Playing Pretend by Cassie-Ann L. Miller
Three
Eliza
Liam Kline’sbroad shoulders practically stretch from one corner of the doorframe to the next.
His thick black waves are slightly disheveled after a long day. The white button-down spreading across his muscular chest is a little wrinkled and the sleeves have been pushed up his veiny forearms to his elbows.
I know the hard scowl on his stubbly jaw shouldn’t flip my stomach upside down the way it does. I know I should be immune to his good looks by now—but damn—the man is practically a demi-god.
“Why are you standing out in the hallway staring at me?” He hisses. “Are you gonna get in here and do your job? Or should I fire you and have my new assistant send you a formal invitation to come inside?” There’s an insulting bite to his words. As always.
Buh-bye, fantasy Liam.
Welcome back to reality, Eliza…
I hold his eye contact like a woman who has mastered the fine art of acting unbothered.“From what I recall, my job description doesn’t include showing up to secluded hotel rooms on a Friday night to rescue my boss from his tech-illiteracy.” When his grimace deepens, I bow reverently. “…Sir.”
He watches me from beneath his strong brow, irritation written in those hard granite irises and in every subtle muscle twitch of his sculpted face. “Not the time for your sass, Ms. Jenkins.” He growls. “Because if your being here right now is an inconvenience for you, we can have your job description updated to ‘unemployed’ in a heartbeat, if that suits you better.”
Mr. Kline’s blunt reminder of the power dynamics between us is jarring, even in my quasi-inebriated state.
What the hell is wrong with me? Being snarky to my boss is a dumb move. The few brain cells that haven’t yet drowned in the pool of vodka inside my skull know that. If I lose this job, it probably won’t be so easy finding another one, especially given my…‘circumstances’.
I’m not a frequent drinker. Because alcohol always makes my filter malfunction. But I’m still sober enough in this moment that I have my priorities straight. Keeping a roof over my head is more important than getting the upper hand in this verbal sparring match with my boss.
Some of the fog in my head lifts. I straighten my posture and clear my throat. “Duly noted, Mr. Kline,” I mutter somberly, waving the metaphorical white flag in surrender.
At this point, I just want to complete the task I came here to accomplish and get on with my night.
Still, he makes no move to clear the passage for me. Instead, there’s this funny look on his face. His gaze moves down my body at the pace of syrup sliding across a stack of warm buttery pancakes. For a second, he bites into his bottom lip. I hate myself a little for the attraction I feel toward him when he looks at me that way.
If this were any regular guy, I’d be sure that he was checking me out. But Liam Kline is no regular guy. Nothing is ever good enough for him. I bet he’s just taking inventory of every wrinkle in my dress, every speck of dust on my shoes, every frizzy flyaway fanning out around my face. He’s probably making a mental note of my shortcomings so he can point out all my infractions against the rules encoded in the employee handbook once we’re back at the office on Monday.
Sorry I’m not upholding the Kline-Simmons dress code but these aren’t exactly normal working hours.
I glance over my boss’s shoulder toward the conference room table near the large windows of the spacious, ritzy hotel suite. I find a pair of beady eyes on me. A smarmy smile slides across the yellow-haired old man’s face.
I’ve never met this guy in person before but I’ve done enough research on Varner Resorts to know exactly who he is…and how important making a good impression on him is to Kline-Simmons’s bottom line.
So I leave my grievances at the front door and march right past my peevish boss, into the room.
It’s a wide open space tastefully decorated with minimalist masculine furniture. There’s a small kitchenette and bar cart near the main entrance. An L-shaped leather sectional facing a massive wall-mounted TV sits in one corner. There’s a large conference table at the far side of the room adjacent to the dazzling view of Sin Valley sprawling beyond the wall of windows.
“Good evening, Mr. Varner,” I say, offering the hotelier a smile and my outstretched hand as I stride straight toward the enormous conference table.
The man sits a little straighter, his interest clearly piqued. He accepts my hand and shakes slowly. “Good evening, Miss…?”
“Jenkins, sir.” I widen my affable smile.
“Ah, yes. Ms. Jenkins. I have you to thank for arranging my excellent accommodations here in Sin Valley.” His eyeballs focus on my boobs.
Yuck.
