Love in Lingerie(4)
“I’m good.” I smile, pulling my bag off of my shoulder and setting it on the desk. “Great view.”
“We need you to keep it.” He smiles, and I see the stress behind the words.
“Yes sir.” I nod. I can handle pressure. Compared to L&L, this is Disneyland. Instead of eight clothing divisions, we have one. Instead of reporting to Claudia, I’ve got him.
Lingerie, I can handle. Visions, I can create. A team, I can inspire. A boss, I can please.
I smile at him and can see the worry in his eyes.
It’s amazing how productive I am when Claudia is removed from the equation. In a typical day at L&L, I spent five or six hours with her. On my first day at Marks, there was a three-hour stretch where I closed my office door and no one bothered me. Total silence! For three hours! I was able to review four years of catalogs and product lines before lunch. I unpacked my thermos and ate at my desk, diving into the designers’ files, a task which ate up the rest of the day. I left by six, and was asleep by nine.
On my second day, I conducted an employee survey, as well as interviewed the entire design staff, one-by-one, a process that ate up almost seven hours. The general consensus, though they didn’t use these exact terms: Trey is amazing and this job is a cupcake run. Maybe it’s the last decade I’ve spent in cardigan-wearing hell, but my lip had curled a little at the idea of a company drowning, and their employees enjoying the ride. It is past time to rock this boat.
Trey walks by, his jacket on, keys in hand, and I already hate this glass wall that separates my office from the hall. Each pass of his suit reminds me of a donut shop display, a million calories, lined up to tempt you. A million mistakes, all brightly lit and just a touch away. Just before his office, he turns his head, our eyes meet, and it’s like biting into a dark chocolate eclair. That one hold of eye contact—it’s addictive, the promise of more, the knowledge that you should put it down and walk away.
I’ve never been good with sweets. If I have one nibble, one bite—I’ll eat an entire box. I’ll wreck my stomach and destroy my diet, toss away weeks of hard work. I’ll give up everything for one long moment of gluttonous satisfaction. I look away, and it is a torturous effort.
It’s his fourth pass this morning, his office two doors down from mine. This isn’t going to work. Not with a man like him, one too tall to miss, that suit jacket stretching smoothly over muscular shoulders, his dress pants sliding sleekly over what appears to be a perfect ass. God, listen to me. His ass? I’ve never even noticed a man’s ass before. I stand up from my desk before I lose all sense completely. I have four months before I pitch him my vision for next year. Four months to break apart every style line that Marks Lingerie makes and rework it into my own.
The first step to that goal? Remove distractions.
I stand and walk to the corner of the room, then turn back and survey my desk.
Him
She’s turned her work station. It’s not the first thing I notice when I walk by. The first is her ass. She stands beside the desk, the phone to her ear, and leans forward, her fingers moving on the mousepad, the position serving her body up perfectly. I stop, on my way to the reception desk, a shipping schedule in hand, and can’t help but stare.
Long legs stretching up from modest heels. A skirt that starts at the knee and hugs tightly. Her feet are slightly spread, and if I got behind her right now, I wouldn’t have to change anything to her position. My hands biting into her hips. That skirt unzipped and puddled around her ankles. Panties pulled aside, cock lined up, her face looking back, eyes on mine.
I force myself to step forward, to put one shoe ahead of the other, the page crumpling in my grip.
“Explain to me what the fuck you’ve done.” I try to control my voice, try to contain the anger that is rippling through me. The pressure is fucking with my head, it’s fraying at my psyche. Three years ago, I would never have lost my cool over this. Three years ago, I would have politely fired the woman and then left the office, the day still bright enough to get in a trip to Malibu. Three years ago, I didn’t have the IRS and every bank in town on my ass.
She looks up from her computer and nods toward her door, not one ounce of concern in that pretty face. “Please shut the door.”
My hands tighten on the back of the leather chair, one of two that sits before her desk. I straighten, and reach one hand out, the tight quarters making it easy to grab ahold of the door and swing.
Click. The sounds from the office disappear. I turn to face her, and she sits back, her arms crossing over the front of her chest. “I need more clarification. I’ve done a lot of things.”
“I can see that.” If she were a man, I’d have her by her throat, pushed up against the wall, so close that our bodies were touching. Maybe it’s better that she’s not. I’d probably lose focus.
She rolls her eyes as if I don’t hold her job in my hands. As if she owns this company, and I am bothering her with my questions. “I don’t have time to play games, Trey. What did I do to piss you off?”
I should fire her. Right now. Fire her and spend the rest of the day putting my company back together. My hands find the back of the chair again, and I wrap my palms around it, squeezing hard. “You fired seven people.” Seven. A third of the design staff.