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“No drinks allowed in there?” I ask.
She darts a nervous glance at the door. “I better take it.”
As I hand her the cup, my previously steady hand begins to tremble.
How scary can our glorious leader be?
“Keep me in the loop.” Sandra opens the door for me.
Feeling like a lamb going to the proverbial slaughter, I shuffle into the Impaler’s lair—and before I can catch sight of the man himself, my manager helpfully closes the door behind me, like a vampire’s minion springing a trap.
Soft music is vibrating the airwaves in here. In the Hall of the Mountain King by Edvard Grieg—a fitting melody to get exsanguinated to.
I catch a whiff of tangerine and bergamot, and my stomach drops.
Can’t be.
I turn around.
Illuminated by the bluish light of a large monitor is the gorgeous face of the stranger I was just drooling over at Starbucks.
Even his tea is here, on his spotlessly clean desk.
“Hello, Ms. Pack,” Vlad the Impaler says with a slight Transylvanian accent. “Good to finally meet you.”
Chapter Two
The accent is actually Russian—everyone knows that much about our reclusive CEO. And his place of birth might be why he addressed me so formally; I’ve read that in Russia, they often use the plural you and patronymics, both as a sign of respect and to separate close friends from strangers.
Ms. Pack is a decent English equivalent, except that it makes me sound like Ms. Pac-Man: round and starving for doughnut holes. And sidebar—shouldn’t that game have been called Pac-Woman, or Ms. Pac? Actually, thank god it wasn’t Ms. Pac; that’s too close to home and I was teased enough being Fanny Pack as it is.
Then blood leaves my face.
He could’ve overheard me and Ava. What was the last—
I realize he’s suddenly looming over me, hand outstretched, like Nosferatu.
Must’ve used his preternatural vampire speed to leap out from behind his desk and dash toward me before my brain could process it.
Crap. How long have I been standing here, ignoring that hand? And how the hell did this happen? How is Vlad the Impaler Hottie McDark? All the rumors about this man skipped a critical detail: how mouthwateringly attractive he is.
“Are you okay?” the Impaler asks, his accent thickening.
Ugh, now I’m ogling him. And still ignoring that hand. Gathering my courage, I stick out my arm and clasp his much, much bigger palm.
Holy estrogen.
My heart rate spikes, and a jolt of orgasmic energy spreads through my body, electrocuting a nest of angry butterflies in my stomach before settling somewhere low in my core.
How many hours is it socially appropriate to hold a hand like this?
Reluctantly, I peel my fingers away from his.
He looks down at me, his expression completely unreadable. He’s either an amazing poker player or this handshake didn’t affect him at all.
“Take a seat.” He gestures at the chair in front of his desk, and by the time I plop into it, he’s already in his. It’s Embody by Herman Miller, the very chair I have at home, only mine is blue while his is black.
He lowers the music volume with a small remote. “You have a great reputation at Binary Birch, Ms. Pack.”
