Page 14 of It Will Always Be You
He’s still a major asshole ninety percent of the time and grumpy to the extreme, but learning his quirks and how he takes his coffee—black, just like his soul—has done wonders in making this more bearable. It doesn’t hurt that the pay more than makes up for dealing with his irate behaviour.
“Helen.” Hearing my name in that deep rumble of his never fails to send shivers down my spine. Turning to face the bank of lifts, I clock his all-black ensemble and the tension radiating off of him in waves. As he makes his way across the office floor, I’m helpless but to admire the sight of him. Unfortunately, two months of working under him has done little to desensitise me.
His long strides speak to the confidence he seems to have in spades. His perfectly tailored three-piece suit, and silk shirt, look like sin against his lean frame, which is emphasised by the way he carries himself. It’s a raw kind of power that speaks to me on a primal level. It makes my stomach tighten with want while my core tightens with need. Even in his bespoke suits, it’s clear Jonathan is the kind of man who can make you see stars without even trying. And if he did try? You would never be the same again.
Channelling my mother, I tilt my chin up so that, despite our height difference, it looks like I’m looking down my nose at him. With a haughty tone and raised brow, I drawl, “What can I do for you?”
“You can start by explaining what the hell you’re wearing.” He doesn’t so much as slow his stride down as he brushes past me. He’s already pushing open the door to his office when I catch up with him, and, with an eye roll, I follow him as I answer.
“What, this old thing? It’s called a dress,” I coo, looking down at the black midi dress I picked out this morning. It cinches in at the waist and has cap sleeves with a modest neckline. It’s workplace chic,certainly nothing to write home about.
“I can see that. What I can’t see is any colour,” he drones on as he practically inhales his coffee before getting settled behind his desk. Watching this process is a guilty pleasure of mine. First, he shrugs off his jacket before he painstakingly rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, cracking his neck, and taking a seat. Something about the whole display feels sinfully private and intimate in the most delicious way. All it’s missing is a sexy as fuck slow-mo belt removal.
“Pot, meet kettle.” I laugh, indicating to his own wardrobe choice with a roll of my eyes.
“Do as I say, not as I do. You’re meant to be a pretty, welcoming face, not look like you’re playing a widow,” he replies, his gaze sweeping over me with clear distaste.
“Oh, Iknowyou did not just imply I’m only here to look good,” I growl, crossing my arms under my chest, only to drop them with a huff when the movement draws his eyes lower. Men.
“Just…don’t let me see you wearing that again, got it? Now, what’s this talk about a party tomorrow?” He frowns, scanning the Post-it note I left on his computer.
Rolling my eyes, I take a seat in front of his desk as I remind him about the fundraiser for the children’s cancer charity tomorrow night. “It’s taking place at that fancy hotel across the road, so no need to worry about transport. All you have to do is show face for an hour or two, shake some hands, get some photos, sign a cheque, and then you can crawl back to your bat cave.”
“I certainly hope you have a better dress picked out.” His muttered words cause me to frown in confusion.
“Me? I wasn’t planning on going.” I point to myself with a freshly manicured nail.
“Nonsense. My assistant can’t not go. How would that look?” He scoffs, before sliding a card across his desk. “Use that. Get yourself something fitting for your role here. And while you’re at it, get some new work wear. I’m sick of seeing the same outfits on rotation. Peopleare going to think we don’t pay you enough.”
Before he’s even done talking, he’s turning his computer on, making it clear he’s done with this conversation and on to the next thing. Having never been one to say no to something when it’s free, I pick up the card, twirling it between my fingers as I toss a thanks over my shoulder and leave him to his brooding.
“What about this?” I hold up a floor length navy dress. Donna caught me as I was leaving, and the minute the word shopping came out of my mouth, she had her phone to her ear, barking commands for someone to pick up the slack while she joined me. And so, what was originally going to be a quick errand to the closest high street store quickly turned into a trip to a high-end department store with lunch on the company card as well. Any time I’ve brought up Jonathan needing me back, she’s brushed it off with a wave of her hand, deeming this far more important. And really, who am I to argue with the head of HR?
“Do you want to blend in with the catering staff? Absolutely not. Speaking of, what on Earth are you wearing?” She frowns, looking me over from head to toe, her head cocked to the side, like she can’t make sense of what she’s seeing.
“Ugh, not you too. Where in the employee handbook does it say I can’t wear black?” I huff, placing the dress back on the rail and hunting for another option. Honestly, you’d think I was breaking a rule with the way these two are acting.
“Technically, it doesn’t –”
“Exactly! So how was I meant to know Jonathan would nearly have a heart attack at it?”
“Interesting. Well, anyway, you know now, right?” She tosses a sparkly silver dress at me, and my jaw nearly hits the ground as I catch the minuscule bunch of fabric.
“Donna, we’re shopping for a work charity event, not my audition for a strip club,” I hiss, shoving it back at her and making my way deeper into the store.
“We’re getting nowhere with this. You! Pick out some dresses fitting for a formal event.” Donna turns her attention to one of the sales associates and starts rattling off a list of demands that go over my head before she turns her green eyes back on me. Narrowing them, she cocks her head to the side.
“What bra size are you? A 32 D? Double D?”
“Donna!” I gasp, looking around, mortified, fighting the blush that wants to take over. With a roll of her eyes, she shoves me into the changing room with instructions to strip and leave it all up to her. She’s a chaotic whirlwind, but I think I’m in love.
Hours later, we’re seated in a private booth in a fancy restaurant, both of us a glass of wine deep, with more bags than I want to admit—and yes, the sparkly mini dress made the final cut.
“Lay it on me: how’s working with the boss man going?” Donna’s blunt nature still makes me jerk back in surprise, so foreign to what I grew up around. Mother would have a fit if she spent a single second with Donna. I can already hear her outcries about me being corrupted.
“It’s going…fine.” I shrug, swirling the dregs of my wine around the glass. With a scoff, Donna finishes her glass and tops us both off before flicking her hair over her shoulder and rolling her eyes at my diplomatic answer.
“Darling, cut the bullshit. I know that man almost as well as I know my husband. He can be an utter bastard to work for, so think of this as your chance to offload. Now, lay it on me.”
