My eyes trail to Emerson, who is watching me too, but he doesn’t look as happy as Drake. In fact, he’s glaring at me with a furrowed brow. Shit…what is that look for? What did I do wrong?
Before I can ask, a woman I don’t recognize walks in through the front door. She is a tall redhead dressed all in black and carrying a black tote bag. There is a belted harness over her shoulders and wrapped around her waist. I find myself staring at it. It looks more like a fashion statement than something she utilizes, and I love the way it looks on her. Powerful and dominant and sexy. With a bright smile on her face, she introduces herself to everyone.
Then as her gaze falls on Emerson’s face, she pauses. “Hello, Emerson,” she says with a bright, flirty smile. Instantly, the hairs on my neck rise in alarm.
“Monica,” he replies, biting back his own smile. “How are you?”
They clearly know each other.
“I’m great. You?”
“Good, thanks. Running your own business now?”
“Yes,” she says, clutching her bag tighter. “And business is great.”
“I’m proud of you,” he replies, and the fake smile I was trying to hold fades into a frown. Hearing him praise someone else has me wanting to scream.
“Is this your new secretary?” she asks, glancing at me.
“Yes. This is Charlotte. Charlotte, please greet Monica Taylor. An old employee of mine.”
My eyes snap in his direction, but he doesn’t give me any signs. Just a blank expression. As her eyes cascade over my body, sizing me up, I shift uncomfortably on my feet.
“Lovely to meet you, Charlotte.”
He nods his head subtly as if to remind me of my order. He told me to greet her. Ordered me to. He doesn’t do that unless it’s a…Dom/sub day. Is he trying to show me off? Because he wants her to see how good his new secretary is?
Well, too bad, because I’m already feeling stubborn.
I don’t want to meet his old secretary. Especially not as my imagination sends me images of her on her knees for him. His praise in her ears instead of mine.
Suddenly, I realize I’m replaceable. The truth hits me like a train, and it’s excruciating, nearly knocking me off my feet. I mean, I’m not stupid. I know he had other girls before me, but I don’t want to fucking meet them. The cruel reminder that she probably got to sleep with him and I don’t stings too. And I hate the way he ordered me to greet her, even when he and I both know today is not one of those days. I’m not going to play the part for her.
So, I grit my teeth, throw her a fake as hell smile and say, “Hey.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see his face fall. His jaw ticks as he glares at me. It feels like standing under a freezing cold rain, his disappointment laser-focused on me. Monica’s eyes widen, but she doesn’t say anything as she greets the rest of the group.
I refuse to look back at Emerson, out of both obstinance and fear.
Monica displays everything she brought on the glass case and gets started on her presentation. She’s brought an array of toys, things customers could use here at the club. Dildos, vibrators, handcuffs, creams, lotions, lube. You name it, she brought it. And I want to pay attention, but I can’t make my mind focus on anything but Emerson’s frustration with me, so much so that it trumps my frustration with him.
And it doesn’t help that Monica’s attention is almost entirely on Emerson. Once she’s done, Maggie offers to give Monica a tour of the facility, and I’m momentarily relieved that we’re about to be rid of this bitch who just ambushed my perfectly good day.
Then, she turns with a beaming smile at the man next to me and says, “Emerson, I’d love a tour from you.” My skin buzzes with fiery hot hatred as I watch her touch his arm. I despise this woman so much I could hit her. I quickly take a step to follow him, but he turns my way, clutching onto my arm and whispering in a dark, low tone, “Stay here.”
My mouth falls open. Is he serious?
What is he going to do with her? Take her to one of the private rooms and…
“Fine,” I mutter, turning away. If he thinks he’s going to get a Yes, Sir out of me now, he’s crazy.
As I watch them walk away, tears sting my eyes, and I start to wear circles on the floor from my pacing, trying to convince myself not to be as mad as I feel right now.
What do I care? He’s not my boyfriend. We have no claim on each other, and he’s certainly never going to touch me like that, so I should really just get over this hang-up. It’s dumb. A stupid crush, but I’ll never be more than his, sometimes, kinky secretary.