are soft. He’s studying me as if he’s seeing me for the first time.
“Is that what you want, Charlotte?”
I force myself to inhale. “I won’t settle for anything less.”
“Good.” He looks down at my hand still resting on the table, and he takes it, opening my palm the way I held his. “And your lines say you’ll have that?”
“Yes.”
His fingers trace the creases of my palm, and I forget how to breathe. His touch is so gentle even though he’s so much larger than me, and I hate myself for the way I imagine that same touch on my breasts, down my spine, between my legs…
“Yours does too,” I add, breaking the fragile silence.
His eyes meet mine, a moment charged by the intimate touching of hands. I didn’t intend for it to get like this. I really thought I could prove to him that he doesn’t have to stay so miserably single forever and he would tease me about palm reading, but I didn’t expect this. Here I am, stupidly thinking that the mind-blowing love I want so badly could possibly, in any universe, be with Emerson.
“I’ll take you to the opening.”
At first I think he’s saying he’ll take me, as in, to be his lawfully wedded wife, and I nearly laugh because that would be a joke. Then his words reroute through my brain and I realize he’s asking me to go to the club opening with him as his date, and the word, “What?” bursts through my lips.
“You think I need a date, and I don’t want to take any chances going home with the wrong girl, so you should go with me.”
“You’re serious.”
A deep chuckle echoes from his chest. “Yes, I’m serious.”
“No. No.”
“Ouch,” he responds, feigning offense.
“Emerson.” I level my gaze on him. “Come on. I’m your secretary. And your son’s girlfriend.”
“Ex.”
I pause. Am I seriously considering this? He won’t even take me back to the club after what happened last time, and now he wants to take me to the opening as his date.
“Will people be…you know?” God, I feel like a child.
“Having sex in the club? Yes, probably. Maybe not on the first night, and not out in the open. You don’t have to see anything you don’t want to see.”
I think I’m sweating. No, I’m definitely sweating.
I want to ask him, why me? Why does he want to take me when he has his pick of probably any girl in Briar Point? But I don’t. I’ll let myself imagine for a moment that he actually wants to take me over any of those other girls. Let myself live in the fantasy for a minute.
“I can’t afford a dress.”
“I’ll buy your dress.”
When I open my mouth to argue more, I stop myself. Why am I trying to talk him out of this invitation? I am getting invited to an ultra-exclusive, members-only sex club with the freaking owner. Why are the first words out of my mouth not hell yes?
“Okay. Fine.”
“That has to be the most flattering response to a date I’ve ever received,” he replies sarcastically.
“I’m sorry, I mean, I’m excited and of course I want to go with you, but it’s just…not really my scene. Come on, Emerson. I work in a skating rink.”
“No, you work for Salacious Players’ Club as my secretary, remember?”
“Yes, but on the weekends, I still fry corn dogs and lead the crowd in the hokey-pokey on roller skates.”
A deliciously handsome grin stretches across his cheeks. “I’d pay to see that.”
“You don’t have to. Every Saturday night at seven-thirty. The black lights come on. We even sell glow sticks, if you’d like to take it up a notch.”
“Oh really? I’m not quite versed in roller skating culture. Do you think I’m ready for glow sticks?”
He’s teasing me, and I don’t even realize until this moment that he’s still holding my hand in his. Or rather, we’re just holding hands since he’s relaxed his grip.
But I don’t let that distract me as I lean in, teasing him as much as he’s teasing me. “How would you know if you don’t try it? I think you could handle glow sticks. It’s the Electric Slide you should probably work your way up to.”
“You’ll do it with me, so I’m not alone, right?”
I smile, biting the corner of my lip. And because it feels right, I lean forward and grin. “Oh, baby, you won’t know what hit you when you Electric Slide with me.”
It’s funny. We’re laughing, and it’s playful and innocent and fine…until it’s not. Until the laughter fades, and we’re left in the dust of whatever flirtatious thing this was. His eyes are on my face, and mine are on his. Our hands are still linked on the desk.
He swallows, and I swallow.
And I want so badly to kiss him. Just to see if I would even like it or if it would be too strange. And to see if these weird feelings in my body are what I think they are. If I’m really growing attached to Emerson in a sexual way or if it’s just my imagination getting away with itself.
His fingers squeeze my hand, one finger gently stroking my palm, and it’s like a scream. It’s so subtle, naked to the eye, but I feel it, and it’s telling me to lean forward, so I do.
