Entangle Page 4

  When she speaks again, I can tell my impatient tone offends her. I can’t seem to give a shit.

  “Hope you are well. I am calling because I received your response to the wedding invitation.”

  “Okay?”

  I pin the phone between my ear and shoulder as I peel coffee-soaked chunks of tissues off of my desk and throw them into the waste basket.

  “You won’t be able to attend?”

  “That’s right.”

  I am rummaging through a drawer now to find something more absorbent than facial tissues. I think I have napkins here, somewhere.

  “Well, I have to be honest,” Dolores says, “I’m concerned of how it will appear, you not being there. We were all under the impression it was an amicable split. Everyone was impressed how you both managed to remain friends.”

  I press the phone to my chest as I take a deep breath to contain myself. I don’t know what the fuck she’s talking about. Sure, I never keyed Jeremy’s car or burned his pretentious, preppy clothes. But that is the extent of the so-called friendship she refers to. I haven’t even spoken to him in over a year and a half. Before that, our conversations were strictly about matters of the divorce.

  For Dolores, what other people think is all that truly matters. She doesn’t care how shaky or unsteady the foundation is, as long as the sand castle is tall and grand for all to see. Never mind that it can crumble at any moment.

  Am I supposed to be part of her charade, long after her son walked out on me? Fuck her. What is her point, calling me and nagging me about this? Does she think she can guilt me into going? As if I owe her something. As if I owe Jeremy anything. I don’t owe either of them shit.

  When I put the phone back to my ear, I pull a smile over my lips though no one can see it. I want to make sure my words sound as sweet as possible.

  “Dolores, I know it’s exciting for you that your son found love and wants to promise his life to someone. But I have to be honest—I was there for the first time. I heard all these promises already. They were sweet and, I’m sure, well intentioned. But at this point, I’m really not interested in hearing him profess the desire for a life-long commitment. Not when we both know your son will run for the hills when things get rough. But you know what? I will send them a nice set of china. They can use it for a few years and maybe they’ll give it to you when they can’t decide who gets it in the split.”

  I am met with a long silence on the other end of the line.

  “Well, perhaps it’s for the best that you don’t make it. I wouldn’t want you to reopen wounds that sound like they have yet to heal.”

  I shut my eyes. I want to send her straight to hell. I’m done with this bullshit family and their bullshit passive-aggressive manipulations. But I will myself to steady my voice and say, “You and I are not connected in any way. We have nothing left to discuss and I would appreciate it if you didn’t contact me again.”

  I can almost hear the way her expression pulls tight. Her response comes in between an offended scoff. “Well, then—”

  I hang up before she can finish, throwing my cell phone on my desk. Perhaps I should feel better, but I don’t. In fact, I feel worse.

  The rest of my day is shrouded by a thin layer of irritation that settles right under my skin. I find my patience wearing out easily throughout the day. The only times my annoyance seems to lift, if not for a moment, are the times I allow my eyes to bask in Leo. His presence is an alleviating distraction for me, one that I welcome. It shifts my attention from my irritated state to a feeling that tugs down on my stomach every time our gazes intersect. A feeling similar to that of missing a step while walking down a staircase. That sudden jolt of panic, instantly quelled by the reprieve of feeling the ground again.

  There’s also the excitement of wanting to test the waters with him. Cast out my own lure and see if he bites. I hope he bites. He preoccupies my thoughts even when he’s not around. Throughout the day, my mind trails away to vivid images that rekindle the feeling of yearning I have long forgotten. I can’t remember the last time I felt a burning rise through my skin and wished for rough hands to douse it.

  I don’t know how he does it. How, without touching me, without even a hint of a suggestive phrase, Leo manages to ignite a hungry flame in me. It began small, his blue eyes striking my own until the air between us flickered. My whisper into his ear blew the spark into a flame. A flame that is now licking the insides of my thighs, causing me to readjust in the conference room chair as warmth floods me inside.

