AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Ah, yes. Coming.” I wish.
Leave it until this moment for my body to finally decide to make sexual attraction a priority. I’ve been in business over eight years, and never once have I been distracted like this. I’d be able to overcome his general good looks if he wasn’t also so nice. I’ve done business with plenty of good-looking men. I’ve even done business with good-looking men who’d made it obvious they wanted more than just my business strategy.
Leslie likes to joke that I’m lacking in sexual mojo. And maybe I’d believe her if I wasn’t so thoroughly enamored of playing with my battery-operated personal massager while binge replaying Jason Momoa’s scenes in Game of Thrones. Or Stephen Amell from Arrow.
Both of whom are bad boys. Not nice guys. Like Chase, when he over-tipped the barista earlier, or made sure to find me new clothes, and then played along when Susan told embarrassing stories of him as a kid. Then there was the rest of his staff.
He was stopped multiple times on our way to the staff elevator. And true, a lot of that had been women flirting with him, a bit outrageously even. But he’d stopped every time with a kind word and a genuine interest in their lives.
I’ve always heard nice was the kiss of death. That nice boys finish last.
I’m pretty sure this nice boy might finish last, but only because he’d let you finish first.
Chase closes the door behind me, and I find myself alone in a small space with my charming new client and my wickedly improper imagination. Probably not the best combination.
Although one couldn’t really call his office small. It’s bigger than my first apartment in Houston, the very place I started my company. Floor-to-ceiling windows behind the desk, showcasing the best of New York up close and personal. Walnut bookcases, oddly empty, line one wall. Opposite them is a richly appointed sitting area with furniture straight out of The Great Gatsby. You could probably fit a lap pool in here.
But still. The door is closed. And that’s all I need to feel claustrophobic with a man like Chase Moore. I should say goodbye and call it a day.
“Why are your bookcases empty?” Damn it. There I go blurting things out again.
Chase glances at the wall of shelves, an uncharacteristic frown on his face. “This wasn’t really my office until a few weeks ago. It used to be Stan’s.”
“Stan?”
“Stan Moore.”
“Isn’t that your father?”
“Yes.” His tone is so flat, so un-Chase-like, that I mentally search for some witty comeback to make him smile again.
Before I can think up a humorous retort, he turns a frame around on his desk to face me. A handsome older couple, two pre-teen boys, and a young girl. They’re sitting in this very office. The man looks bored, the mother has a plastic smile, and one of the boys seems mad at the world while the other, and the girl at his side, look like they’re trying not to laugh. He taps the bored-looking man. “That’s Stan.”
I nod and point to the smiling girl with the puffy dress and big bow on her head. “The pantser?”
Chase laughs softly, a loving smile on his lips. “Yeah. That’s the pantser. Otherwise known as my sister Liz.”
I’m inordinately proud that I got him to smile again. “And I guess that’s your brother?” I ask, pointing to the proud-looking, handsome kid with Stan’s hand resting on his shoulder.
The smile is gone; Chase’s shoulders stiffen. “Thomas. My older brother.”
“Older? Then why isn’t he—” Chases flinches, and I immediately regret my question. I hadn’t meant anything by it. Family-owned companies like this are still pretty archaic. The eldest inherits and all that.
But before I can smooth things over, a buzzer sounds, followed by his secretary on the intercom. “Mr. Chase, your fa—”
The older man from the photo, a man of medium height and with a slight paunch, throws open the door. “What the hell have you been up to, boy?”
I can’t help but wince as his booming voice reverberates around the large office.
“Ah… speak of the devil,” Chase mutters.
His father does look slightly demonic with his red-flushed face, but luckily, I’m able to stifle my laugh and remain unnoticed. He storms past me without a glance, stopping just short of Chase.
“I have been getting phone calls all day from people informing me that you have fired the majority of my management team!” Stan slams an open palm on the desk, and the family picture crashes forward. Glass breaks.
Chase’s eyes track the overturned picture before his carefully blank expression morphs into one of gleeful insolence. I actually have to blink to make sure I’m seeing him correctly. This is a bad-boy look.
“Whatever do you mean, Pops?” Chase sits down in his large leather chair and props his feet on the desk.