Because gagging out loud would be unprofessional, I slide my hand out of his and turn my attention to Mr. Kline’s laptop on the conference table. I log into the Varner Resorts file to pull up the requested documents.
“I merely made a few calls to book your arrangements.” I speak graciously, downplaying my role. “You can thank Mr. Kline for the gorgeous design of your hotel suite. Actually, the entire building is my boss’s impeccable vision come to life.” I smile some more. Charm Central, over here. “In any case, I hope your visit to Sin Valley has been pleasant so far.”
The man pulls in a deep inhale. “The visit hasn’t been without its challenges…” he says ruefully, clicking his pen as he speaks. “Unfortunately, my time here hasn’t been as productive as I’d hoped.”
When he says that, I pause. My eyes shift over my shoulder to quickly evaluate the situation in the room. I see the uncertainty in Varner’s eyes. I see the frustration on my boss’s jaw.
Something isn’t right.
Mr. Kline is a skilled negotiator and businessman—all dominance and testosterone in the boardroom—but he clearly hasn’t been able to get through to this hotelier. His usual modus operandi isn’t working. Maybe it’s time to bring a feminine touch to these negotiations.
Thinking on my feet, I straighten my posture and speak again. “I completely understand your hesitations, Mr. Varner.” I nod empathetically. “I myself am new to the area. But I can assure you, sir, if you really take the time to get to know Sin Valley, you won’t be disappointed.”
The old man huffs. “Liam still hasn’t been able to convince me of this town’s unique selling proposition. Why should I choose Sin Valley over Las Vegas? Or Atlantic City? Hell, even Orlando?”
When he says that, I glance at my boss. Mr. Kline is standing at the liquor cart, a fresh drink in hand. He looks so mad I swear he’s about to shapeshift into a dragon and breathe fire across the conference table.
I intervene quickly before the man loses his temper and screws up everything our company has worked so hard on over the past few weeks. “Maybe Mr. Kline ought to take you out on the town. Show you what Sin Valley is really like,” I tell Varner with a playful laugh.
My gaze moves to Mr. Kline’s face. Beautiful and harsh and staring lethally at me from the other side of the room like he’s plotting my murder. My eyes dart back to the laptop screen to avoid the angry set of my boss’s handsome features.
As I’m tapping around on the computer, Mr. Kline comes up over my shoulder. His skin exudes mild cologne, engulfing heat and raw power. My stomach clenches and I hold my breath for fear of whimpering out loud. “Eliza—the parcel records,” he reminds me, his voice terse.
When I accidentally brush against my boss’s arm, I nearly self-combust. I have to deliberately remind myself that Liam Kline may be handsome but he’s an asshole. Definitely not a man worth drooling over.
“I have all of the parcel records right here for you to review”—I glance at the client before purposefully shifting my attention to the wall clock—“but…it’s really late, Mr. Varner. Why don’t you sleep on your decision, take a look at the records, and then get back to us in the morning?” My confident demeanor doesn’t waver although I can feel Mr. Kline’s glare burning through the layers of my skin.
Varner gets up from his seat and approaches me. “You’re right, Ms. Jenkins. No need to keep running ourselves in circles all evening. I’m ready to be done with all this business-talk for today. But the night is still young…” That smarmy smile of his grows wider. “Forget about Liam taking me around town. I think you’d make a far more agreeable tour guide. What d’ya say?”
Before I can gracefully maneuver my way out of this predicament, my boss’s growl rips through the tension-soaked air. “I think we can all agree that that wouldn’t be appropriate, Mr. Varner.”
Startled, the old man takes a half-step back. He pauses. His eyes bounce curiously between my boss and me, displeasure in his expression. “Oh, pardon me. Am I to assume that the young lady is spoken for?” He quirks a brow at Mr. Kline, seemingly asking if the two of us are an item.
Ha! Funny!
“The issue is not whether Ms. Jenkins is spoken for, Mr. Varner. The issue is that you are.” Mr. Kline’s voice remains professional but unyielding. He nods toward the prominent tan line imprinted on Varner’s ringless ring finger.
And maybe I’m officially going crazy but I swear I hear a territorial edge in his voice.
My tummy knots at the fact that Mr. Kline would dare speak to the old man in that tone of voice—for me—especially with the outcome of the Varner Resorts deal hanging in the balance.
