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“That sounds wonderful. My mom was big into volunteering and took me even before I can remember. Anyway, I do like finance as well. I enjoy solving problems and finding errors. I just—it’s a big commitment to choose a career and jump in when you’re not one hundred percent certain.”
Gone is the bold, flirty woman from last night who shamelessly approached me at the bar—replaced with an almost timid and nervous little creature. Her eyes dart from mine to the floor and back again as she speaks. They sparkle when the sun hits them through the blinds behind me. Her lips are full, almost too large for her delicate features, yet they fit her perfectly. Everything about her seems ethereal, like she could be a Disney princess locked away in a tower by an evil witch… a far cry from her commanding and at times tyrannical father.
“Tell you what, Brontë. If you were to accept the position here at Archer, you would be hired on as my assistant. I am in desperate need of someone who can help me manage my calendar and gate-keep my time, also someone who can attend meetings with me, book travel, manage my emails and messages. Basically, my right arm. I’m not looking for someone to work twelve-hour days or pick up my dry cleaning. I’m pretty easygoing and approachable. I do?—”
“I’m really sorry about last night,” she interrupts me, blurting out her apology nervously. “I had no idea who you were and I never”—she gestures with her arms like she’s an umpire calling a runner safe—“do that. I had some champagne at my graduation party; that’s why we were there, we were celebrating. I don’t know what came over me, but I wanted to be bold and felt confident and I just… I’m so sorry.”
She shakes her head and I can see the shame on her face but it doesn’t stop me from chuckling.
“Absolutely no need to apologize about it, Brontë. We are two adults and asking someone out is part of life. I, uh, I feel like I owe you an apology actually. When you said your name, I recognized it immediately and because of who your father is… and because he’s one of my closest friends, I removed myself from the situation.”
“My ego appreciates the explanation.” She looks down as she says it, a sly smile on her face and it feels like her nervousness is melting.
“I should have offered you an explanation, but I panicked. I think I was just in shock at the coincidence considering you were on my calendar this morning. Guess I should have just explained that right then but felt it might have been embarrassing… Then again, showing up to find me behind this desk today probably wasn’t any better.” She shrugs and we both laugh again. “So, water under the bridge on both our parts?”
“Deal.” She smiles.
“Great. So back to the job, how does all that sound? And for the record, I am fully aware that if you took this job, you could realize in a month that you hate it and want to leave. That is completely fine and won’t be an issue. I just wanted to extend the offer to you if it was in any way something you feel you would be interested in.”
“I appreciate it. I think it sounds perfectly manageable on my part. When do I need to give an answer?”
“How about the end of the week? Give you enough time to think things over?”
“Yes.”
“Perfect. Here…” I grab my business card and scribble down my personal cell number on it. “This has my email and work phone, but this is my personal cell. If you have any questions or need more time to make the decision, just shoot me a text or email.”
My fingers graze hers as she takes it from my hand. The touch is quick and subtle, but it instantly sets my nerves ablaze. Her fire-red nail polish isn’t helping the matter because all I see when I look down at them is having them wrapped around my cock.
“Looks like I got your number after all.” She giggles, that blush spreading up her neck and over her cheeks again. “Sorry, that wasn’t professional. I don’t know why I said that.”
It makes me laugh again. “Don’t apologize; we’re not that uptight here.” She looks up at me from where she’s still sitting in her chair. I’m towering over and for some stupid reason, I take it a step further. I reach out and tip her chin upward so she’s looking up at me. “I promise I don’t bite, Brontë. You can relax.”
The tension in this second is palpable, but just as quickly it vanishes when she clears her throat and stuffs the card into her purse as she gathers her things to stand up.
“Thanks again for your time, Mr. Archer. I will be in touch with you shortly.”
“Beckham,” I correct her.
“Beckham.” She nods and heads toward my office door. She stops just before she reaches it and slowly turns back around to face me. “Just one other thing.”
“Hmm?”
“Could we keep last night between us? As in, don’t tell my father.”
I want to say I wouldn’t dream of it because if your father knew that I even contemplated for one second taking his daughter home, he’d cut my balls off and feed them to his dogs.
“Of course, it’ll be our little secret.” And just to make things even more tense, I throw in a wink for good measure.
* * *
I’m not proud of it, but I’ve spent the last three days thinking of very little but Brontë.
Something about her, beyond her obvious beauty, is so compelling to me. The way she seems to hold herself back, the way she presents so innocently, yet lurking beneath that surface I sense a curious woman begging for a man to coax out her naughty side.
I grip my golf club tighter as I imagine being that man. It excites me to imagine helping her find that confidence again she displayed the other night in the bar. To see her ask for what she wants, to demand it from me.
“Something on your mind? You’re awfully quiet today,” her father, Jonas, asks me, snapping me back to reality.
