Читать книгу The Fling - Stefanie London - Страница 11

“FLYNN ANDREW LEWIS, what are you still doing here?”

I drag my eyes up from my screen to look at my assistant, Francis, standing in the doorway to my office—arms folded, lips pursed. She’s the only person who can get away with using my full name because she’s also the only assistant who’s lasted more than five minutes working for me.

Still, I won’t let her get too big for her boots.

“How do you do that?” I wave my pen in her direction.

“What?”

“Channel my mother so effectively.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “Are you calling me old?”

The ironic thing is that if my mother were still alive, she would actually be younger than Francis by a good decade. And while I might be known as “that jerk in the navy suit” to most people who work in this industry, even I know not to call a woman old.

“I would say more...draconian.” This gets the result I predict—intensified lip pursing.

“It’s nine p.m.”

“I know how to tell the time.” I turn back to my screen, trying to make the numbers spin a different story. It’s futile, but still more productive than looking at my inbox—which resembles the aftermath of a toddler toy-flinging rampage.

“Flynn.” This time my name is softer.

I know she means business when she talks like that—because to everybody else in this company Francis is a stony-faced, rule-spouting gatekeeper. She’s all: you shall not pass. It’s why she’s so good at her job. But I know she’s actually a lovely woman with a heart of gold—a fact she prefers to keep hidden.

Generally, I prefer it when she keeps it hidden, too.

“You haven’t left this place before midnight in over a month. It’s not healthy.” She sighs. “I know you care about these trials. I do, too. Everybody does.”

My niece, Zoe, stares at me from a photo on the side of my desk. She’s like a laser burning into my skin, reminding me over and over. Pushing me. Driving me to stay one more hour. “Then we have to keep working.”

“If you don’t start taking care of yourself, I’m going to walk in here one day and find you dead on your desk from a heart attack.” When I don’t take my eyes off my screen, she claps. The sound is a bullet through the room.

“Did you just clap at me?” I gape. “You know I sign off on your bonus, right?”

She folds her arms. “Trust me, I don’t work solely for the money.”

“Then why am I paying you more than most people here?”

“Because you’re trying to convince me not to retire so you don’t have to churn through twenty more assistants before you find another one who will put up with you.”

Damn, she got me there. “I did not enjoy that.”

“Neither did they, I’m betting.” Her face is full of concern. “It’s one night. You won’t solve the world’s problems today. Go home, eat some crappy takeaway food and watch television like a normal person.”

I want to tell her that I don’t own a television, just to wind her up...but I feel like she might explode from frustration. And she’s right, I don’t want her to retire. Not yet.

“If you don’t leave now, I’m going to shred every document in the office and then set it all on fire.” She stares pointedly at me.

“You know our servers have a triple-redundancy that backs up to a secure off-site location, right?” I can’t keep my face straight and she shakes her head at me. “See, you’re doing it again. Better stop or I’ll start calling you Mum.”

“Get. Out. Of. Here. Right. Now.” She punctuates each word with a clap.

“All right, all right.” I shove my chair back and smooth my hands down the front of my suit pants. “No need for the aural abuse.”

Francis watches as I grab my trench coat and look longing at my laptop—my inbox exploded past two thousand emails earlier this afternoon and I could use a night of digital filing.

If only Mum could see you now.

My mother, who believed wholeheartedly that life was a party, would be appalled by my lack of social life.

Good.

Besides, I go to charity balls and cocktail parties on the regular—it’s part and parcel of being a CEO. Though I have to admit, even when I’m there in body, my mind is always on work. The picture of my niece continues to watch me from the desk and I make her a silent promise, as I do every day, that I will help her.

“Come on, out with you.” Francis herds me into the common area, which is mostly empty. I spy my head of IT bent over someone’s desk and the CFO talking on his phone. I have a great team—built from scratch with my own bare hands. I’ve met a lot of top dogs who surround themselves with sycophants, but I always promised myself I wouldn’t do that. I want people who are renowned in their fields. People who challenge me.

Maybe not as much as Francis challenges me, mind you.

On the way down on the elevator, my mind spins.

Go home, eat some crappy takeaway food and watch television like a normal person.

Is that what normal people do? I can’t remember the last time I did anything in my apartment that wasn’t changing my clothes, sleeping or taking a shower. It’s basically a hotel room at this point. I don’t eat there. I don’t entertain. The closest thing I get to free time is the hour I spend at the gym every morning running on the treadmill and lifting weights while I listen to the notes that Francis voice-recorded the evening before.

I live for my job.

How many people can say that? I threw in a seven-figure salary as the youngest equity partner with a boutique consulting agency to start my own company. A company with a purpose that is more than raking in zeroes. I wanted to do something important with my life, not be another thoughtless corporate drone whose only care in the world is whether to holiday in Europe or the Maldives.

