Page 4 of Play the Game
If only real life worked that way too.
I shove the thought away as I get lost in the final few paragraphs, determined to finish this up. If I stop before the end of the scene, I’ll think about it all day until I can get back to it late tonight. I won’t be able to focus on anything else, and in my job, not being able to focus is career suicide.
When it comes to my stories, I have a bit of a one-track mind.
It’s not that I have an addictive personality or anything except yeah, I kind of do.
Entirely lost in bringing this scene to its inevitable conclusion, I don’t hear anything but my own thoughts. Don’t notice anything around me. I could be anywhere in the world until a bright light floods my office, shocking me out of the story and yanking me right back to the here and now.
My head jerks up and I meet a pair of eyes. A pair of navy blue eyes to be exact. Navy blue eyes that belong to a tall, hard body and a set of broad shoulders and brown hair that is always just on the right side of messy and hands that felt really good when they were all over me even though they’re the hands of the enemy.
Navy blue eyes that belong to Cooper Wyles, who is currently standing in the doorway of his office across the dark hallway from mine. He’s backlit by the fluorescent lighting on his ceiling, studying me like he’s never seen me before, amused smirk on his face that I want to slap right off, all thoughts of his magic hands vanishing in an instant as I adopt myvery serious lawyer who could kick your ass all over the courtroomface.
And then, it occurs to me exactly what he’s seeing.
Fuckity fuck, fuck, fuck.
With something resembling a yelp that I’m sure I’ll regret later when I have to look at him across a conference table, I jump up from my desk, reaching my office door in three strides and slamming it shut. Spinning around, I press my back against the wood and sink to the floor in a panting heap.
My eyes travel the length of my body, taking in my oversizesweatshirt, red pajama pants covered in hearts, hair that I’m sure is a tangled mess tossed up in a haphazard ponytail, and the worst part of all, pink fuzzy slippers so bright they can probably be seen from space.
Goddammit.
I drop my head back against the door with a silent groan, suddenly regretting all my life choices. For almost seven years, I’ve managed to conduct my early morning pajama-clad office writing sessions without anyone being the wiser. Everyone here thinks I stay late and come in early because I’m a dedicated BigLaw associate on the fast track to making partner.
And I am that. But I’m also a whole bunch of other things. Things no one needs to know about.
Except Cooper Wyles, my enemy in all things and one of the people who stands between me and a partnership position in the intellectual property law group of the prestigious Boston law firm Maguire Brown where we both work, just saw me in my pink slippers.
So, fuck my life, kind of.
Of course, this is the moment my brain serves me a highlight reel of the night three weeks ago when Cooper picked me up, shoved me against a conference room window, and fucked me so hard I couldn’t walk for three days without an ache between my legs.
It’s really a shame someone so insufferable gave me the best orgasm of my life.
Crunching hard on my Jolly Rancher to try and banish the memory, I pick myself up off the floor, glancing at the clock on my desk as I stand. Six thirty a.m. Looks like Cooper is upping his game. He’s never here before seven.
My brain moves rapidly, trying to calculate how this new development affects my life. If Cooper’s going to start coming in earlier, I’ve got to lean in harder. Except I’m already leaning in so hard, I’m falling on my damn face.
Flipping the lock on my office door, I quickly shed my pajamas,unzipping the garment bag on the back of my door and pulling out a black skirt suit and white button-down shirt with thin black stripes. Donning the outfit with expert precision, I walk around my desk and open the bottom drawer, pulling out my favorite red heels and sliding them on, then sitting down in my chair.
Taking a sip of the now cold pumpkin spice latte I picked up on my way in at five this morning because it’s October and I’m basic like that, I grab my makeup bag and get to work on my final transformation from swamp creature tobrilliant BigLaw associate who has all her shit together and definitely doesn’t spend at least an hour a day doing extremely not work appropriate shit at work.
With a final coat of mascara and an extra dab of under-eye brightener because, late nights and early mornings, I put my makeup bag away, shove my discarded pajamas and slippers into the extra-large tote bag in the corner of my office, give my freshly dry-shampooed and brushed hair a final fluff, and open my office door, feeling like a general prepped for battle.
“Those were really nice slippers you were wearing. Very…bright.”
“What slippers?” I ask breezily, sailing past where Cooper leans against his office door, arms crossed. I send up a prayer to the goddesses above that he doesn’t follow me down the hall to the kitchen, but I’m just not that lucky. Cooper falls into step beside me and keeps on talking.
I really need to stop remembering how that deep voice sounded when it was whispering filthy things in my ear.
“No but really, your whole look was just top notch. I especially liked the sweatshirt with the silk-screened image of Hillary Clinton’s face.”
Walking into the kitchen, I grab a mug from the cabinet and turn to face Cooper, who is now leaning against the kitchen doorway. Fuck my life again. It’s really hard to hate someone who looks so good leaning against a damn doorway. Quirking a brow,I give him a once-over. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay? You’re talking nonsense.”
Cooper studies me, and I get that itchy, creepy-crawly feeling I sometimes have when we’re in the same room. The one that makes me feel like he sees too damn much. I don’t like that feeling one little bit. I don’t want to be seen.
Well, I do—just not by him.
