Tangled (The Tangled Series)(10)

Now, back to my tale of heartache and pain.





I’ve never seduced a woman before.

Shocking, I know.

Let me clarify. I’ve never had to seduce a woman before, not in the typical sense. Usually, it just takes a look, a wink, a smile. A friendly greeting, maybe a drink or two. After that, the only verbal exchange involves short one-word phrases like harder, more, lower…you get the point.

So the whole conversing-a-woman-into-bed concept is pretty new to me, I’ll admit. But I’m not worried. Why not, you ask?

Because I play chess.

Chess is a game of strategy, planning. Of thinking two steps ahead of your next move. Of guiding your opponent right where you need them to be.

For the two weeks following her first day, dealing with Kate, for me, is exactly like playing chess. A few suggestive words, some innocent but seductive caresses. I won’t bore you with details of every conversation. I’ll just say that things are progressing nicely; everything is going according to plan.

I figure it’ll take another week—two tops—till I’m able to claim that golden treasure between her creamy thighs. I already know how it will play out. I’ve spent hours in fact, imagining it, fantasizing about it.

Want to hear it?

It will happen in my office, one night when we’re both working late—the only ones left. She’ll be tired, stiff. I’ll offer to rub her neck, and she’ll let me. Then I’ll lean down and kiss her, starting at her shoulder, trailing up her neck, tasting her skin with my tongue. Finally, our lips will meet. And it will be hot—f*cking scorching. And she’ll forget all about the reasons why we shouldn’t: our mutual place of work, her stupid fiancé. The only thing she’ll be thinking of is me and the things my expert hands will be doing to her.

I have a couch in my office. It’s suede—not leather. Does suede stain? Hope not. Because that’s where we’ll end up—on that sorrowfully underused couch.

Now let me ask you this: Have you seen those commercials that say how life can change in an instant?

Yes, yes, I’m going somewhere with this—just bear with me.

You know the ones I’m talking about, don’t you? Where the happy family is driving down Main Street on a bright sunny day and then…BAM. Head-on collision with a semi. And daddy goes flying out the window because he didn’t have his seat belt buckled.

They’re designed to scare the shit out of us. And they do. But the fact remains they are also chock-full of truth. Our goals, our priorities can change instantaneously—usually when we least expect it.

So, after two weeks of strategizing and fantasizing, I’m sure that Kate Brooks will be my next one-nighter. I can’t remember wanting someone as much as I want her. I’ve definitely never waited for a woman as long as I’ve waited for her. But the point is, for me, it’s a done deal—a foregone conclusion—not an if but simply a when.

And then, on Monday afternoon, my father calls me into his office.

“Sit down, Son. There’s some business I’d like to discuss.”

My father often calls me in here to talk about things he’s not yet ready to share with the rest of the staff. “I just got off the phone with Saul Anderson. He’s looking to diversify. He’s coming to the city next month to shop around for ideas.”

Saul Anderson is a media tycoon. Big money—the kind of guy that makes Rupert Murdoch look like a peon. Got a napkin? ’Cause I think I’m drooling.

“Next month? Okay, I can work with that. No problem.” I feel the excitement pumping in my veins. This is how a shark must feel after somebody dumps a great big bucket of bloody chum in the water. It’s a rush.

“Drew…” my father interrupts, but my mind’s too busy whirling with ideas to hear him.

“Any clue what he’s looking to get into? I mean the possibilities are pretty endless.”

“Son…” my father tries again.

You can see it coming, can’t you?

Yet I ramble on, “Cable stations are cash cows. Social media’s in the toilet right now, so we could pick up some real bargains. Film production is always a safe bet, and that would cut down on the overhead when they replay on his own network.”

“Drew, I’m going to give the account to Kate Brooks.”

Hold the f*cking phone. Care to repeat that for me?

“What?”

“She’s good, Drew. I’m telling you, she’s damn good.”

“She’s been here for two weeks!”

Dogs are territorial. You know that, right? That’s why at the park they seem to have a never-ending supply of piss, which they insist on stopping every four seconds to spread around. It’s because they believe it’s their park. And they want the other dogs to know it, to know that they were there first. It’s the nonverbal way of pretty much saying, “Fuck off—find your own park.”

Men are the same way.

Not that I’m going to piss a circle around my desk or anything, but this firm is mine. I’ve nurtured these clients since they were tiny corporations. I’ve watched, like a proud papa, as they grew to sturdy conglomerates. I’ve wined them, I’ve dined them. I’ve put in hour after hour, years of sleepless nights. My job isn’t just what I do—it’s who I am. And I will be damned if Kate Brooks is going to walk her ass in here and take that away from me.