My frustration builds as I walk the short block to my apartment. Francis can get on her high horse about the way I live my life, but I’m doing exactly what I want to be doing. And that’s not being some money-chasing egomaniac like my mother, a woman who was only ever capable of giving a shit about herself.

I enter my apartment building, trying to shrug off the bad memories along with my coat. A night without the distraction of filing emails seems like a daunting task. Quiet moments are the worst. Maybe that’s another reason working 24/7 appeals to me—easier to avoid the stuff I don’t want to deal with.

“Mr. Lewis.” The concierge waves me over as I enter. The poor man looks like he’s run through a tornado—his tie is skewed, his hair mussed. “We’ve had some issues with the elevators today, but they’re working now. Just wanted to let you know in case they take a bit longer than normal while we get everyone up to their apartments.”

I nod and continue on. I don’t know my neighbours. Hell, I couldn’t even tell you who lived next door. I’m not one of those people who feels the need for community connection. Nor do I want to attend the various social events the building puts on for its residents. Frankly, if I had to stand around making small talk with people I don’t know or care about, then I’d rather be doing it where I might find an investor for my business.

When the elevator arrives, it’s crammed. So, I wait for the next one. It’s not like I’ve got to rush upstairs for anything, after all. My cupboards are spartan, and my fridge is worse. The only thing ingestible in the whole place is the protein powder I take after my morning workout and a bottle of cognac my brother gave me for Christmas.

Not exactly the ingredients for an enticing dinner.

When I reach my floor, I step into the hallway and approach my apartment with an increasing sense of dread. This is ridiculous. It’s the same damn place I come home to every night. But now it’s ominous, like something I’ve built up to mammoth proportions. A representation of how little my life contains.

“Hello?”

A voice startles me and I turn, my gaze swinging across the empty hallway. There’s not a soul around. Great. Now on top of this unwanted and unappreciated trip down “existential crisis” lane, I’m losing my mind, too. Francis is going to pay for this tomorrow.

“Is someone there?” A loud thump draws my eyes to the service stairwell. “Hello? I need help.”

The voice is definitely female, but I don’t recognise it. I pull on the door. It’s locked. That’s when I notice an electronic keypad flashing: Error. Enter code.

“The door is locked,” I say.

“No shit,” the voice snaps. “Why else would I be in here?”

“Self-reflection?” The comeback slips out before I can think better of it.

“You’re a regular smartass, aren’t you?”

I’m tempted to leave the woman in the stairwell. It’s not my problem and I’ve had enough abuse for one day. But the second I start to walk away, my conscience kicks in and I almost growl in frustration. I can’t leave a person stranded.

“Hello?” she tries again.

“I’m still here.”

“Look, buddy. I’ve had the day from hell and all I want is to get into my apartment so I can faceplant in a tub of ice cream and eat my emotions. Think you can help me out?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Try really hard.”

Shaking my head, I bend down to look more closely at the keypad. It has a thin layer of plastic covering it and I notice some dust and paint shavings on the floor. Then everything clicks into place—I’d bet my last ten bucks they installed these things today and blew a fuse while testing them out. That probably tripped the security system and shut the elevators down.

Which could mean... I punch 1234 into the electronic pad and the screen flashes once, twice and then displays the word: open. Yep, they haven’t set up the passcodes yet.

I yank the door open. For a moment, my brain stutters like a lawnmower failing to start. The woman in the stairwell looks like she’s stepped out of my wildest, dirtiest fantasies—endless legs in fishnet stockings, waist-length hair that’s so pale it’s almost white, and a leather miniskirt and lace-up boots. Not to mention the black eyeliner that rims her eyes, making the silvery-blue irises seem otherworldly.

Looking at her is like being shocked with jumper cables.

I have definitely not seen her around before. Suddenly, I’m acutely aware of how long it’s been since I was with someone. Every woman I’ve dated has been a strategic decision, because I don’t waste time with short-term flings and one-night stands. I only do what gets me closer to my goals—and casual sex doesn’t.

But work has taken over everything. My personal life is a husk and...well, I’ve been flying solo in the bedroom for a while. My sex life is a wasteland. A ghost town. And this is the first sign of life I’ve felt in over a year. Sensation rockets through me, blanking out the worries that usually clog my mind and filling me with a strong, pleasurable hum. Maybe denying myself for so long wasn’t a smart move—because I’m feeling like a man crawling through the desert, with water shimmering on the horizon.

I hold the door open for her, tamping down the uncharacteristic surge of attraction. “You’re welcome,” I quip.

“I didn’t say thank you,” she replies, a wicked curve pulling at her lips. “Yet.”