His Belt (Part Two) Page 3

  “Okay, I’m leaving,” Hailey says, spinning her bar stool around and acting like she’s going to get up. “You two can talk about sci-fi covers and overpriced accessories, and I’ll go back to work.”

  “No, wait!” I say. “Sorry, I just… I don’t know where to start.”

  “Are you the reason Elijah was in such a bad mood this morning?” Will asks. “He’s always a bastard, but it seemed to go up a notch after you left his office.”

  “You were in his office this morning?” Hailey asks. She shakes her head. “Why were you in this office this morning? Wait, hold on. We need to back up. What the hell happened last night?”

  “We went to dinner.” I take another sip of my drink, then take a handful of peanuts and set them down on a paper coaster in front of me. Now that I’m here, sitting with them, I’m not sure how much I want to actually reveal.

  “And?” Hailey presses.

  “And we made out.”

  “You made out?” Hailey’s mouth drops. “How was it?”

  “Amazing,” I say honestly. The marks on my wrists seem to burn in response, like a scarlet letter branding me for not telling me what actually happened.

  “Nice, Bennett,” Will says, tipping his beer at me before taking a long pull. “Hooking up with the boss.”

  Hailey turns to him. “You cannot be serious.”

  “Why not?” Will shrugs. “She’s just having fun. Right, Abs?”

  I nod. “Totally just having fun.”

  “Hooking up with your boss is not fun, Will,” Hailey says. “It’s a disaster of epic proportions. Why did he call you up to his office this morning?”

  “He wanted to talk to me,” I cage. This conversation is not going the way I expected. I was hoping for advice and support, not an interrogation and someone telling me what I’d done was a disaster. Especially not Hailey, whose opinion I very much respect. And besides, wasn’t she the one who was encouraging me last night?

  “He wanted to talk to you about what?” Hailey asks suspiciously.

  Will rolls his eyes and waggles his eyebrows.

  Hailey reaches over and hits him across his chest. “Will! Stop encouraging this!”

  “Hey, if Abby is having fun, then who cares?” he shrugs. “If she wants to hook up with the boss, then why not? It’s not like he’s broadcasting it. In fact, when he asked me to bring you upstairs, he acted super secretive about it.”

  “Of course he did!” Hailey says. “Because he knows it’s wrong.”

  “You know, I brought you here to get your advice,” I say. “Not to hear the one hundred and one reasons how I’m messing up my life.”

  “Not one hundred and one, just one,” Hailey says.

  “Well maybe you should have said that last night, before you encouraged me to go out with him and kept telling me it was a date!” And then I realize why she did that. Hailey never actually thought it was a date, never actually thought Elijah Armstrong had any interest in me other than as an employee. She was teasing me.

  Will’s phone goes off and he reaches down and checks his texts. “Shit,” he says, frowning. “Shit.”

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing, it’s just… I kind of have a stalker. Remember that girl Joy from last week?” He glances up from his phone, his eyes scanning the room as if he’s looking for her.

  “No,” I say honestly.

  “Blond, big boobs?” Will tries.

  “No,” Hailey says.

  “Anyway, whatever, we hooked up last week, and now she’s stalking me.”

  “Are we talking restraining order, or just ‘let’s hang out again’ texts?” I ask, thankful to be out of the hot seat, at least for a minute. I crack one of the peanuts in front of me and pop it into my mouth.

  “Somewhere in the middle,” he says. “Anyway, I think she saw where I am on facebook and is on her way here.” He slides his messenger bag over his shoulder. “Can I trust you two to be left alone?”

  “We’re not going to fight, if that’s what you mean,” Hailey grumbles.

  Will squeezes my shoulder, then leans down and kisses me on the cheek. “Text me later, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  He disappears, and Hailey turns back to me. “Look, I’m sorry. But Will doesn’t get it. He’s not a woman. He doesn’t understand the issues that we face.”