Then he leans forward.
And when I feel his breath on my lips, my body cries for me to kiss him. Close the distance. While my brain has alarms going off, red flags and sirens blaring. No, no, no, no! This is Beau’s dad—his freaking dad, Charlie. What are you doing? You can’t kiss him! Because then what? After you kiss him, what if he wants more? Are you going to let him take your clothes off? Have sex with him?
Okay, that sounds both terrifying and amazing.
But then what? You can’t stay in this job after you’ve fucked him. You’ll get emotionally attached and maybe you’ll sleep together a couple more times, if you like it, and then he’ll move on, and you’ll be devastated.
And my rational mind has a point. This is a terrible idea, but his lips are already brushing mine, and it’s too late to back out now. It’s a soft touch, barely even a kiss, but the moment our lips graze each other, we slide into an intimate space where only we exist, and it’s so delicate that I don’t dare to move.
His hand slides up my arm and he leans in to deepen the kiss, but before he can, the phone rings.
Compared to the silence we’re in, it sounds like a machine gun going off right next to us. I gasp, pulling away in a rush. I don’t stop, jumping up from the chair and walking briskly across the room.
The ringing stops, and I turn to see he’s silenced the call. His eyes are on me, watching me with concern.
“Charlotte,” he calls with that authoritative tone. “What’s wrong? Come sit down.”
“That was stupid of me. I’m sorry. I got carried away. It was just the heat of the moment, I guess. I don’t know—”
“Charlotte,” he barks
“I should go. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t go,” he calls, but I’m already to the foyer, grabbing my jacket from the closet and my purse from the bench. When I spin around again, he’s only a foot away.
“I’m really sorry. I’m so embarrassed.” My hands fly up to my face, and my cheeks are hot against my hands. And everything just comes barreling to the forefront of my mind.
I kissed Beau’s dad. My boss. Beau’s dad. A forty-year-old man.
His touch is soft against my wrists as he nudges my hands from my face.
“Are you okay?”
“No!” I shriek.
“Why?”
“Because…” My eyes widen.
“Because we kissed.”
“Oh my God,” I cry out, trying to cover my face again.
“Charlotte, calm down.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing. You didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t leave. Sit down.”
He leads me to the formal living room at the front of the house with large bay windows that face the quiet neighborhood. His comforting hand is at the small of my back again, and I relax into the secure way it makes me feel.
It’s quiet for so long before he finally speaks. “I think you were right. We just got carried away in the moment, which was not your fault.”
There’s a but hanging on the end of his sentence and I’m sort of dreading it. As much as I hate the idea of kissing him again, I also sort of…love the idea of kissing him again. Which is so, so wrong. And most of all, I don’t want him turning me down. It hurts to even think about.
“But the two of us getting involved with each other physically is a very bad idea.”
“I agree,” I stammer, unable to meet his eyes.
“I don’t want you to leave like this. I’m sorry it happened, but if you need to leave, I understand.”
I don’t want to leave. Suddenly, I find myself glued to his presence, craving that comforting touch again. One little brush of our lips and I’m already attached. Stupid, stupid Charlie.
“I’ll stay.”
In my head is a chorus of self-deprecation walloping my ego. Why would he want you anyway? Stupid girl. You really tried to kiss Emerson Grant. A handsome millionaire who could have anyone. Why would he want you?
My eyes are trained on the floor, my hands working anxiously as I let the words have their way, running through my mind until I’m on the verge of tears.
And suddenly, he’s touching my chin. And I glance up in surprise as he lifts my gaze upward until we’re staring at each other.
“It’s not because I don’t want you. Understand?”
It’s eerie how well he reads my mind. He’s just being nice, though. Solemnly, I nod.
Then his fingers gently stroke my chin for a moment as he seems to get lost, staring first at my eyes, and then my lips.
“You’re such a good girl, Charlotte.”
My shoulders relax, seeming to melt down at my sides as I gaze up at him, those beautiful words washing over me like warm water. Suddenly, I’m all gooey and compliant, like that one little phrase put me in a trance. He could literally do anything to me in this state.
And I sort of want him to.
Sadly, he releases my hold and moves to stand. “All right then. Let’s get back to work and pretend this never happened.”
And since I would do just about anything for his praise, that’s exactly what I do.
