Of course, he doesn’t know that I notice that. And he would never admit to it. Men like Ransome never admit to things like that.
After that, I’m out the door. Lagato Coffee House is Ransome’s favorite, so I pick it up for him every single morning. Medium Americano with a splash of cream, no sugar, hot enough to burn my hand so it’s still piping when I get it to him.
It takes me six minutes to park my car, to walk through the lobby of Apex Energy, and to ride the elevator up to the sixtieth floor, where the doors open directly into the office.
I hurry to get things ready for the morning. His schedule is on his desk, his dry cleaning is in his side closet, and when I check it, I see that his coffee has cooled just enough not to burn his tongue.
Perfection. As always.
I know Ransome has entered the building before he even walks through the door. Everything gets a little hectic. People walk faster, work harder, and fumble around to make sure no one and nothing is out of place.
You’d have to be an idiot to get caught standing around when Ransome Rozanov makes his entrance.
I check the clock. 7:59 A.M. on the dot. The sound of his wing-tipped shoes on the marble floor rings out over the hubbub of other noises as he steps out of the elevator.
Right as the minute hand reaches eight o’clock, he walks in.
“Good morning, Mr. Rozanov,” I say with a cheeky smile. He likes that I call him that. The dominance of it, the theater, the racy little thrill ofMister.Like a private little game for us and us alone.
He’s wearing his black Tom Ford suit today.Allblack, actually, the black shirt underneath it, like he knew I was thinking of it this morning, like he’s teasing me, like he gets a racy little thrill of his own out of knowing what it does to me…
But he plays the game so well. That’s what makes it fun. He shows no sign of smiling as he sweeps past me without a word. He sits at his desk, though the door between us is still half-open, so I can see him if I twist around in my chair.
He goes through his ritual. Checks his schedule, writes a few notes in that broad, masculine handwriting of his. Sips his coffee. And then…
“I have a ten o clock with Dmitry Chadovich today. Add it,” Ransome instructs me curtly as he suddenly gets to his feet and heads back out of his office.
I nod and duck my head to hide my smile. “Yes, Mr. Rozanov. Right away.”
He is about to pass me when suddenly he stops right at my side. Without looking at me, he asks, “Is that a new perfume?”
“I… I’m not sure. Sort of, I think?” I’m a little flustered, honestly. He doesn’t usually break character like that in front of everyone else at the office. Unless it’s work-related, he rarely addresses me here at all. “What does it smell like?”
“Jasmine. Rose. Patchouli,” he answers. His voice is low. Gravelly. And it’s raking across my nerves in a way that makes my thighs clench together beneath the hem of my dress. “It’s nice.”
It’s nice.The two-word phrase is so simple. So seemingly impersonal.
And it completely unravels me.
I don’t know what to say to him, but I don’t have to figure that out, because before I can even begin to formulate an answer, he’s gone. I wait until he’s down the hall and around the corner before taking in a shaky breath.
God, the things that man does to me.And to think I get to see him every day.
Not because he is my boyfriend. He’s not.
Not because he’s my lover. He’s not.
Not because we’ve ever slept together, or kissed, or so much as held hands, aside from the lone handshake on the day he hired me.
Outside of my fantasies, we’ve never done a single thing that isn’t strictly HR-approved.
Because Ransome Rozanov is my boss.
I am obsessed with him.
And he barely knows I exist.
2
