the cake (and I love my cake) are the kissable Tom Hardy pillow lips. And there’s The Body. Wide shoulders, broad chest and long muscular legs sprawled out in front of him. He’s not just hot, he’s mega hot.
This big handsome guy, a man who looks like a film star or a model in an American underwear ad, is the CEO? Unbelievable. Just my luck. My heart clunks to the pit of my stomach, feeling like it catches some vital organs on the way down. After all the gossip Tony circulated about me, and given the reason I’m here, my boss for the weekend is the last man in existence I can be attracted to.
I study him covertly, trying to swallow moisture back into my mouth. Being immune to his appeal fails in spectacular fashion, as an unfamiliar burn of heat sweeps along the back of my neck, spreading down my chest. I just manage not to wipe damp hands along my trouser legs. What’s wrong with me? Although a redhead, I never blush; something I’ve always been thankful for.
Boy, am I in Trouble.
There’s no time to dwell on the thought because he ends his call, throwing his phone onto the seat between us.
‘So. Who the hell are you?’ He demands as the car pulls out into the insane London traffic.
Teeth snapping shut, my shameless appreciation of his outrageous good looks nosedives. Is he for real? Why so rude? But I must keep him on side, can’t lose my cool, so I breathe in slowly, the scent of new leather making me feel slightly sick.
‘Well?’
‘Charley Caswell. Pleased to meet you.’ Forcing a brittle smile, I thrust a hand towards him. ‘The agency sent me to assist you over the next few days?’
His handshake is brisk and he withdraws as though I have a contagious disease. I ignore the tingle in my palm at his touch.
‘I know why you’re here,’ he replies, ‘I instructed the agency to hire someone. It’s just that you’re ah,’ a pause, ‘not what I was expecting.’
His gaze flickers over my chest, which I’ve always hated because my boobs are so big they make me feel like a low-grade porn star. Flushing, I button my suit jacket, trying to put aside the unwelcome excitement choking my oxygen supply.
Stop it. I should be offended by the quick glance, not flattered.
Be professional. I have to convince him I’m a sane human being, earn a little of his trust.
Rerunning his last remark, not what I was expecting I connect it with his downward glance. Is the problem I’m not a man? Not okay. But confrontation isn’t what I came here for. ‘I appreciate my first name may have caused some confusion, but I assure you I’ve lots of experience as a PA.’ It’s not exactly a lie. I was a PA for a year and a half during my climb up the corporate ladder. I’m sure the skills will come back to me.
‘I haven’t got any problem with your experience, after all you’ve been vetted by the agency.’ He jerks open one of his jacket buttons and shifts his long legs restlessly. ‘But I’ve had … issues with female staff in the past. My executive assistant has a burst appendix and is in hospital recovering and apparently no one could step in at such short notice. Or they’re still on leave.’ He looks less than impressed.
‘Well, we’re barely into the New Year, and people do have a right to take holiday don’t they?’ I shouldn’t say it but I feel sorry for the employees he has such high expectations of. ‘And if you’re limiting the number of people who can assist you to men,’ I know by the flickering pulse in his jaw I’m right, ‘you are narrowing your field a bit.’ I won’t argue outright about his blatant sexism, but I can’t let it pass unnoticed.
‘Maybe,’ he agrees stiffly, looking at me with narrowed eyes. ‘I suppose I just expected more. A sense of duty perhaps.’
Sidestepping his remark: ‘So, what issues are you referring to about women anyway?’ Carrying out my plan is going to be a teensy bit problematic if my gender means he won’t even listen to me.
‘Some people can separate work from their personal lives, respect professional boundaries,’ he says coolly, ‘but unfortunately others don’t have that ability.’
‘You’re joking?’ I laugh. Is he suggesting men do and women don’t, or that he’s so attractive every female who works for him will try it on? Okay, he’s hot, but a large proportion of the female population demand equality and respect, and he’s hardly giving off those vibes.
‘No, I’m not.’ He frowns. ‘I was trying to be the opposite of funny.’
‘Okay.’ I bite the inside of my mouth. Talk about taking yourself too seriously.
‘What are you smiling at?’ he barks.
Blanking my face and voice, ‘Nothing, sir. Absolutely nothing. I apologise, I didn’t realise I was.’
‘Don’t be silly. You don’t have to apologise for smiling.’
I ache to exclaim I don’t, Sah? in a surprised, mock southern drawl, with a splayed hand to my chest whilst fluttering my eyelashes, but hold back.
‘And don’t call me sir. I hate it.’
He should try sounding less stern then. ‘Yes s – I mean, Mr Demetrio.’
‘Alex.’
‘Yes, Alex.’ I want to ask if he’s sure letting me use his first name is appropriate given his need to maintain boundaries, but it’d probably be pushing it.
A horrible thought chokes me. Is the point about boundaries something he tells all female staff or is it just directed at me? Does he know who I am? A trickle of cold sweat runs down my spine, the droplet trickling into the waistband of my trousers.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asks, broad body swaying with the movement of the car. ‘You look like you’ve been told your grandma’s been run over by a bus.’
‘N–nothing.’ I shake my head. Paranoia is setting in. Studying his face for any hint of a hidden agenda, I clock only bewilderment and annoyance shining in his eyes and curling his mouth. ‘But let me assure you I’ve no problem keeping my work and personal lives separate. I’m more than capable of being professional.’
‘Good.’ He runs a tanned hand through his hair, leaving it ruffled in messy spikes that make fireflies circle in my stomach. ‘Keep it that way.’
‘No problem.’ Crossing my arms and legs, I turn to stare out the window, wishing I could leap out of it. Gorgeous or not, the man needs a major attitude adjustment. Plus his behaviour has reinforced why I’m off men; my career and putting my life back together are what matter, not a pretty face and a hard set of muscles.
During the next few minutes of suffocating silence I gaze at passengers in passing cars, smiling slightly as I take in a piece of leftover mistletoe stuck up hopefully in a rear windscreen. Alex alternates between fiddling with his phone and staring out of his window.
‘Miss Caswell, I should apologise,’ he mutters, glancing at me from the corner of his eye.
I look over at him. If he’s trying to say sorry it’s a poor attempt, ‘And are you?’
‘Am I what?’ He looks half confused, half cross.
‘Apologising?’
‘Yes, I am.’ He lets out an exasperated laugh, a shade of tension dropping from his expression. ‘I’m sorry.’
Scrutinising his face to gauge his sincerity turns out to be a dangerous move, because my breath catches in my throat, my heart beating so hard I can detect every pulsing rush of blood.
Whoosh,