  “I know, I know.” I close my eyes, a sick feeling filling my stomach. Dammit. I know Hailey’s right. If anyone finds out about this! Jesus. My job is already in trouble. I can only imagine how hard it will be to find another one once word gets around I’ve been sleeping with Elijah Armstrong.

  As if my thoughts are becoming reality, Lucy Bastille suddenly appears before me, as if all my work nightmares have decided to come true right here in Cocoa’s.

  “Oh, there you are!” she says. “I tried to catch you before you left. Diane said you might be here.” She looks around skeptically, like she can’t believe she’s in a sports bar. I kind of can’t believe it, either. She looks like an ice princess, her pale blond hair pulled back from her face, showcasing her delicate features and the small pair of diamond studs that twinkle in her ears. A pale pink shawl encases her shoulders.

  I paste a smile on my face. “What can I do for you?”

  “I just wanted to give you a heads up that Jessica Chase’s agent emailed me. Apparently word is getting around about the new line, and she has a manuscript of Jessica’s that she thinks would be perfect for Ravish.”

  “Jessica Chase is under contract with Sweet Kisses for her next two books, and we have an option on the one after that.”

  “I know,” Lucy says, sounding super bitchy. Now that she’s technically not my employee, her tone, while always slightly exasperated, has changed to full-on bitchy. “I was hoping we could work it out. Since we’re all in the Armstrong Media family.”

  “No,” I say, laughing bitterly. “Why would I let one of my bestselling authors out of her contract so that she can write for you?”

  “She’s my author,” Lucy says.

  “You edited her books,” I clarify. “She’s not your author.”

  “Well, we can talk about it more.” She turns to go, and as she does, she “accidentally” steps on my shoe.

  “Oops, sorry,” she says, sounding anything but.

  She leaves without saying goodbye, and as soon as she does, Hailey looks at me and raises her eyebrows. “See what I mean?”

  “Yeah,” I say mournfully. “I see exactly what you mean.”

  Chapter 4

  ELIJAH

  Dinner with my brother, and my mind is reeling.

  I cannot stop thinking about her.

  Her body, her lips, the way she looked in that damn white dress. The curve of her shoulders as she undid the halter top.

  As soon as she left I jerked off in my office, but it wasn’t enough.

  “Hello? Earth to Elijah,” my brother Ryan says. “Come in, Elijah.”

  “I’m here,” I say irritably. “Unfortunately.”

  “Don’t be like that,” he says. “Come on, this is fun.”

  I glance around at the place he’s chosen for us to meet, a sports bar that for some inexplicable reason, is called Cocoa’s. Ryan must have thought he was being chivalrous by meeting me near my office, but the floor is littered with peanut shells, the bar is filled with aging frat boys in baseball hats, and the TVs are so loud you can barely have a conversation.

  “Don’t be a snob,” Ryan says, rolling his eyes. He pulls a sticky menu out from where it’s been wedged on the table between the salt and pepper and ketchup. He hands it to me, then takes one for himself.

  “What are ‘beg for mercy blazin’ hot wings?’” I ask. “Sounds like something that would kill you before you got a chance to get to the hospital.”

  He ignores me, and when the waitress comes over, orders twelve of the wretched things for himself. I order the chicken tenders and a pint of the only IPA they have on the menu.

  As
soon as she’s cleared the area, Ryan gives me a shake of his head. “You don’t even notice it anymore, do you?”

  “What?”

  “The waitress. She was eyeing you like you were a rib eye that needed to be devoured.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s probably been existing on a diet of fraternity brothers and hot wings.”

  She returns a second later with our beers, and this time, I notice her wiggle her ass as she leaves. She’s a very attractive woman – blond, blue eyes, tight body. Probably working her way through school or waiting tables on her way to becoming an actress or model.

  But I have no interest. Not just because of the publicity risks, but because I cannot stop thinking about Abigail. How soft the skin at the nape of her neck was, the drop of her breasts as she pulled off her bra, the curve of her hip.

