Page 12 of Peaches

“I’m sorry,” I say, cutting him off and watching as an air of annoyance rushes across his features. But to his defense, he pauses and lets me interject. “Not that it doesn’t surprise me that you’re not into romance…,” I wish I can take the words back the second they leave my lips as I watch his eyes grow wide in what looks like annoyance.

But for lack of a better word,whatever, he can take his superior attitude and shove his annoyance up his CEO ass. I’ve always been one to say it like it is, even if it gets me fired. And by the looks of it, I may just be walking that fine line tonight if I don’t quickly mind my ‘’boss/employee” manners. Ugh, office etiquette really is the stupidest thing ever invented, isn’t it.

“But,” I continue, “exactly how much control are you attempting to take over my manuscript? After all, a person’s manuscript, well that’s like their heart and soul. Hours, days, weeks, months, hell - years are spent on these things. Everyone who finishes does so with the intention that what they wrote wasnot‘like any other.’ What makes you such an expert on the topic?”

He takes a step closer and looks down his nose at me.The upper class prick!If I was anyone other than exactly who I am - Ms. Grace Olivia Presley - stubborn, confident, big mouth that never worries about saying anything with any sort of tact, I might be a little more worried. As it is…

“You ever heard of Bryson Knight, Peaches?”

Heard of him? Hell, who hasn’t! He set the record for all of us writers by winning the Pulitzer three damn times, not including countless other awards that must have adorned his walls. He’s author royalty. A thing myths are made of. He started a publishing company when he was only twenty-two years old, back in 1945. A company that still houses the best authors to this day. That company doesn’t put out a book that isn’t an instant bestseller, and that’s not just because of the magnitude of what stands behind it. It’s because they areallthat damn good! Whoever acts as their literary agents, editors and gatekeepers are hard to beat.

Know him?

Hell, I’ve grown up worshiping that publishing house since the moment I decided I wanted to become a writer. I’ve done nothing but dream about working my way up to that kind of stature in the publishing world. I’ve gone to countless workshops, spent a gazillion of hours getting a degree in creative writing, read every article there is to read on Bryson Knight and always knew if I ever had the chance to meet him before he died, I’d pick his brain endlessly and pry every piece of advice I could from his seemingly perfect mind on how I too could rise to the top. At this point, I’d settle for next of kin, just to hear what he was like and hope some of his genetics rubbed off on them, if only a little.

My silence is all the answer Brett needs as his smile grows. “Good. That makes the two of us. Bryson Knight was my Grandfather.”

Yup.

It’s official.

I fucking hate him.

Brett

The shockon her face is worth everything. Her mouth falls open again, making her look too damn adorable, but also makes me think of the way I pictured her in the shower earlier and I have to look away briefly, clear my throat and gather myself together if I’m going to continue to play the hard ass here.

I knew who I was coming in to meet. The last client in O’Conner Publishing’s list of writers I have agreed to carry forward to Beckett Enterprises. I’ve been briefed on who she is, and what she’s like. What my brief didn’t include was a picture, which would serve absolutely helpful in this situation because then I could have been more prepared before my little peach walked through the door, rendered me speechless, and made me have to kick myself into high gear and play the role ofalpha asshole businessmanto cover my slip up.

I’ve been told all about Anne Marie Royals, my little peach’s pen name. From the fact that she’s always behind on a project, to the notion she could be the next big thing, if she’d only learn how to take constructive criticism and push herself further than she ever has before in her writing.

Good thing I’m all for pushing.

On her. Into her. Hell, in and out of her until she gets the fucking point.

But dammit, that can’t happen now. Not now that she’s one of my own clients, and that one fact has completely ruined the high that’s been running through my veins since I left her speechless in that corner coffee shop this morning.

The only thing I hate more than how bad I want her is the now detonating fact that I. Can’t. Have. Her.

Cue the massive explosion because that thought has something else running through my veins, and it’s not any type of secretly willed for euphoria.

No, it’s hate.

Hate for the fact that now having to string this little peach along to get her book done on time is going to cost me my sanity. Working alongside her is going to be the worst thing I have ever done. You know how it goes, if you indulge in something long enough, it has the possibility to obtain the highest amount of power over you. There is no doubt in my mind that my sweet little Georgia peach is going to be able to obtain just that, my power, as she undoubtably becomes a habit I won’t ever be able to break. Guilty of being an addict by close proximity, and association, I guess you could say. To survive, I can’t think of herthatway. Like a peach I want to eat, lick, suck, and fucking ravage until I’m satisfied. So, in the interest of saving my stability and rationality, now entering stage left folks, your alpha antagonist most love to hate, or, hate to love if you’re feeling tempted. But, now back to our main event.

“Your name, Peaches! Your real one. And for your sake and mine, don’t waste any more of my damn time.”

“Your time?” she asks in a fabricated voice full of mock horror. “No, Sir, we wouldn’t want to waste any of that!”

The way she says “Sir” has my balls tightening and I’m definitely sure it’s not a good thing as a smirk grows on the bottom half of my face. God All Mighty, am I ever going to get this girl’s name? She’s making me feel like a freshman in high school. Nervous, anxious, half hard already as I stand waiting for her approval so she’ll just give me one damn thing - her fucking name!

“Fine, if you’d rather I call you Anne Marie…”

“Well, I’d like that a whole lot more than your silly Peaches,” she interjects with a roll of her eyes as she looks off towards her right.

The act makes me have to stifle a laugh because something about the way she does it tells me she’ssofull of shit, and we both know the nickname I gave her makes the two of us needy with a greed for one another we’d both be wise not to explore.Not yet.Not if we know what is good for us.

“I have the power to change your name to whatever I want,” I insist, which gets her eyes to flash with anger towards mine.

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