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“Gemma Ackerman speaking,” I say when I pick up.
“Gemma.”
His voice over the phone—I forgot how rough and manly it sounds. It’s enough to send a tingle down there.
“Did I receive a package from TruffleOil and Co. after I left?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you bring it to me? It’ll count as overtime.”
I can’t bring myself to speak. Of course, more money is important to me but it’s more than that. Going to his place, it’sa hard line to uncross. There’s no going back from that. We’ll have privacy and access to furniture.
Hurt blue eyes flash in my mind.
“Sure. Sure.” I sound convincing even though I’m not. Not even one percent convinced that this is the right move.
“My driver will pick you up.”
He hangs up, and my hands wander through my hair.
I can do this. Go in, drop the package, and get out.
Go home. Leave. Don’t stay.
I don’t understand why he can’t fetch it himself. I know he’s busy and has two deadlines coming up, but he could ask his driver to pick it up.
I send off a few emails, trying to settle my nerves before turning off my computer and putting on my coat. I make sure not to forget the package, grabbing it from his desk using his office key that I have in case.
I don’t wait in the lobby more than fifteen minutes before Damon calls me to tell me his driver just pulled up front and not to make him wait.
“How far is it from your place?” I ask him as I settle in the backseat.
“Over twenty minutes. I’ll see you soon.”
He doesn’t say bye. He simply hangs up, and I hate it. It takes a second to say bye and yet he can’t even give me that courtesy.
“Ms. Ackerman.” His driver smiles.
“Hi... I’m Gemma.” We’ve never formally been introduced.
“Joey.” Despite the wrinkles surrounding his eyes when he looks back at me, I can tell he was once a dashing young man. “I’ll be taking you to Mr. Dreygon’s home.” He smiles.
“Thank you, Joey.” I look out the window, at the busy streets, the lights, and the falling snow. My nerves boil like a cup full of fire, the pressure building and building.
I face the front of the car to distract myself. That’s when I realize this isn’t Damon’s Tesla. We’re in another car.
Silence reigns between Joey and me but it manages to extract comfortableness.
Until we reach Damon’s place. Then I’m terribly nervous.
It’s dark by the time I step out, yet the outdoor lights showcase the square-shaped architecture of his house. Massive windows surround the length of it.
Damon opens the door, and I face the man who’s been haunting my dreams lately.
“Come in, Gemma.”
I step inside before he closes the door behind me, our bodies in close contact. Thankfully or unfortunately, depending on who you ask—my brain or my sex—he moves backward to give me space as I check around.