  It made my head spin and my body thrum with need.

  It had taken all my self control not to pull my dick out and push it inside of her. But she was a virgin, and she deserved more than that, not to be fucked in her boss’s office a few moments after he told her he was a dominant.

  And that was another thing.

  What the hell had I been thinking telling her that?

  Jesus Christ.

  But then I remember the way she responded, that innocent look in her eye, the curiosity that flamed there, how eager she seemed.

  My cock pulses.

  I’d had to send her out of my office immediately, afraid that if I didn’t, I would have bent her over my desk and fucked her until she screamed.

  “So, are we going to talk about why you weren’t there to visit Dad tonight?” Ryan asks.

  I scowl and take a swig of beer. “I told you. I got busy at work.”

  “No, what you said was that you couldn’t make it.”

  “When I say I can’t make something, it means that I’m busy at work.” Jesus Christ.

  “The boys were looking forward to seeing you.”

  “And I was looking forward to seeing them. Which is why I told you to bring them with you.” I glance behind me, as if looking for the boys. “Unless you’ve hidden them in your satchel, I would assume they’re not here.”

  “This isn’t a place for children.”

  “This isn’t a place for anyone,” I say. “But we could have gone somewhere else, something more child appropriate.” I detest children as a rule, except for my soon-to-be nephews, but I would have been willing to put up with the rift raft in order to see them.

  “I wanted to talk to you alone,” Ryan says.

  “Ah. Of course you did.” I fold my hands on the table and look at him expectantly.

  “Why didn’t you go see Dad tonight?”

  “I told you why. Is your hearing bothering you?”

  “Jesus Christ, Eli! When was the last time you saw him?”

  I’m trying to reach through the recesses of my memory, when my phone, mercifully, bleets with an alert. Usually I have my phone set to do not disturb, but tonight I have kept it on in the hopes that something just such as this will happen.

  It’s an email from my publicist, a forward from some two-bit gossip website.

  Do you or your client care to comment, Shawna? the email to her says. Otherwise we are running this at midnight.

  It’s a professional courtesy that Shawna is sending this to me. I never comment on anything in my personal life. I barely ever comment on anything in my professional life. The sales numbers and other things that are proprietary to Armstrong Media are kept confidential, leaving the financial websites to speculate as much as the gossip rags.

  I open the picture that’s attached to the email.

  It’s a picture of Abigail and me, on our way out of Octane after dinner, heading toward my car.

  There’s nothing about the photo that sticks out – I’m not touching her, and there’s no blatant connection between the two of us.

  But I know that doesn’t matter. The paparazzi and the public don’t care if the picture doesn’t mean anything. They will come up with their own narrative and spin it any way they so desire.

  It’s happened to me countless times before.

  But something about this, something about seeing a picture of myself with Abigail, of denying that we were together in that way, sets me on edge.

  For the first time ever, I find myself typing back to my publicist.

  “Please release the following statement. ‘Mr. Armstrong does not comment on his personal life.’”

  There.

  That was acceptable.

  A statement that doesn’t completely deny it, and yet at the same time, makes it clear that we were there together, that something was happening between us.

  I’m so caught up in thinking about it, in thinking about her, that for a moment, I don’t realize my brother has slid something across the table to me.

  A cream-colored envelope with my name on it, done in curly script.

  “What’s this?” I stare at it suspiciously without picking it up.

  “Jesus Christ, Eli, you don’t need to look at it like it’s some kind of snake. It’s an invitation to my wedding.”

  “Isn’t it customary to send wedding invitations through the mail?” My brother isn’t exactly the best when it comes to societal etiquette, but really.

  He rolls his eyes. “Yes, but we know that with the amount of mail you get, sometimes things get lost.”

  I sigh and open the invitation.

  You are cordially invited to blah blah blah.

  Then my eyes zero in on the date.