  I find myself wishing he would translate the tension between us into an offer. I wish he would make a move on me. As much as I want him, I don’t want to take the risk of initiating anything.

  Who am I kidding? I’ve already initiated it.

  VI

  Leo

  It’s Friday afternoon. I think it’s safe to say it’s been a shitty day for everyone. Tensions are high. Things seem to be falling apart left and right. Orders misplaced, errors in reports, communication lapses. Everything seems to happening today. Because, why not?

  I shouldn’t be surprised when I find myself glaring at my computer screen.

  Someone fucked up. There’s an error in one of the blueprints. An error I know for a fact wasn’t there when I approved it. I realize the printing company somehow replaced the file we sent them with an older project. That blueprint is on its way to a client for review as of this morning.

  Two hours later, I resign to the fact that no amount of strong-arming over the phone is going to solve the problem on a Friday afternoon. The damage is done, now it’s time for the cleanup. This is bad. It makes us out to look like amateurs.

  I have to go in and talk to Alexis, give her a heads up. I imagine that she is going to be pissed. She has stressed, on many occasions, the importance of this project going off without a hitch.

  The door to her office is open, but I stand outside of it for a few seconds, watching her as she watched me in the break room exactly a week ago. I rake my knuckles on the doorframe to get her attention.

  She sits at her desk, looking over paperwork and writing into a notepad. Her demeanor instantly gives me the impression she’s feeling the wrath of the incident-prone day. Her glance is long enough to see that it’s me and she lazily waves me in with one hand while continuing to write with the other.

  I wait for her to stop and look at me. When she doesn’t, I resist the urge to ask her to. I remind myself she is the one in charge. I put my hands in my pockets and explain to her what is going on. I don’t speak for long, but she doesn’t even peer up at me once the entire time.

  When I finish speaking, there is a small pause and then, shoveling through the paperwork in front of her, she says, “Okay. Fix it.”

  That’s all.

  I shake my head and feel my jaw muscles pull tight. I don’t realize what I’m saying until the words leave my lips. “I don’t appreciate your rudeness.”

  Her eyes snap upward to meet mine and I swear the floor shifts under my feet.

  “Close the door, please,” she says.

  Her tone is harsh, her expression undecipherable.

  I don’t immediately respond. I’m not sure if I imagined her saying that. I imagine her saying a lot of things.

  “Close the door,” she repeats.

  I do as she asks. By the time I turn around, she walks to the front of her desk and sits on the edge of it, her arms crossed.

  “Let’s get one thing straight, Leo,” she says, before taking in a sharp breath. “You’re here because you are good at what you do—one of the best, from what I’ve heard. I respect that. I also respect you coming in here and taking responsibility for something that wasn’t your fault to begin with. That takes balls. What I don’t appreciate is you insinuating that you find straightforwardness to be offensive.” She pauses, but I know she’s far from done. I think this is the first time I’ve heard her rant. Man, she really is pissed. “When something goes wrong, I say ‘fix it’ because I trust in
your abilities to handle the problem. I don’t understand what other way you want me to put it. I don’t make a habit of begging people to do what I pay them to do. It’s not how I operate. We don’t handle each other with kitten gloves around here. Do you get what I mean?”

  I nod, resisting the urge to smile. Her glare could cut through glass, but it’s also incredibly sexy. She has a temper; I can see it leashed behind her composed demeanor. I bet she’s a screamer. I bet she would scream out whatever I asked her to, without hesitation, so long as I’m hammering into her.

  I’m not sure what she sees in my expression, but she suddenly falters in her own. She rubs the space between her brows in an exasperated gesture I’ve never witnessed from her before.

  “Listen, Leo. Today’s been pretty spectacularly awful. I don’t mean to unload on you. I apologize.”

  “No need. I understand.”

  “I can be a bit abrasive at times. But you can handle it, can’t you?” she asks, her voice lowering a notch.

