The Two Week Arrangement (Penthouse Affair, #1)

Dominic

I thought dinner with Presley would be manageable, that spending more time with her would somehow numb me to her presence. I hoped coming into work on Monday would be normal and uneventful. Maybe my exhaustion from a weekend with the girls would be enough to keep me tethered to reality.

I thought wrong.

It’s like all my senses are on cocaine. Everything is magnified around Presley. The smell of her wafting around me as we made our way toward my office. The sound of her heels on the floor, poking tiny holes into my façade of professionalism. Her slight frame keeps pace with mine from the corner of my eye.

When I first asked her to talk in my office, she froze. But then a soft blush bloomed on her cheeks, and her eyelashes fluttered with a short blink. Was she embarrassed? Nervous?

Regardless, that has to be my favorite of her expressions.

“Of course,” she said. I can still hear her voice bouncing needlessly around my head, though nearly half a minute has passed since we stepped into my office and I shut the door.

“About last Friday night . . .”

Presley’s lower lip trembles, and her wide blue eyes latch onto mine.

Or maybe that’s my favorite.

She’s so determined, so earnest, even when everything’s about to change between us.

“I think we should talk,” I say.

Presley nods, her gaze moving past me to examine my space. Although she’s been in my office before, I suppose this is the first chance she’s had to really take it in. I kept her pretty preoccupied with assignments her first week, and she tackled them like a pro.

She touches the edge of a frame on the wall that holds an award Aspen Hotels collected the year I began as CEO. She always has this inquisitive look on her face, as if she’ll learn everything about me just by scanning the contents of my desk and walls.

“I really do like your office,” she says softly, almost to herself.

I pause, letting the silence stretch on. “Thank you.”

The space is old-fashioned, but humble. I keep everything in order. While my apartment is littered with chewed-up crayons and miscellaneous toys, not a single thing is out of place here at work.

What’s strange is how well she fits in here. Her dark wool skirt and white button-up complement her sharp heels. She’s a picture of classic and modern in one petite, hotter-than-hell body. The way she stands in my office, one hand on her hip . . . she looks like she could be running this place herself.

Shit, that’s hot.

I try not to acknowledge the way everything below my belt perks up at that thought.

Not fucking now.

“Please, sit,” I say, gesturing to the wingback chair that Ollie so often lounges in.

She moves to the chair, placing one delicate hand on the armrest. Her fingernails are trimmed short, filed into a tidy square-ish shape and painted the palest pink.

“Are you going to?” she asks, pausing beside the chair.

“I’d rather stand.”

It’s easier to hide how jittery I am around this woman when I’m not trying to sit still. Besides, if I sit, there will be a desk between us. Whether I’m conscious of these micro-decisions I’m making or not, I don’t want there to be any obstacles between us. Messed up, I know.

“Then I’ll stand, too.” She rests one hand on the back of the chair. Her knuckles grow white with her grip, but her gaze is steady.

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“You’re not in trouble. The opposite,” I say, wanting to reassure her. It must be terrifying to be called into your boss’s office first thing Monday morning after the Friday night we shared. “I have a proposition for you.”

Her lips quirk up as she considers this.

God, that mouth. I could do bad, bad things to that mouth.

Focus, Dom.

“I need someone reliable. Someone I can count on to be by my side during the next couple of weeks of negotiations. And the appearance that I’m in a steady relationship could help my cause, if I’m being honest. It paints me as dependable, trustworthy.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Presley murmurs.

“Outside of working hours, for the next two weeks, I’d like you to pretend to be my . . . plus-one.” I almost say girlfriend, but then decide we’re not sixteen anymore.

“A two-week arrangement,” she says, her brow furrowed. “We would be coworkers, nine to five. And then, after hours, we would be a couple. I understand that much.” She pauses, her gaze darting away from mine. “I guess I don’t understand what’s in it for you. Why now?”

“It’s Roger.” I cross my arms over my chest. The gray dress shirt I’m wearing pulls tight across my muscles, a sight that apparently doesn’t escape her, because I catch her gaze drift over my broad shoulders. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. “He’s a traditional guy, if I’m being polite.”

“And if you’re not being polite?”

“He’s a good ol’ boy with no trust or understanding of how business works in the digital age. He does everything in person without any executive help, all by himself. And knowing him, it’ll take about two weeks to iron out all the details of our agreement.”

“Okay, sure, but I still don’t understand. How do I factor in?”

“He likes you,” I say, and she scoffs at that, as if I’ve said something totally absurd. “What? It was obvious. During dinner, he paid more attention to you than he did to me.”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Don’t apologize. You’re more fun to talk to.” There’s that blush again. “He’s going to expect you at our meetings in the future, as my steady girlfriend.”

“Why?” she asks, a bewildered look in her eyes.