Page 3 of Devil In A Suit, Vol. 1

Chapter 2

My stomachimmediately leaps into my throat and then plummets into my toes for the second time this day.

Five minutes ago my biggest concern was crying at my desk, but now I’m worried I might actually vomit. Right onto the white carpet. And I had tomato soup (standing up over the sink in the break room) for lunch.

Panicking, I stand up, like I might actually just flee the building and never return, but instead I clutch the desk, take a few deep breaths, and then sit down at the computer. I let my eyes skim over the offending email, opting to open a new one instead. My fingers are shaking, my breath coming in rapid bursts, as I type.

Mr. King,

Please disregard the previous email, which I sent to you in error. I would appreciate it if you would delete it upon receipt.

Sincerely,

Quinn Carson

I send it, and then I wait.

It feels like two eternities pass, but really it’s just a few moments during which I have to stop myself from chewing my fingernails down to ragged stubs. The reply dings in my inbox. I don’t even have to open it before my heart drops. I can see the that the body of the email is blank, the subject line simply reading, “NO.”

My first thought is that I need to go empty my mailbox, pack up my desk, and get out of here before this gets any worse.

Sure, I won’t be able to make rent this month without a paycheck, but I could go live with my parents out in Worcester while I search for something new. Of course, if Jared King decides to give me a bad recommendation or blackball me entirely, getting another job won’t even be an option. I’ll have to leave the state. Probably the entire east coast. Or I could go back to school, maybe get my teaching degree like mom. I don’t even really like kids, but maybe I could learn …

“No,” I whisper to myself, feeling the sudden swell of the ego and pride that got me a 4.0 at BU. I’m not a quitter, never have been, and I’m not about to start now. “This is ridiculous. You can fix it. You will fix it.”

I can’t leave the state. Or go back to school. I don’t want to. I love business. I worked my ass off all the way through school, and then worked my ass off to get this job. I will not let one jerk of a boss and one accidental email take all that away from me.

When I’ve managed to talk myself up into something resembling courage, I rise from the desk and move to his office door, which is firmly shut. I raise my hand, but it takes me a good ten seconds before I can bring myself to knock on the door. When I do, it comes out quick and staccato, like machinegun blasts. Every nerve ending in my body feels electrified. Calm. Down. I tell myself, but it’s not working. I can feel my heart rapidly doubling its pace.

“Come in.” His voice is low, the command practically a dare.

I step into his office and find him behind his desk, a shiny black pen in his hand that probably costs more than my monthly rent. His gaze is on the stack of contracts he’s signing. I wait a beat for him to acknowledge me, but he refuses. I’m standing there on the rug like a first grader who’s been called before the teacher. He’s going to force me to say something, to start this conversation.

I take a deep breath, hoping my voice will come out without a quiver, but knowing that’s mostly a losing battle. “I just wanted to say that I’m very sorry about the email,” I begin. I channel the professionalism that got me through three interviews and a presentation to get me this job. “I was blowing off steam to a friend, but it was unprofessional and out of line. I was really frustrated with myself for the message error, because I work very hard to avoid mistakes, and missing that message was definitely a mistake. I am deeply sorry, and it will not happen again.”

There’s a long silence, during which he continues scrawling his name on documents. “For the email or the message?” He still refuses to look at me, and I can tell now that it’s purposeful.

“Both,” I reply.

“And you try very hard not to make mistakes, you say?” His voice is still low, gravelly and — I can’t believe I’m thinking this — sexy. He’s starting to sound almost amused.

“Yes,” I say.

“So then you weren’t mistaken when you called me, what was it again?” And then his eyes flicker up to mine, his gaze intense, pinning me to my spot on the carpet, “Ah yes, cruel and coldhearted.”

Oh. My. God. I feel like all the air is getting sucked out of the room, which is the only excuse for what comes out of my mouth next. “Hey, it wasn’t all bad,” I say, almost certainly oxygen deprived, the only excuse for me right now. “I also called you sexy.”

I meant it as a joke. At least, I think I did, because if the feeling of heat spreading between my legs is any indication, I also think I meant it for real. But those eyes — those gorgeous, cold brown eyes — betray no laughter. The joke, if that’s what you could call it, lands with a thud and a whimper. For a girl who tries not to make any mistakes, I sure am racking up my fair share today.

Gee, why don’t you just lunge across the desk and take your top off while you’re at it?

Dear God, please let this floor open up and swallow me whole.

I try desperately to recover, to salvage this rapidly disintegrating encounter. “Again, I’m so sorry. I was — well, there’s no excuse. All I can say is that I’m having an unusually bad day, and if you give me a chance, I think you’ll find that I can be valuable to you,” I say, then realize what I’ve said, my cheeks flushing. “I mean, to the company.”

He drops his pen and sits back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest, which is broad and defined, even in a suit. He cocks an eyebrow ever so slightly, and I feel my knees quiver beneath me. Thank god I’m standing on carpet, because my heels would probably audibly click on the bare wood floor with all the trembling.

“Actually,” he says, his voice still full of gravel and sharp edges, “there is something you could do. For me.”