Looking slightly embarrassed, the hotelier chuckles awkwardly then tips back the last of his whiskey. “Point taken.” He nods to himself. “You’re a man of principle, Liam. Old fashioned. I like that.” His crinkled eyes stay on me as he rises and takes my hand again. “It’s been a great pleasure, Ms. Jenkins.” As he approaches, his overbearing cologne crashes over me like a tidal wave.
Eau de Creeper: A fragrance for old money predators.
Mr. Varner has got my hand halfway to his wet-looking, puckered up lips—and I’m internally doing a full-body cringe—when my boss intentionally clears his throat. Loud and clear.
The old perv drops my hand like a baked potato, hot out of the oven.
“Have a great night, Mr. Varner,” I say, quickly rounding the table to put some space between us.
He responds with a smile that tells me he’s visualizing me naked and in a compromising position. “Same to you, miss.”
With a curt nod to my boss, the old man exits the room.
When the door closes, my entire body seems to exhale with relief. “My god. Was that guy slimy or what?!”
Mr. Kline wordlessly pins me with a hot-as-brimstone glare.
It makes my breath catch. “What…? What did I do?”
He stomps across the room to the drink cart. He busies himself pouring out a measure of his snooty expensive whiskey. After waiting an eternity for him to speak, finally, he says, “Things are done a certain way around here, Ms. Jenkins.” His tone of voice is controlled. Or, at least, he’s trying his best. But I can hear suppressed fury clawing at his every monotonous syllable.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I say innocently, addressing the back of his head since he refuses to grant me the courtesy of eye contact. I watch his powerful shoulders and back muscles work as he pours his drink.
“Your little ‘performance’ tonight may have cost Kline-Simmons this deal.”
Eye roll. I highly doubt that. When I walked in here earlier, my boss was clearly already at a dead-end in his negotiation. But I decide to keep that opinion to myself.
I return to my seat at the table and occupy myself typing out a few quick notes based on the concerns that Mr. Varner voiced while he was here. “With all due respect, sir, your way wasn’t working. I realized that a feminine touch is what was missing from the room.”
He pivots toward me. “A feminine touch?” He balks. “That’s what you’re calling it? Because to me, it seemed like you were flirting with the client.” He grabs the whiskey decanter along with his tumbler and prowls back over to the conference table.
My eyes shoot up from the computer screen. “Flirting?!” That’s just fucking offensive. “The man is as old as my grandfather! I most certainly was not flirting.”
He stalks closer and looms over the table, leering down at me. “So what do you call the whole…”—His hand gestures vaguely in my direction, causing the whiskey to slosh about in the decanter—“giggling and grinning routine you were doing?”
“Oh, that? That’s called…being pleasant…” I speak the words slowly because I know that the concept might be alien to him. Cranky ass.
The man is so cold and stoic and emotionless. That’s why I secretly call him ‘Robo-Boss’.
“Well, ‘being pleasant’ isn’t part of the Kline-Simmons playbook,” the billionaire says grumpily. “We’re about results. Not about getting all chummy with every asshole who strolls in the place with a fat wallet.” He empties his drink into his throat in a greedy gulp.
Man—he really does sound like a jealous bastard.
Wait. Oh my gosh. He’s jealous!
The unflappable Liam Kline is jealous that the old creep was hitting on me!
Must be the alcohol.
I’m biting back a smile at how ridiculous he’s being. I close the laptop in front of me and steeple my fingers. “So just to be clear—you value sticking religiously to your played-out business playbook over getting actual results?”
Did I really just say that? I shake my head discreetly. Obviously, I’m not done being drunk yet.
To be honest, both of us would fail a breathalyzer test right about now. Miserably.
“What ‘actual results’ did you achieve exactly?” He challenges me with a subtle lift of his brow. There’s a glassy quality to his cold eyes. Clearly, his blood alcohol level is becoming a problem. “Because from what I can see, you just encouraged my client to walk out the door without signing the contract.”
“Oh, he’ll be back,” I say confidently.
“What makes you so sure?”
Feeling ballsy, I rise to my feet, my petite, five-foot-two stature standing toe-to-toe with his leanly muscled six-foot-something build. I crane my head back to stare up into his handsome stony face. “You were coming across as desperate, Mr. Kline. Virtually begging the cool kid on the playground to be friends with you. That never works. Act detached—like you don’t give a damn—and he’ll feel like he’s missing out. In no time, he’ll be at your door, begging you to take his money. It’s reverse psychology.”
