It’s funny, considering how hard I’ve seen him work and how many hours he’s put in at the winery, a lot of the time I forget Matt’s wealthy. As in billionaire-wealthy. The guy is loaded, thanks to both his father and Matt earning a bundle from his baseball contract and various endorsements.
And those are just the most recent ones.
It wasn’t until we stepped on the plane and sat in first class that I saw how the other half lives. Talk about star treatment. I’ve flown once in my life and that was when I went to California—on a shitty little crowded plane that made me pay for a soda, for the love of God. I declined, sitting in my cramped little seat between two large, sweaty businessmen who leered at me the entire flight.
I hated it.
But flying first class in the wide comfy seats, being served constantly, and sitting next to Matt? I felt like I’d died and gone to heaven.
That was until I saw the hotel. Oh, my word, it was the prettiest, most modern hotel I’ve ever seen in my life, not that I’ve stayed anywhere beyond a Motel 6. I made sure Matt had a two-room suite with a gorgeous city view and since my room was right next to his—which he’d asked for—I had the same.
I didn’t even care that I wasn’t outside amongst the hustle and bustle of Times Square. I was perfectly content sitting in my suite with the gorgeous white bed and shocking pink comforter. The sleek glass furniture and the blooming hot pink orchids everywhere. Me, the Cactus, Texas-supposed-slut, feels like a real life fairytale princess.
All thanks to Matt.
What sucks? I have to give my notice when we return. There’s just no way I can continue working for him. I’m pretending to be this certain type of quiet, demure woman when I’m not. My real self is bound to pop out sooner or later, and I don’t want to do that in front of Matt. He thinks I’m a good girl.
And I can’t seem to let go of my old, bad girl insecurities.
It’s bad enough we’ve kissed a few times. The last thing I want to do is hurt his reputation, so I try my best to avoid him, but it’s near impossible. The tension between us is still there though we never talk about it. I see the way he stares at me when he thinks I’m not looking. I want to return that longing stare. Worse, I want to lock myself away in his office, plop myself on his desk right in front of him and beg him to kiss me.
I think he’d take me up on the offer. I know he would.
But then I’d become the slut everyone accuses me of being. Sleeping with my boss to get ahead—at least, that’s what it would look like. Indulging in a heated affair with the man who signs my paychecks is not smart. Didn’t I learn anything after my failed attempt at a minor affair with Brian Fairbanks?
Leaning against the fabric headboard, I stare out the window at the city lights that surround me. I hadn’t thought of his actual name since I don’t remember when. I prefer to think of him as this faceless, nonentity, otherwise known as my ex-boss. It’s just so much easier that way, not thinking of his name.
Now it all comes back to me. Brian would flash that charming smile as he whipped his thin blond hair away from his eyes, his gaze always eating me up. He had this way of making me feel like I was special, despite the ridiculous way he talked to me about titties and ass and how much his palm itched to give me a spanking.
Yes, he said that. He said a whole lot more too, plenty of which I wish to banish from my brain forever.
When I told my grandma what happened with Brian—how it turned out he had a wife and kids—she’d read me the riot act. Chewed me out for what felt like hours, though it probably only equaled about fifteen minutes. Told me if I continued flirting with these men who were in positions of authority, I’d never get ahead unless I had sex with them. That was all they thought of when they looked at me.
A sexpot. She’d called her own granddaughter a sexpot though now I suppose she said it to warn me. I always heard how I needed to make good choices.
So I tried. I tried and tried and tried and here I sit, in a hotel suite paid for by my boss, and I’m still contemplating how I can get him into my room, so I can have a chance with him at least once before I quit and go back home to Cactus.
Have I lost my mind? I worry so much how others will see me, yet I still want Matt. I can’t help it. If people are going to call me a sexpot, a slut, or a tramp, I guess I can go ahead and give them a reason to, right?
Respect yourself. If you don’t, no one else will either.
I need to remember that.
My cell phone buzzes and I glance at it to see a text from Matt.
You in your hotel room?
I sure am, typing up notes just for you, I answer.
No reply, and I stare at the screen of my phone, willing something to appear. When nothing happens, I toss it aside and start typing up my notes again, my eyelids growing heavier with the menial task.
It was bad enough I had to sit through those sessions. Now I’m reliving them by rewriting the notes, reminding me exactly how boring they’d been.
Well, boring to me. Matt would probably find it fascinating since he’s in the business but definitely not me.
My phone dings again, and I grab it.
You should meet me at the Blue Fin Restaurant downstairs in thirty minutes.
Why?
I chew on my fingernail, waiting for his answer. I already had room service for dinner, ordering a delicious pasta dish with shrimp and a salad on the side the moment I got back to the hotel. I’m not even hungry.
I want to take you out to dinner.
The Blue Fin is a gorgeous restaurant in the hotel; I keep peeking in there when I walk by. I’m dying to check it out but not like this.
Staring at my phone’s screen, I contemplate how I should answer. The conference is over for the night. We have one more day tomorrow and then it’s over. Dinner tonight isn’t official business.
It feels personal. Like a date.
I already ate. Didn’t you eat too?
Have dessert then. And the meal they gave us at the keynote was crap. I’m still hungry.
A little sigh escapes me, and I stare out the window again, drinking in the beautiful city view. I should decline. I should stay in my pretty hotel room and type up my messy notes and fall asleep in my deliciously soft bed. A good girl would do that. She wouldn’t be tempted to do something bad, like go out on a dinner date with her boss.
But I never said I was a good girl.
I want to spend time with Matt. I want to go out to dinner with him and stare at his handsome face from across the table. I want to hear him tell me a story, and then I want to tell him a story and make him laugh. I want him to reach across the table and grab my hand, entwining our fingers.