Okay, I still do that when I’m not in the office. If the music is too loud, well, he’s just too damn old. How about that?
Too much. He’s always seen me as too much. And sure, I’m probably a Roman candle next to my brother, Nick, but I’ve mastered the art of buttoned-up-executive me from nine to five, careful to avoid Elle Woods territory with her glam-infused professional chic style dipped in signature pink.
Unfortunately, the overachiever I am, I shot right past driven, fresh executive territory and skidded straight into some Stepford Wife twilight zone.
Basically, a walking uterus of good breeding who’s prettier when she smiles.
Gag.
What a waste of my perfectly lovely charm.
You’d think my nauseating professionalism in the wardrobe department would give me some clout as a grown woman, right?
No.
And now I’m a grown woman with no clout… and without my freaking wardrobe.
Glaring at the empty, unmoving belt, I check my phone one more time.
This is the kick in the tits I do not need.
No.No!I refuse to believe my bag didn’t make it. There’s no way. My manifestation panties would not do me dirty by galivanting off to some horny happy hour in Narnia.
A flash of movement behind the clear rubber flaps leading to the inner sanctum catches my eye. The only sign of life in this place.
My only hope. My saving grace. My own Christmas miracle?
Dropping my phone onto my carry on, I glance around, say goodbye to my dignity, and hike up my skirt.
The minute I drop to my hands and knees—Jesus, could this be any more humiliating—I hear my mother’s voice in my head.
“That’s not very ladylike, dear.”
Get used to it, Mother… I’m the very picture of a modern career woman getting shit done.
I flinch with every grind of the metal plates against my knees. Biting my lip I barely hold back the string of curses begging to be set free and wonder again how I got here.
Bruised knees from savoring a well-endowed dick with my tongue? No.
Rug burn earned riding that mythical dick reverse cowgirl? Pfffft.
Nope… my impending black and blue knees are a direct result of my desperation.
Shoving through the thick, heavy rubber flaps reeking of oil and dust, I flail my arm, keeping it totally sexy, but hey, if it gets the job done. Excuse me?"
A good twenty feet away and surrounded by the hum of machinery, the whir of fans, and muffled tunes, the guy I spotted continues to adjust carts. Metal scrapes against concrete as he works, his back turned, completely ignoring my presence.
Just as he's about to disappear out of sight behind conveyor belts and machinery, my heart leaps into my throat on a wave of panic.
With two fingers between my lips—a move that would have my mother clutching her pearls—I let loose a piercing whistle that echoes off the concrete walls. "Hey!”
My mother hated Nick and Chance teaching me something so crude, insisting the idea of me ever needing the skill was absolutely unthinkable.
Nick and Chance - 1. Mom - 0.
The guy's head snaps around so fast it practically qualifies him for workman's comp, his safety vest swinging with the motion.
Disinterested eyes narrow in a glare beneath the brim of his neon orange beanie. "What the hell?"