He chuckles, putting enough space between us to tilt his decanter over his empty tumbler again. “Well, that’s a riveting nugget of pop psychology. Where’d you get your degree? BuzzFeed? No, wait—PopSugar? Or that Gwyneth Paltrow blog? What’s it called?”
With a roll of my eyes, I move quickly, intercepting his refilled tumbler before he imbibes yet another drink.
“What are you doing?” he snaps.
“I’m stopping you from making an even bigger ass of yourself.”
A bolt of anger flashes across his expression. It blots out his amusement like a storm cloud gliding in front of the sun. “Give me my drink back.”
“We have work to do,” I announce, jerking my chin toward his laptop. “I bought you some time with Varner. Mere hours, maybe. Now is your opportunity to build a strong case as to why he should bring his business to Sin Valley instead of—”
“My drink, Eliza.” He stretches a massive palm out to me and shakes it impatiently—entitled as always—waiting for me to settle his glass in his hand. Not happening.
Liam Kline is a powerful man. I shouldn’t get off on pushing his buttons. I should relent. I should back down.
But seeing my gruff boss all heated gets me, well, heated. In ways that are ridiculously inappropriate in a work setting.
I take a large step backward. “You don’t need ‘another drink’.” I bat my eyelashes for effect and he glares harder. I can tell I’m driving him crazy.
“I’m starting to think that you might need ‘another job’.” He steps toward me again.
“You and I both know that none of your previous assistants has put up with your bullshit for as long as I have. We also know that the strategy I’m suggesting to you makes sense.”
He chuckles dryly. “Make no mistake, Ms. Jenkins—you’re replaceable, as all my previous assistants were.” His words are a growl. “The only reason I haven’t fired you yet is because you smell like you had to claw your way out of the tub of vodka you slipped and fell into on your way up to this hotel room tonight. I’ll allow you the opportunity to apologize for tonight’s regrettable behavior when you’re sober.”
With my next backward step, I feel the cool glass of the window pressed up against my shoulder blades. “Keep looking at me like that and I can assure you that by the time this night is over, we’ll both have a whole lot of regrettable behavior to apologize for.”
He has me pinned against the glass now. His usually-cold granite irises simmer. I can feel his warm, whiskey-tinged breath. His tight, concrete abs. His hard, unapologetic erection.
There’s no more space between us. No space for me to run. No space for me to hide. No space for me to breathe.
I’m shaking in my cheap pumps. I get all hot and gooey between the thighs, hoping, praying, begging that his next move somehow involves his plush, beautiful mouth on mine.
His gaze lands on my mouth and lingers. I watch him sink his perfect teeth into his perfect bottom lip.
Lightning flashes between my thighs. Fucking kiss me, dammit!
Before I can take matters into my own hands and jump on the man, my boss takes a brisk step back. “I don’t have time for your insubordination. It’s been a long day.” He snatches the tumbler from my limp fingers and finishes his drink in a gulp. Then, he slams the empty glass back into my palm. “I’m going to bed.”
Every cell in my body yells out, Take me with you!!!
For a split second, I try to imagine what he’s like in bed. As mean and sexy and domineering as he is, I just know he’s into some kinky shit.
Instead of voicing that aloud, I stand there against the window and watch his tall, sexy form retreat toward the double doors in the corner of the room.
“F.Y.I.—this is the part where you’re supposed to say ‘thank you for saving me from self-destructing tonight’,” I call after him, my voice raised.
“See yourself out.” He doesn’t bother glance back at me.
“That’s okay. I’m not the kind of woman who runs on compliments.”
He ignores me.
He keeps on marching.
“I’m confident in my professional skillset. I know my worth.”
The asshole responds by slamming the door in my face.
Fine. Be like that.
I close the laptop and head for the exit. I set down Mr. Kline’s empty glass and make sure to grab a handful of salted pretzels from the bar cart on the way out. I need something solid to soak up all the vodka in my system.
As I ride the elevator to the ground floor, the reality of how I behaved tonight finally begins to settle in.
Dammit. I’m not usually so frisky. The alcohol gave me some steel-toed lady balls tonight. I sure as hell am going to need them when I face my grumpy boss again on Monday morning.