  “This is in three weeks,” I say.

  “Yes.”

  “But you weren’t supposed to be getting married for months.”

  Ryan’s face breaks into a smile. “Kira’s pregnant.”

  “Congratulations.” The word slips automatically, but I feel no real joy. Only pity for my brother, that he’s been so weak as to choose this kind of life for himself.

  I see the hurt in my brother’s eyes, and I try to muster up a little more enthusiasm. “That’s really great,” I say. “I’m happy for the both of you, and the boys. When is she due?”

  “She’s two months along. So she wants to get married before she’s showing.”

  “Shotgun wedding.”

  Ryan sighs. “Eli – “

  “Wait a minute. Why didn’t I get ‘and guest’?”

  Ryan looks at me skeptically, leans back in the booth and takes a sip of his beer. “Because you’ve never brought a date to any function in the history of…. your life?”

  “Well, maybe I want to bring a date to this one.”

  Ryan raises his eyebrows, then reaches out and picks up the tiny pencil that’s in the keno holder in the middle of the table, scratches “and guest” onto the invitation. “Done.”

  I tuck the invitation into my pocket.

  The rest of the dinner passes without incident. We chat about sports, the wedding plans, work.

  Ryan doesn’t bring up my father again.

  Finally, mercifully, the dinner is over. Ryan says goodbye and slips out the door, but I linger in the booth, checking my email for a reply from Shawna.

  There isn’t one.

  My publicist isn’t an idiot – she knows to do what I say without asking if it’s okay.

  And then, suddenly, I glance up, and there she is.

  Abigail.

  Sitting at the bar with my executive assistant, Will, and some girl who I think works for me in graphic design.

  I watch as Will gathers his bag hastily, leans over and kisses her on the cheek before leaving.

  The blood pounds through my veins, and I resist the urge to get up and go over there, rip her from her stool and take her into the back room. What the hell is she doing here with him? And why is he kissing her cheek?

  I’ve never felt anything quite like this before, this jealousy that pulses through me, hard and deep.

  I watch her longer, deep in conversation with her friend, then later as Lucy Bastille app
roaches her and the two have a brief conversation. Fuck, do all of my employees congregate here? I make a mental note to never come here again.

  Lucy leaves, and Abigail and her friend resume their conversation.

  Finally, the friend gets up and leaves, leaving Abigail at the bar by herself.

  She nurses her drink, and when the bartender approaches to ask if she wants a refill, she accepts.

  I watch as the two of them chat, and he says something that makes her laugh. She tips her head back, those dark curls tumbling down her back, and it makes me lose what little grip I had on my self-control.

  I’m up and at the bar before I can stop myself.

  “Hello, Ms. Bennett.” I slide into the seat next to her.

  She looks over, her clear blue eyes widening in surprise as she licks her bottom lip. And then her face darkens. “What are you doing here?”

  “The question is, what are you doing here?” The dickhead bartender returns with Abigail’s drink, sets it down in front of her. I slide it back across the bar. “She’s done.”

  “What?” Abigail asks, looking confused. “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, she is.” I reach into my pocket and pull out two hundred dollar bills, place them on the bar. “This is yours, as long as you refuse to serve her for the rest of the night.”

  The bartender takes the money like the greedy little bastard he is, and shoves it into his pocket. “Sorry,” he says to Abigail, shrugging.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” she demands once he’s gone, down at the other end of the bar, tending to some co-eds whose laughter is headache-inducing.

  “Why were you kissing my executive assistant?” I level back at her.

  “Will?” she asks, sounding confused. “Kissing him? I wasn’t… he kissed me on the cheek before he left. Wait, how long have you been watching me?”

  “Long enough to see you kissing Will and flirting with the bartender.”

  “I wasn’t flirting with the …” She shakes her head. “You’re insane.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  She starts shoving her phone into her purse, like she’s going to leave. “Sit down, Ms. Bennett.”

  “Screw you.”