Beck doesn’t look quite as amused. He’s now climbed into the back of the car, his arm outstretched like he’s waiting to help me get into the car. My body feels tingly as he looks over my outfit. “I’m going to have to have a chat with HR on dress code,” he clips, his eyes focusing on the large hole at my knee. My tan skin peeks out from the space.
I look down, taking in all the different holes on the pants. I shrug, completely unbothered by his comment. “Oh, it totally goes against the dress code. Darla wrote me a pink slip the moment I stepped into work this morning.”
It’s Beck’s turn to fight a smile. He’s much better at it than his driver, however. I mutter my thanks to him as I slide into the backseat of the SUV, completely ignoring Beck’s outstretched hand. He doesn’t say anything as it falls to his side. “So, you’re breaking the rules right after you’ve been promoted?”
Beck’s driver, I still need to get his name, softly shuts the door after me before he rounds the car and gets in.
I shake my head. “I’ve always followed the rules. But today being my last day and all, I figured I might as well wear something comfortable. If it were up to me, all companies would have casual Fridays.”
“Noted.” His eyes snap to my side. “Buckle your seat belt.”
I bite my tongue, wanting to tell him that even if he’s going to be my boss, he doesn’t have to always tell me what to do.
He must disapprove of my silence. In one swift motion, he’s reaching across the space, grabbing the seat belt and buckling me in.
“I’m not a child. I can do it myself.”
Beck pins me with a glare. His face is dangerously close to mine. So close that his hot breath tickles my cheeks. His smell surrounds me. For a fraction of a second, his gaze focuses on my lips. He rips his sight away from my parted lips, his stormy eyes looking into mine. “Too late.”
I tear my eyes from his, too caught up in the moment with him for my own good. I should be angry with him for catapulting into my life and changing everything so quickly, but I’m also thrilled at the possibilities of what’s in store.
“Where are we going?” I question, looking out the window as the driver pulls the car away from the curb.
“Before we do anything, I need you to sign this.” Beck pulls a packet from a briefcase and plops it between us.
I pick it up, my eyes roaming over a bunch of legal jargon that goes over my head.
“It’s an NDA, Margo,” he explains, watching me closely. “You’re expected to sign it before we go through with this.”
I frown, trying to understand what everything means. Flipping from one page to the next, I find highlighted sections where I’m supposed to sign my name. Watching reruns of Law and Order SVU hasn’t given me enough knowledge of law terminology to even begin to understand a thing. I look at Beck with skepticism written on my face. “I don’t understand any of this.” I wave the packet around in the air between us. “How do I know that I’m not signing away my first-born child to you?”
The driver spits out a laugh. I smirk, happy I got the calm and collected guy to finally break.
“Glad you find her hilarious, Ezra.” Beck gives the driver—Ezra, apparently—a dirty look through the rearview mirror. Ezra, however, only makes eye contact with Beck for a fleeting moment before he pins his eyes ahead of him, suddenly very focused on the road. “Sorry, sir.” He coughs. “It was kind of funny.”
I beam, looking at Beck with a satisfied look. “I like him already.”
“Thank you, Miss Moretti,” Ezra comments, his eyes still focused on the road ahead.
Beck sighs dismissively at the both of us. He looks at the packet I still hold between us. “I can assure you I’m not having you sign away anything. All of my staff sign NDAs. It’s standard protocol. Your best friend, Ezra, signed one as well.”
“Sure did. Hopefully, I didn’t sign away my first-born child,” he says sarcastically. “My future wife may not be happy to know that.”
Beck snorts, slightly leaning forward to get Ezra’s attention. “You don’t even have a girlfriend,” he responds dryly.
Ezra’s eyebrows raise to his hairline. “That you know of, sir.” He winks at me through the mirror.
The gesture manages to further annoy Beck. Angrily, he snatches the packet from my hand and places it on the leather seat between us. His fingers trace over some of the sentences as he begins to explain what everything means. My eyes travel over the words he reads out loud, so far confident that I’m not signing some kind of shady deal.
Once he makes it through three pages of the packet, he looks up at me through his thick eyelashes. “Need me to keep going or do you trust me enough to know that I’m a civilized human being that wouldn’t trap you into anything crooked?”
“I don’t know if trust is the correct term when it comes to you.”
Beck makes a face, making it seem like my response actually offended him. “Fine,” he bites, slipping his phone from his suit pocket. “I’ll call my lawyer to review it with you then, if that’s what it’ll take.”
His fingers are quick at typing something on his phone. Taking myself by surprise, I reach across the bench seat, placing my hand on his forearm. “Wait,” I argue. Even the way the suit feels underneath my palm tells me it’s expensive. It’s soft, a light gray that looks great up against his pale skin tone.
Beck looks at where my hand rests on his arm. I pull it away, meeting his eyes. “Don’t call your lawyer. I’ll sign it.”
His eyes bore into mine. I try not to squirm in my seat. Half of me loves having his undivided attention like this. The other part of me wants him to look anywhere but me. I can’t handle having him watch me like he’s leaving so much unsaid. “But you don’t trust me.” It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to hear the disdain in his voice.
Rolling my eyes, I reach for the handbag at my feet. I rifle through it, searching for a pen.
“What are you doing?” Beck finally asks.
I pull random things out of the bag, wondering why I can’t find a single pen in here. Typically, this bag is like the one from Mary Poppins, full of unexpected treasures. Today, it’s full of random things except the one thing I need—a pen. “I’m looking for a pen,” I grumble, pulling out my makeup bag and moving it out of the way.
“Don’t bother,” Beck responds. He opens his briefcase and holds up a pen. “Use this.”
Snatching the pen from him, it feels heavier in my hand than I was expecting. Even this man’s pens feel expensive.
I set the packet in my lap, using my legs as a makeshift table as I sign on each dotted line.
“Are you going to tell me where we’re going yet?” I prod, hoping he’ll finally answer my question. “We’re going to your apartment.”
“We’re what?” I shriek.
“We’re going to your apartment,” he repeats, slower this time, like I didn’t understand him the first time he said it. I understood him perfectly. I’m just in shock he knows where I live.