Page 18 of Hotline
A shiver runs up my spine. Mr. Lennox notices.
“Are you cold?” he says, his voice lurching, lined with a vague, free-floating tone of displeasure.
No. I’m actually hot. But you’re way hotter.
“A little bit,” I say, even though it’s a lie. I wrap my arms around me. He removes his jacket and sweeps it around my shoulders, maintaining a respectful distance between us. I grab the lapels of his jacket and pull it tighter around me. It smells like him — deep orange and a hint of something dark and moody.
The elevator door opens, whisper-quiet, arriving at the top floor before I even know we’ve left.
"Come," he says, ushering me to an enormous glass wall with two doors situated in the center.
“Whoa," I whisper to myself as we walk the perimeter of the open floorplan. The cubicles have half-walls, workers peeking over them to confer, everyone clearly working their asses off but convivial with each other.
He glances over his shoulder at me, I guess to make sure that I haven't run away out of embarrassment or plain old I-don't-belong-here energy.
We round a corner, ushering us into an even higher level of sophistication. The walls are sleek, dark wood, and though the floor beneath my nervous feet is dark hardwood and my heels click in these nice new shoes, the floor seems to dampen the sounds around me.
All so I can hear my heart slamming in my chest. All so I can sense the blood whooshing through my veins.
I follow him down the hallway, having to hustle to keep up. The hallway is dotted with abstract artwork, each with a little light above it to illuminate them, just like in a museum.
But Mr. Lennox is the real work of art. Now that I have his jacket wrapped around me and I can get a really good, up-close look, I remember what I dreamed about last night. And I know what I’m going to dream of tonight, too.
There are two doors at the end of the hallway. He stops in front of them and undoes his cuff links, rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt to reveal a whole Sistine Chapel level of artwork on his forearms.
There’s a tidy desk across from the doors, with a neat stack of folders and a large computer screen.
“Is this where you want me to sit?” I ask.
“No,” he huffs out a laugh and shakes his head, digging a set of keys out of his pocket. “I am not sticking you in some shitty hallway.”
“It’s not that bad,” I say. “It’s better than the den of sin you rescued me from.”
He throws me a sharp look, his eyes shifting into something darker, his jaw clenching; he doesn’t seem to like being reminded that I was in that place, listening to other guys’ voices, letting them share me.
I shudder when I think about it. I’m just grateful that he got me out of there before I had to shift into actual dirty-talk mode. I just hope I can do it for him.
Should I tell him the truth? Admit that I’m basically scamming him? He expects me to be a baller, a sexy-talking storyteller who can spin him a world of erotic role-playing and sensual delights, but instead, I’m just a desperate virgin.
“This is where you will be working.” He unlocks the door and with a swift motion swings the door open. “Your office.”
“Here?" I say.
"Yes," he says with a gentle nudge. "Go ahead."
I step inside.
This office looks like something you'd see in a movie about a girl boss. All of the furniture is white and light shades of peachy pink. A long conference table near the windows has a breakfast spread so luxurious that it would make Marie Antoinette blush.
I marvel up at him as he steps past me into the room. He walks to the desk and pulls the chair out for me.
"Come sit," he says, patting the back of the chair.
I walk to him cautiously, gingerly. His eyes are commanding and reassuring, and I so want to do what he says, but…what the hell is going on here? None of this is even remotely necessary.
“Thank you,” I say as I slip into the chair. “You’re a very good boss.”
“Don’t judge me yet,” he says, spinning the chair so I’m looking up at him. “We haven’t even started."