  My mouth opens, but I hesitate because I’m lost in thought and suddenly not sure if I missed part of her question. I’m not blind to the subtle ways she comes on to me. But I don’t intend on blotching my answer, tipping the scales by revealing anything to her of what is going on in my head.

  I see the way she takes in my features, as though reading a book written in a foreign language. She’s dying to see me squirm under her authority. I wouldn’t mind seeing her squirm under mine.

  She rephrases the question. “Can you handle me?”

  I’m certain I’m not imagining the suggestion in her tone, the way her eyes flicker down to my lips.

  I picture myself pulling her around, bending her over the desk and thrusting myself inside of her as she writhes around and paperwork spills out onto the floor.

  “I can absolutely handle you.”

  Her eyebrow twitches upward as she straightens up.

  “I was hoping you could,” she says.

  I’m standing a few feet away from her, though I can’t remember deciding to move forward. I could easily reach out and wrap an arm around her waist and pull her up against me. I have to keep myself from doing just that.

  Her proximity is no accident. I know it was her intention when she moved to the front of her desk. She is intentionally pushing me over the edge of resistance. I hold her gaze, hoping to keep her from looking at the crotch of my pants, where I can feel a hard-on growing.

  My voice is unassuming when I speak.

  “Is it my turn to be honest?”

  She cocks her head to the side.

  “I get the sense that there is a proposition on the table. Am I right?”

  She goes still. Her mouth opens and closes again before she speaks. “Am I making you uncomfortable in any way? If I am, please tell me and I will make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  I nearly laugh. Her sexual harassment disclaimer is cute. And late.

  “No. You don’t make me uncomfortable. But you haven’t answered my question. I’m not the type to beat around the bush and I get the sense that neither are you.”

  She squares her shoulders and keeps her green eyes on mine, trying not to miss a single nuance of my reaction.

  “Hypothetically speaking. If there were a proposition on the table, it would be for a single, one-time thing.”

  “One time? That’s all?”

  “That’s all I need.”

  I can’t help but arch a brow at her.

  She continues unprompted, “Listen, I think I need to make it clear this is unconnected to your job. That aside, I feel the need to point out that this is not something I suggest lightly. Nor is it something I make the habit of suggesting freely. I don’t expect you to know that, you would have no way of knowing how long it’s been.” She pauses and looks away. “I sound vulgar.”

  I can’t believe the words flowing out of her mouth. There is the strange sense of us discussing some business arrangement. Except the arrangement is fucking. The casualness in her voice is almost convincing. I don’t get the impression that she is holding her position over me in any way. But I can’t believe it when she says this isn’t connected to my job. Regardless of her intentions, she is my boss. I’ve never met a woman who wanted intimacy without entanglements. I’ve met many who said they did, but not a single one who meant it. I don’t know if it’s possible for such emotional creatures to detach their feelings from their physical yearnings.

  Where does this leave me? Do I want Alexis? Fuck yes I do. I could take her right here, right now. But what I want more than Alexis is my job. I’ve been a Head Engineer for the past six years, but this is the first time I’ve headed an entire engineering department. This is huge for me. For my career. I won’t do anything to jeopardize that. The part of me that stirs in my pants may want Alexis, but it doesn’t get a say in the matter. It stays in my pants until I tell it otherwise.

  I realize I’ve yet to respond to her statement: I sound vulgar.

  She’s many things, but there isn’t a vulgar bone in her body. Even when she essentially tells me that she wants to fuck me, to get laid after a long dry spell, it doesn’t sound vulgar at all. Nor does she sound desperate. She’s a woman who knows exactly what she wants and isn’t afraid to ask for it on her terms. It’s an incredible turn-on for me.

  The problem is, for all her confidence and candor, she doesn’t strike me as the type of woman who would like an arrangement based on pure physical contact. I’m good enough at reading this sort of vibe that I’ve got it down to a science. She isn’t the one-night-stand type. Though I’m sure she wants to convince herself otherwise.

