My issue is I want to invite Margot. Not only would she be an amazing asset at an event like this, educating fellow billionaires on the importance of these kinds of programs, but I also think she might enjoy it. And I’d be lying if I wouldn’t admit that the thought of having Margot on my arm all night has my heart in overdrive.
I can’t get the look of her face from the other night out of my head. I also can’t get the feel of her soft skin where I touched her slender neck off my fingertips.
That fucking neck.
It’s an obsession at this point. It was one of the first things I noticed about her. It’s so slender and delicate, I feel like I could wrap my fingers around it completely with barely any effort.
I’ve had so many fantasies of clutching her tightly while I bury myself inside her. Of dragging my tongue over her tempting skin. Of pressing my lips to that little dip where her throat meets her collarbone.
I reach down and adjust myself. Just the mere thought of her name floating around my head gets me hard.
I wish I had the balls to kiss her. The way her full, pouty lips beg me to taste them is driving me absolutely insane, but I told myself I wouldn’t. It feels too intimate, too—
“Mr. Hayes.” The voice of my assistant interrupts my daydream.
“Yes, Olivia?”
“Your eleven o’clock is here.”
“Thank you. Send him in.”
I sit up and straighten my tie, tossing the invitation to the side.
It’s nearly seven p.m. by the time I make it home. I’m overly exhausted and it’s only Monday.
I peer in the kitchen to see Miss Perry fixing herself a plate for dinner.
“Fiona.” I say her name and she jumps, but her scowl is instantly replaced by a grin so big she looks like the Cheshire cat.
“Oh, Graham, you startled me.” I cringe at the way she says my name. She never calls me Graham and actually, I never call her Fiona—no idea why I did just now.
“Apologies, Miss Perry,” I say, hoping it establishes some formality again. “I have to fly to New York on Thursday morning. I’ll be back Friday but just wanted to give you a heads-up.”
She places her plate on the counter and opens her mouth to speak, but I just give her a nod and then turn and exit the kitchen. I’m really not in the mood for whatever she’s wanting to complain to me about or her attempts to get me to talk.
I make my way upstairs, the sound of soft giggles coming from Eleanor’s room. I stop outside the door, my hand poised to knock, but I listen for a brief moment as I hear her and Margot playing. It instantly sends a warm feeling to my chest followed by a bout of panic.
Lusting after Miss Silver are feelings I can deal with, feelings I can manage. But feeling this—whatever this is—is something I’m not ready to face.
I knock softly before opening the door.
“Daddy!” Eleanor shouts as she scrambles to her feet and charges at me. I reach out my arms as she hurls herself into them and hoist her up in the air where she wraps her tiny body around me.
“Hello, sweetheart.” I plant a kiss on her forehead.
“We are playing with my ponies,” she says.
“I can see that.” There must be at least fifteen different horses and ponies scattered about, all with different types of colored manes and some even with diamonds on their hooves.
“We watched My Little Pony today so naturally, she had to introduce me to all of hers.” Margot stands, adjusting her shorts that have ridden very far up her thighs.
I have to tell myself to avert my eyes and not make her uncomfortable but it’s damn near impossible.
“I wanted to let you both know that I unfortunately have to attend a meeting in New York on Thursday so I’ll be gone, but only for a day.”
“Can we come?” Eleanor says. “Pleeeeease, Daddyyyyy.” She wraps her arms around me even tighter as she begs.
“Not this time, sweetie, but someday I promise we’ll go there when you’re a little older and it won’t be when I’m working so we’ll get to spend the entire trip doing everything you want to do. Deal?”
She scrunches up her face like she’s thinking about it and finally says, “Deal!” Then she climbs down and returns her focus to her ponies.
I swirl the last remaining ounces of my bourbon in my tumbler as Warren Dorsey drunkenly tells Mark Powers of Tech Titans his obviously bullshit deep sea fishing story.
“I shit you not, that sucker was damn near fifteen hundred pounds!” he shouts as the other men at the table eat up the story.
Normally I can suffer through work dinners just fine. I understand that it takes a certain level of babysitting and hand-holding in this world to get what you want, but tonight, all I can think about is Margot.
I guess that’s not an entirely new problem for me considering she’s been living rent free in my mind since the moment I met her.
I feel my phone buzz in my pocket and I slip it out, seeing a text from her. I slide open the message and see a picture of Eleanor on my screen. Her big toothy grin has a pink paint smudge next to it across her cheek and she’s holding a half-finished picture in her hands.
Margot: Eleanor insisted on sending you a picture of her current masterpiece she’s painting for your office. It’s not done yet.
I smile and send her a message back asking how things are going at home.
“Getting some sexy pictures from a hot date, I hope?” Warren’s words are slurred and his jowly face is glowing red.
“Afraid not. Just a picture of my daughter from my nanny.” I regret mentioning her the moment the words leave my mouth because with a group of disgusting hyenas like these fools, the word nanny instantly solicits unwanted remarks.
“Nanny, huh?” Warren says as he elbows Mark. “She come with privileges?” Both men burst into laughter.
“No. Margot is an extremely smart and talented educator. A music teacher actually and my daughter absolutely adores her.” I shut it down quickly, reminding myself that flying across the table and smashing a glass in Warren’s face isn’t the answer here.
“Margot?” Warren asks with a hook in his brow, his expression morphing into seriousness.
“Yes, Margot,” I repeat, not liking the way he’s asking.
My phone buzzes again and I excuse myself from the table to read the message.
Margot: Things are great. Eleanor’s music comprehension is coming along so well, she is learning to read music already. You might have a prodigy on your hands. :）
Me: All thanks to you.
My stomach flutters, the liquid courage from the two glasses of bourbon I had to make it through dinner coursing through my veins. I’m about to do something stupid, like asking her to send me a picture of her when I see the bubbles appear on the screen to indicate she’s typing. A few seconds later, a picture of her pops up on my screen and I do a double take to check if I actually did send her a text asking for one, but I didn’t.
Margot: Sorry. Eleanor insisted she send a photo of me with my painting as well. Look for it in the art museum soon.
I smile at her self-deprecating joke but I’m lost in her eyes. Her beautiful, big green eyes that are sparkling through the picture. Her hair is swept in a messy bun atop her head, a few strawberry tendrils hanging down, clinging to her neck. Her smile reaches up to the crinkles of her eyes and she too has a slight smudge of light-blue paint on her cheek.