Page 21 of Pack Choice
There’s no receptionist waiting behind the desk this morning – it’s even too early for her – and we slide by and onto an escalator.
Ford resumes his usual regimental stature and I grip my purse to stop me from chewing on my thumb. The man is distracting. Chaperones are meant to melt into the background. Like a shadow, you are meant to forget their existence. Ford is as likely to melt into the background as a bright pink tiger. His body. His scent. Both are demanding my attention. Even the beat of his heart seems loud enough for me to hear. I’m going to need a better tactic than gripping my purse if I’m going to cope with a chaperone like Ford.
The office is as deserted as the reception area and most of the open space lies in darkness, only one light shining from Mr. Red Flag’s office. His door’s ajar and I nudge it open and stick my head around.
“Mr. Turner?”
He’s dressed in another of those suits, his hair clearly freshly washed and his scent so strong it nearly knocks me backwards off my feet. He glances up from his computer screen and then up at the clock on his wall. 8.04am.
“You’re late,” he says, and Ford grinds his teeth behind me.
“My fault,” Ford says, “took a wrong turn.”
My new boss scowls at him. “Some privacy, if you don’t mind, please.”
Ford bristles, but I rest my hand on his forearm, indicating it’s fine, and with a hard stare at Mr. Red Flag, he says, “I’ll be right outside,” before moving away.
“If he’s going to be responsible for making you late, I suggest you–”
“He wasn’t responsible. He was covering for me. It was entirely my fault,” I say strolling towards the desk, and hooking a pen and notepad out of my purse. “I apologize. It won’t happen again.”
I take the seat on the opposite side of his desk, crossing my legs and balancing my notepad on my thigh. His gaze drops towards my legs for a fraction of a second, trailing right down to my heels, before darting back to his computer screen.
“I like punctuality.”
I smile to myself. This alpha is so predictable. Maybe I have nothing to worry about, after all I’ve been manipulating two older brothers all my life.
“Noted,” I say, scribbling the word down on my notepad. He glances at it.
“You don’t need to write it down. You just need to remember it.”
“Also noted,” I say, this time scribbling ‘remember’ on my pad. I’m being a brat. I will definitely end up fired. Somehow I can’t help it.
“Put your pen down, Miss Stormgate.”
I do as he says, and he reaches over to take the pen from my lap, examining it. It’s a half-chewed biro I found in my desk drawer at home. The lid has my teeth marks in it. He drops the pen in the trash can by his feet, ignoring my ‘hey’ and hooks out that gold pen from his jacket again.
“Use this.”
“It’s so pretentious.”
“It’s a grown-up pen. My assistant is an extension of me. Your conduct reflects on me and so does the impression you generate.”
“You’re making me sound like your wife.”
His eyes flash. Then he hands me the pen. I take it in my palm but he doesn’t release it. “It isn’t much different, Omega,” he whispers. “I own your ass while you’re working for me. If I say jump, you say how high, if I say fetch me coffee, you say how many sugars. If I say …” He trails off, releasing the pen and leaning back in his chair, adjusting his collar as he does and drawing my attention to the strong tendons in his neck.
“Coffee is fine,” I tell him. “But I’m not jumping in these heels,” I lift my foot, “not unless you want me to break my neck.” I cock my head to the side. “Which maybe you do.”
“I’m very good at what I do, Miss Stormgate. I’m not careless enough to go about losing assistants. It’s too costly.”
“And yet the last one quit.”
He frowns and swivels the screen of his computer towards me.
“Miss Stormgate, it’s your job to brief me on my schedule for the day.”
I squint at the screen. Colorful boxes crowd across his calendar, jammed together like some complex jigsaw. It means nothing to me whatsoever. I lean a little closer, as he starts tapping on his keyboard, his attention drawn to a different screen.
