So Much More(17)

I don’t want to be my MS.

I don’t want to be my symptoms.

I don’t want to be my limitations.

I don’t want to be my pain.

I don’t want to be my embarrassment.

I just want to be the guy who walks up the stairs, and no one thinks anything about it because it’s uneventful and normal.

That’s who I want to be.





Fuck the fa?ade





past





I always wanted the title of vice president before I turned thirty. Titles are important, they signify ascent. And with ascension comes power.

It’s so close now I can taste it. My killer instinct is back. I struggled to keep my shit together the year after Rory was born, but I’m back with a vengeance and determined not to let anyone or anything derail my dream.

The vice president of Marshall Industries is scheduled to retire in three months, and interviews and scouting have begun for his replacement. He’s an old codger whose time came and went a decade ago. For the past few years, I’ve done everything I could to make him look good while still taking credit for the accomplishments simultaneously. That’s quite a task when you’re performing as the conductor and the symphony, and you need the audience to be attentive and take notice of both. The audience noticed.

The president, Loren Buckingham, is a powerful man. He oversees Marshall Industries from his office hundreds of miles away in Seattle. No one ever interacts with him in person, unless they’re summoned to him.

I was summoned last month.

He’s twenty years my senior. Handsome in that dignified way that only excessive money buys and fosters. The glint in his eyes screamed I could buy and sell you, and that's dead sexy to me. Shaking his hand turned me on more than anything I’ve ever experienced in my life. The authority and command in his touch was a lethal transfer of voltage, erotic as hell.

The interview went well.

Dinner afterward went even better.

I returned home confident I’d made it to the next round.





The next round is here.

Seamus wished me luck this afternoon when I left for the airport.

I won’t need it. I’ve got this. This is what I excel at. Closing deals.

Mr. Buckingham’s personal driver picks me up at the airport in a blacked out SUV. When we miss the exit for his office downtown, I inquire.

“Mr. Buckingham’s asked that I deliver you to his residence,” he answers professionally.

I can’t help the satisfied smirk that tips up the right corner of my mouth. I powder my face, freshen up my lipstick, and release the top four buttons of my silk blouse. I had breast augmentation surgery a few months ago because age and the pregnancies had taken a toll on the girls. They look phenomenal now, and I’m not beneath showing some cleavage to leverage advantage. Mr. Buckingham and I had some chemistry during our last meeting; I felt it. And you can be damn sure I’m going to use that to my benefit tonight. Let the vixen siege began.

His residence is what can only be called an estate nestled cozily behind an elegant iron fence and automated gate. The moment I lay eyes on his opulent home I’m sent into a daydream tailspin; visions of living here with him and reigning over his empire by his side involuntarily dominate my every thought. My mind and body are vibrating with need. A need that’s completely driven by power and money. A need I will do anything to satisfy.

Fuck the fa?ade I’ve been living, I want this instead. This is my destiny.

The driver pulls into the circle drive and ushers me to the front door, after which he hops back into the vehicle and disappears around the back of the house with my overnight and garment bags.

I’m greeted stiffly at the door by an elderly, regal-looking woman. She side eyes me, and I’m left wishing I had two additional buttons secured on my blouse.

That is until Mr. Buckingham joins us in the expansive foyer, and I notice as his eyes slowly run the line from my five-inch stilettos up my tanned legs to the hem of my unquestionably short, but tasteful, designer skirt before skipping to, and pausing appreciatively on, my cleavage, where he pairs a quick eyebrow raise with a sexy smirk. His eyebrows resume their natural position, but the smirk remains in place when his eyes find mine, and he addresses, “Mrs. McIntyre, so nice to see you again.”

The elderly woman huffs her disapproval and walks away without a word.

Mr. Buckingham leans in too closely to be deemed socially acceptable and whispers, “My mother, please excuse her. She forgets sometimes.”

I smile flirtatiously at his words and ask, “Forgets?”

“That though I’ll always be her son, I am a grown man.”

I nod. Still smiling.

“Who can appreciate an exquisite woman when he sees one,” he continues with a wink. His stare is weighted with an intensity that has me trapped. Unable to move. This is a test. I can feel it. He’s waiting for my reaction.

He’s waiting for me to melt into a puddle at his feet, which is, I’m assuming what most living, breathing women would do. Accepting the compliment with such an overenthusiastic reception that they look a submissive fool by the end of the short, but telling, exchange. Two can play at this game, I think as I lift an eyebrow in challenge.

His smile is undeniably flirty, and he chortles in response. “I knew I liked you from the very beginning, Miranda. We’re going to work well together.”