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But then I’d become the slut everyone accuses me of being. Sleeping with my boss to get ahead—at least, that’s what it would look like. Indulging in a heated affair with the man who signs my paychecks is not smart. Didn’t I learn anything after my failed attempt at a minor affair with Brian Fairbanks?
Leaning against the fabric headboard, I stare out the window at the city lights that surround me. I hadn’t thought of his actual name since I don’t remember when. I prefer to think of him as this faceless, nonentity, otherwise known as my ex-boss. It’s just so much easier that way, not thinking of his name.
Now it all comes back to me. Brian would flash that charming smile as he whipped his thin blond hair away from his eyes, his gaze always eating me up. He had this way of making me feel like I was special, despite the ridiculous way he talked to me about titties and ass and how much his palm itched to give me a spanking.
Yes, he said that. He said a whole lot more too, plenty of which I wish to banish from my brain forever.
When I told my grandma what happened with Brian—how it turned out he had a wife and kids—she’d read me the riot act. Chewed me out for what felt like hours, though it probably only equaled about fifteen minutes. Told me if I continued flirting with these men who were in positions of authority, I’d never get ahead unless I had sex with them. That was all they thought of when they looked at me.
A sexpot. She’d called her own granddaughter a sexpot, though now I suppose she said it to warn me. I always heard how I needed to make good choices.
So I tried. I tried and tried and tried and here I sit, in a hotel suite paid for by my boss, and I’m still contemplating how I can get him into my room, so I can have a chance with him at least once before I quit and go back home to Cactus.
Have I lost my mind? I worry so much how others will see me, yet I still want Matt. I can’t help it. If people are going to call me a sexpot, a slut, or a tramp, I guess I can go ahead and give them a reason to, right?
Respect yourself. If you don’t, no one else will either.
I need to remember that.
My cell phone buzzes and I glance at it to see a text from Matt.
You in your hotel room?
I sure am, typing up notes just for you, I answer.
No reply, and I stare at the screen of my phone, willing something to appear. When nothing happens, I toss it aside and start typing up my notes again, my eyelids growing heavier with the menial task.
It was bad enough I had to sit through those sessions. Now I’m reliving them by rewriting the notes, reminding me exactly how boring they’d been.
Well, boring to me. Matt would probably find it fascinating since he’s in the business, but definitely not me.
My phone dings again, and I grab it.
You should meet me at the Blue Fin Restaurant downstairs in thirty minutes.
Why?
I chew on my fingernail, waiting for his answer. I already had room service for dinner, ordering a delicious pasta dish with shrimp and a salad on the side the moment I got back to the hotel. I’m not even hungry.
I want to take you out to dinner.
The Blue Fin is a gorgeous restaurant in the hotel; I keep peeking in there when I walk by. I’m dying to check it out, but not like this.
Staring at my phone’s screen, I contemplate how I should answer. The conference is done for the night. We have one more day tomorrow and then it’s over. Dinner tonight isn’t official business.
It feels personal. Like a date.
I already ate. Didn’t you eat too?
Have dessert then. And the meal they gave us at the keynote was crap. I’m still hungry.
A little sigh escapes me, and I stare out the window again, drinking in the beautiful city view. I should decline. I should stay in my pretty hotel room and type up my messy notes and fall asleep in my deliciously soft bed. A good girl would do that. She wouldn’t be tempted to do something bad, like go out on a dinner date with her boss.
But I never said I was a good girl.
I want to spend time with Matt. I want to go out to dinner with him and stare at his handsome face from across the table. I want to hear him tell me a story, and then I want to tell him a story and make him laugh. I want him to reach across the table and grab my hand, entwining our fingers.
I want it all, and I want it with Matt.
