Friction(11)

I'm about to drop it in the center console and take off toward home, but then a new text alert appears from a number I don't recognize. My heart is in my throat as I scan the tiny print.

10:18 PM: Call me. And please, tend to your box. I'd like to be able to leave you voicemails, Williams.

There's only one person I can think of right off the bat who calls me by my last name, and he’s the same person who's turned me into a Moping Molly all week. My thoughts ping to tousled dark brown hair and piercing blue-gray eyes. "He wants to talk to me. Holy shit, Jamie was right, and now he wants to talk to me!"

"Yes, Williams, I want to talk to you," a low drawl booms from the speaker, and I nearly drop the phone on the floorboard of my Jeep. "Why the fuck would I ask you to call me if I didn't?"

Oh, sweet hell.

At some point, in between reading his text and squealing about said message, I've accidentally returned his call. Now he's on the other end, listening to me go on like an idiot.

I clench my eyes shut in embarrassment. Hesitantly, I raise my phone to my ear, my knuckles grazing my scalding cheeks. "Yes, hi. Jace?" I ask in a gritty voice.

"Jace?" The smartass grin he’s bound to be wearing drips from his tone. "You didn't know it was me? Is there someone else who has you screaming for joy at eleven-thirty on a Friday night? You must be a very busy girl, Ms. Williams."

"I—" But I pause. I flick my gaze down to the dashboard clock then bite the inside of my cheek. Dammit. He sent that text nearly an hour and a half ago. Which, once again proves how much I'm sucking at adulting lately. "I apologize. I had no idea what time it was, and I—"

"Stop saying sorry all the time. It's eleven-thirty, love, not four AM." Heat trickles through my veins. Nobody has ever called me that before—love—and although I’m sure he’s saying it just to try me, it hits me right where it hurts. Deep in the center of my core. I can’t remember the last time a single word did that to me, if it’s ever happened, but it takes me a second to steady myself.

“Still,” I breathe, “it was rude of me to call you so late.” Even if it was an accident.

"My evening is just getting started.” Now, his voice is almost suggestive, and I can imagine him getting dressed for the night. He’ll slide rugged jeans—the kind that are authentically distressed due to hard work and not a fashion trend—over his long legs. Button up some sort of flannel shirt that will make women fantasize about the bronze, sinewy muscles beneath it. I bet his chest is covered in tattoos, just like his arms and neck.

I tug at the neckline of my sweater and shake the image out of my head. "Big plans?”

He laughs. It's a deep rumble. Drawn out. Sexy. "Something like that. Listen, I was calling to offer you the job ... if you're still interested."

If I'm still interested? I'm so interested, I'm practically fist-pumping. Straightening my spine, I take a cleansing breath before I answer in a controlled voice, "Yes, of course. Thank you so much for the opportunity. I'm sure—"

"Yes, yes, I'm sure I will be happy with you, I don't think I'll regret my decision, and I think we'll get along fine—just so long as you learn what I like and don't like. You don't have to keep selling yourself to me. You already have. I've already decided I want you."

"I wasn't selling myself to you,” I say hotly. “I was just stating the facts. I'm excited to join your team, and I think we'll do great things together."

"Great things, hmm?"

"Wonderful, amazing things. By this time next year, we'll have your name out in every corner of the world." I'm breaking rule number one of marketing—big promises—but I don't care. I've seen Jace's work. I can, without a doubt, sell it.

"Right then," he says, his British accent momentarily coming out to play. It’s deliciously lovely, and I feel pathetic admitting to myself how I wish it was so prominent every time he opens his mouth. "You said you couldn’t start until Monday, but I'm meeting with one of my VIPs tomorrow night. I want you there."

There's a forcefulness behind his words that catches my breath and holds it captive for a long pause. He inhales, as if he's preparing to give me an ultimatum, so I hurriedly say, "Yes, of course. Anything you need."

"That's what I like to hear, Lucy." It's the first time he's called me by my first name—other than when he addressed me during my interview—and I'm not sure if I like it. It's almost ... intimate. Given that my thoughts have already strayed to the dark side where he’s concerned, that's not a good thing.

As of a few minutes ago, Jace Exley—former underachiever and object of my school girl fantasies—is my boss.

And boss-related filthiness is at the top rung of unprofessionalism.

"Meet me at the office tomorrow night—say, eightish? No need for fancy dresses or high heels or anything of the sort. And Williams?"

"Yes?" I breathe.

"Clean out your voicemail. I'd like to know you're available to me whenever I’ve a need for you."

"I will," I promise, my voice surprisingly firm despite the dryness in my throat.

He laughs again, that low, sensual rumble that causes a mass of butterflies to race through my chest. The inside of my Jeep is so warm now there’s no longer a need for my coat, but I shiver.