13
Less than twenty minutes later, I’m in the back of a large SUV with tinted windows, and I’m sitting mere inches away from him. My briefcase is on my lap, and I have a pen in one hand. I’m preoccupied, mulling over the weirdness of this request.
“That habit is at odds with how you present yourself, you know.”
I look up at his remark questioningly. He is regarding me, half-smirking.
What the hell is he talking about?
I then realize I have a strand of hair between my fingers, absent-mindedly twisting it. I drop it and still my hands on my lap, internally cursing him out.
For God’s sake.
It’s the being unprepared that has me on edge.
Nice move, Emma.
I scowl inside at teen Emma, always peeking at me from the recesses of my mind, and I smile tightly at Jake in response.
“Nervous habit?” he presses further, looking smugger.
“I don’t get nervous, Mr. Carrero,” I respond drily.
Because I’ve spent many years perfecting the art of hiding it, but for some reason, you bring it out in me when I’m not focusing.
“Do I make you nervous?” he smiles. He’s leaning back in his seat comfortably, an arm on the window ledge, looking effortlessly casual. Always annoyingly at ease. “I would not say that, Mr. Carrero.” What would I say?
Because he does make me nervous, if I’m being honest. I don’t know how to act around him sometimes.
“Do I intimidate you?” His tone is steady and quizzical with a hint of playfulness, and it’s already tiring me.
Are we really doing this?
“I just don’t know you well enough to feel at ease around you yet,” I answer, impressed with my diplomatic response under the pressure of his gaze.
“I don’t think any woman has ever told me I’m intimidating before.” His eyes twinkle mischievously, his focus on me intense.
“I don’t believe I said that,” I sigh.
“You didn’t say ‘no.’”
“If that’s how you perceived what I said.” I smile tightly, but he laughs, which only grates on me further. He’s infuriating.
“I’ve never met a woman who acts as you do around me!” he jests, pushing a foot against the door so he can stretch out some more. I throw him a calm yet questioning glance.
What’s that supposed to mean? Because I don’t throw myself at you, begging to be mauled?
“Women usually flirt … making their intentions clear. Or just quiz the crap out of me,” he shrugs, un-phased by the statement he made and oblivious to how much of an ass it makes him appear.
“Women openly tell you they want to sleep with you, Mr. Carrero?” I ask pointedly. I had already assumed this was the case; the fact he expects it is a little repulsive. The fact he expected it of me makes me mad.
“Something like that.” He grins at my honesty, still watching me closely, his body turned toward me slightly.
“That must be nice.” I look out at the passing scenery, utterly uncomfortable with the direction of this conversation, finding him highly inappropriate and praying to get to Sunnyside quickly.
Only one more block to my apartment, and I can get a reprieve from this crap. Why did I have to live so far?
“It gets old. I like being intimidating; that’s one I haven’t heard yet,” he laughs at me again, and I try to ignore it, hating that his laugh is still nice despite his flaws.
I cast him a shady look.
It must be so dull having women fall at your feet every day and tell you how gorgeous you are. Must be so hard to have been born with a silver spoon in your mouth and no real problems in life except how sexy your outfit is that day.
“In what way?” he says in afterthought, turning his gaze back on me.
“In what way, what?” I am tense. I hate feeling this way. I observe my fingers, making sure they stay steady on my lap, willing him to leave me alone.
“In what way do I intimidate you?” He’s finding this highly amusing, judging by the expression plastered over his smug face and the tone in his voice, which screams ‘tease.’
“Is this necessary?” I bristle tightly, sitting upright and showing no hint of my inner feelings.
“What? Wanting to get to know my PA a little better? I think so.”
Sure, if that’s what we call this ego fluffing.
“Probing,” I say evenly.
“I don’t think wanting to know why I make you so uncomfortable is probing. We’re going to spend the next few hours together; I think it’s necessary. It’s a novelty for me.” He looks smug without smiling. So talented.
“I never said I was uncomfortable; you’ve summarized what I said and concluded what you’re now pursuing. I merely said I don’t know you well.” He’s exasperating me now, and getting pissed at your boss is never a good career move. I try to keep my tone steady and unemotional, but I hear the note of dry agitation in my voice.
“My apologies,” he laughs in that disarming way he has, and I sigh angrily. He knows how to get under my skin and seems to enjoy it.
“Are you always this defensive?” he asks, still pushing. For the love of God.
I need to muster all my strength to remain impassive.
“Are you always so informal with staff?” I retort defensively, gripping my jacket hem to try and keep my temper low and not show him how much he’s annoying me now.
“Emma, my staff are people I respect, whose skills benefit me. I don’t see a need for them to act like a stuffed shirt because I employ them. I’m not my father.” I hate the way he’s studying me; I can feel his eyes on the side of my face, and I continue to ignore it, continue to act cold.
“You’re not like him. I met him; you’re nothing like him.”
In that, he knows how to behave. He understands the boundaries between boss and employee.
“Good. I don’t aim to be.” He shifts in his seat. “We don’t exactly see eye to eye on most things.”
I give him a cool look and note that he seems less relaxed; maybe talking about his father makes him uptight. I can relate to that, not that I would call a sperm donor a father, the absent sperm donor father of my childhood.
“You’re not curious?” He glances at me quizzically, green eyes once again boring into the side of my face and making me uncomfortable.
“Curious about what?”
“Why I don’t get along with him? Most women pry … they want the juicy details.” A hint of a smile is in his voice. At the gross generalization of my sex, I curb the urge to eye-roll at him.
“No. It’s not my business,” I answer tightly. I’m not most women, and I wish he would shut up. It’s a relief when we pull up in front of my building, and I glimpse my chance to escape for a few minutes.
“This is me,” I say, pointing at the block of attractive brown apartments rising above us. He regards me for a second and then gestures I should go; I almost exhale with thanks.
“I’ll wait here. Go get changed. Something feminine and soft. Something you wouldn’t normally wear.” He gives me an odd look, hiding his amusement, and I have the sudden urge to throat-punch him.
Something feminine? Really? I’m pretty sure any clothes made predominantly for women are considered feminine!
Once in my apartment, I go straight to Sarah’s room. She’s still sound asleep in bed, so I quietly pull two dresses from the back of her closet with a grimace. This doesn’t sit well with me, but I pick the floaty floral number my mother would approve of. It’s not as short as the other one, but I know Sarah has shoes that match the floaty dress. I go to my room to not disturb her and change quickly, despairing at my reflection with a curse, and in less than ten minutes return to the SUV looking like some floaty hippy girl in love.
“Better,” he says, his eyes appraising me quickly as I slide in. I ignore it. Dressed like this, I feel exposed; I need my armor. I need my tailoring and hair up to keep the PA persona with me. Dressed like this, I’m like teen Emma, and it scares me, takes away my defenses. I don’t like to be unprepared.
The car moves off again, and I sit back, trying to relax. It’s hard to do when every one of my nerve endings is on high alert. My legs are exposed a lot in this floaty dress, and I pull them in tightly against the seat, tugging the hem toward my knees sharply.
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