Page 7 of Dying to Meet You
“That skirt is too tight. You look like a sausage.”
She opens the packet of coffee grounds and dumps them in without comment.
The skirtistoo tight, and growing tighter, which is terrifying. She wishes he hadn’t noticed.
“Great blouse, though,” he says, his gaze dipping pointedly into her cleavage.
“Thank you, Mr. Wincott.” It comes out sounding a little breathless. He’ll like that, though, the same way he likes that she always addresses him formally.
She has to play to her strengths.
“Bring the coffee in when it’s ready,” he says.
Her eyes flick toward the private office. “Yessir. Of course.”
He has a call in ten, she reminds herself. If the call is with his brother, he’ll be snarly afterward.
She waits until he’s on the phone, then she places a white cup and saucer on a tray, along with a matching creamer of milk and the sugar bowl. This is the best part of her job, really. Not serving the coffee—but handling the Wedgwood china it’s served in. All the Wincott furnishings are so beautiful. She can pretend they’re her own.
To the saucer, she adds a silver spoon from the collection in the drawer. The spoons have the luster of age, each one with an elaborateWengraved in the handle.
There are exactly sixteen of them. She’d slip one into her handbag if she thought she could get away with it.
She carries the tray through the open door to the inner office. He’s behind his desk, the phone cord stretched out to where he leans back in his chair. “Mmm-hmm,” he says, but his piercing gaze tracks her movement across the thick rug.
The darkest part of her heart enjoys the attention. The way his eyes linger as her hips sway. His expression is feral.
She knows it’s wrong, but she slows down her journey instead ofspeeding it up, so the weight of his hungry eyes will last just a little longer.
She’s a terrible assistant. They both know it. She’s too slow. Too dumb.
He tells her so. Frequently.
But he wants her, and there’s power in it. His gaze is hungry, his hands assertive. She encourages him, even though she knows she’s playing with fire.
Today, though, she carries the tray to the opposite side of the desk, her body out of reach. His expression turns sulky as she backs away, a Mona Lisa smile on her lips.
Bad girl, he mouths.
They both know it’s true.
4
Rowan
“Natalie!” I call up the stairs an hour later. “Dinner!”
There’s no answer, except for a low woof from Lick Jagger, our Belgian Malinois. She’s always ready for dinner.
“Natalie!” I holler for the second time. But she doesn’t hear me over the music that’s blaring from her Bluetooth speaker. She carries that thing from room to room, like it would kill her to go without Taylor Swift for five minutes while she’s spreading her cosmetics all over my bathroom.
Dinner is a pesto pasta salad with grilled chicken, halved cherry tomatoes, and cubes of fresh mozzarella. I’m so hungry that I want to stick my face in the bowl. “Natalie!” I practically scream.
No reaction.
With a sigh, I start the trek up the surprisingly steep staircase of our narrow 1909 two-story New Englander. Sure enough, Natalie has shut herself inmybathroom. And she must be on the phone, because she’s shouting to a friend. “My. God! Donotcall him a snack.” She howls with laughter. “Don’t be gross!”
I raise a fist to knock on the door, but something makes me hesitate.