  “That wasn’t vulgar. Look, you’re a stunning woman. I have a lot of respect for you and I’m just afraid the hypothetical arrangement on the table may taint it.”

  That sounds good. Noble, even. I said ‘no’ without having to actually say ‘no,’ which I hope makes my rejection that much less tangible.

  I mean what I say. I do have a lot of respect for her, despite the dirty places my thoughts often drift. She’s a brilliant woman. Confident and sharp. She commands attention with little effort. There’s a fearlessness about her that is almost intoxicating, almost begging you to step into its shadow.

  In response to my statement, she gives me a short nod. She walks back around to her desk and takes a seat. Watching me for a few seconds, she taps the tips of her fingers together, allowing the silence to stretch out between us. I get the feeling she wants me to speak first, but I try to match the energy pouring out of her eyes.

  I’m not easily intimidated. But this is pretty damn close. Her green eyes have a disarming effect on me; the longer she stares at me, the more I feel my layers straining to remain in place.

  “I hope this discussion stays between us.”

  I nod. “You have my word.”

  “And I hope this doesn’t change anything.”

  I nod again. Though I’m not sure about that. She offered to sleep with me and I turned her down. It’s too soon for me to know exactly how this will affect our ability to work together.

  Maybe she's offended but doesn’t show it. If that’s the case, things around the office might start to get really awkward.

  VII

  Alexis

  This moment, right here, is the cherry on top of the most frustrating day I’ve had in a long time.

  It’s Friday night. I sit staring down at the empty glass of wine cradled between my hands. There isn’t enough wine in the world that could numb my mind enough to make it through this date.

  I almost canceled at the last minute.

  The urge to do so was overwhelming, but I promised Julia I wouldn’t. So here I am.

  My gaze rises to the man across the table from me. Jacob. At least he’s nice to look at. He's exotic in a Mediterranean sort of way—with his deep brown eyes, sculpted jaw, and neatly tousled hair. I know his mother, Julia’s aunt, is Venezuelan, but I think his father is Italian. Whatever his roots, he has the face of a model
and the build of a football quarterback. He dresses well, too, with a dark-blue button-down shirt that fits him nicely. If I ever saw him walking down the street, I’d strain my neck to see more.

  But as he sits in front of me, I realize how bored out of my mind I am. He talks a lot, mostly about himself. At first, I think perhaps he’s nervous. He’s trying hard to impress me and it makes me feel like this is an interview. Jacob is an investment banker. A really successful one, if his car is any indication. He’s younger than I expected, late twenties—which is just a few years younger than me but somehow makes me feel old.

  Nearly an hour into the date, I’ve settled for the theory that he likes to hear himself speak.

  “…and that’s when I told them—”

  Jacob pauses mid-sentence as my hand shoots up in the air to flag down the waiter and ask for more wine.

  The waiter, an older man with thickset eyebrows, gives me a knowing smile. Jacob doesn’t seem to notice how quickly I nod at his statements. Or how my fingers periodically drum on the table before I realize and stop myself. He continues telling me story after story, his husky voice eager.

  I feel the effects of the wine warming my cheeks as I take in his appearance again. I realize that I should feel some sort of sexual chemistry toward him. He is undeniably handsome. Confident. His success suggests he is smart despite his cluelessness about me. He is my type. He is my type and I am just in the mood for male company.

  Except, he is obviously self-absorbed and it completely turns me off.

  I cup my chin in my hand and wonder, as I give a small nod to whatever he’s saying, if he realizes that I’ve barely spoken all night. Under normal circumstances, I would’ve bailed on the date within fifteen minutes. But I feel I owe my best friend the courtesy of making it through the entire date with her cousin.

  I take large sips of my drink, promising myself this will be the last time I agree to go on a blind date. Anyway, I guess it could be worse. The food is delicious and the wine is helping to dilute the aggravation I’ve felt hovering over me all day long.