Illicit Affairs by Holly Dixon
Two
Nathaniel Brooks wasjet-lagged when he woke up at the crack of dawn in his executive suite to disable the shrill noise of his alarm.
A gruff sigh left his lips as his fingers rubbed at the dark stubble of his beard, where thin wisps of hair peppered up the sides of his defined cheekbones into his hairline and cut along the sharp angles of his square jaw. He dragged his hands down over his face with a tired sigh as he whipped back the hotel bed sheets and made his way to a hot shower.
Being in Europe was the last thing he wanted right now when things back in the States were going swimmingly; his slice of the company was booming and damn if he wasn’t reaping the financial rewards of that. Having money meant he could do anything he wanted and go anywhere he wanted. From a young age, his life had been laid out for him, paving the way to his success, and at the age of thirty-five, he was settled with all the boxes ticked: wealth and good health, something that manifested itself in his appearance.
Nate knew himself to be every woman’s darkest fantasy; he was the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome, standing just above six foot and always dressed like a gentleman. A college football player, he still maintained his athletic build, something that did well to intimidate not only the women in his life but the fellas too.
Before reaching his thirties, he had already made a fortune in the legal profession. Smart, confident, and highly attractive? Yeah, he earned great respect before the judges and members of the bar alike.
However, life threw him a curveball when his business partner, Thomas Archer, took ill and Nate was summoned to London to manage Tom’s firm.
It’s just one month, he had told himself over a thousand times on the tiresome seven-hour flight from New York. I just have to keep Tom’s side above water, keep my side ticking over, and then I can head back home for Labour Day weekend—no biggie.
The vibrations rumbling across the hotel desk in front of him tore his attention from his thoughts as he placed his phone to his ear. “Mr. Brooks, this is a courtesy call to let you know your driver is five minutes away.” A polite-sounding woman spoke on speakerphone as Nate straightened his chrome-grey tie beneath his sharp white collar.
“Thank you,” Nate replied, his baritone voice the type that demanded everyone’s undivided attention. However, his tone was still rich and silken, like hot chocolate on a cold autumnal morning. He always spoke as though he had the entire world at his disposal, his experience and confidence seeping through every word.
He ended the call whether the woman had more to say or not, his attention upon his reflection as he shrugged his heavy shoulders into his black suit jacket and fastened the first couple of buttons. He looked as he did every day for work: refined and hard-edged, like that of his Bentley back home. The comb ran one last time through his thick dark hair, sweeping it up away from his forehead so it would sit neater into the faded shaven cut around his ears and down the back of his head.
A quick check of his wristwatch and he was off, suitcase in hand, with a hankering for a strong black coffee to subdue his jet lag.
He would have been on time this morning if one, the traffic hadn’t been abysmal, and two, he had gotten off of the elevator on the correct damn floor. Now he was waiting for the elevator alongside several other men who were talking about some soccer match that was on the television the night before. He stood at the back watching them squabble like little boys, his thick brows knitting together and angling down into the bridge of his nose as he observed their interactions.
“So did ye hook up again with daddy’s little princess at the weekend?” one Englishman had asked another as they stood next to Nate.
“Nah, mate. Ava’s still milking the whole ‘caring for her old man’ thing,” the redheaded man responded, causing Nate’s hazel eyes to scroll down to his right.
The same Ava who was meant to be assisting me through this change of management?
“That’s balls, innit? What are you going to do?”
“Nothing,” Red boasted with a wink at his friend and a slimy smirk on his face that made Nate want to take his handkerchief and offer him it for his mouth. “She’ll be back—if she knows what’s good for her.”
The elevator chimed and Nate’s interest in the matter dissolved as the sea of suits moved forward and crowded into the silver death box from the fortieth floor. He fucking hated elevators but to hell with climbing a hundred flights of stairs. If there was one thing other than heights that Nate despised, it was confined spaces.
He was the last one into the elevator, standing rigid with men pressing against his suit from every direction and making him take a mental note to get his suit laundered.
“Ah, I see… nervous to meet the new boss as well, Ms. Archer?” Nate heard Red speak again, somewhere near the back, capturing his interest at potentially meeting his female subordinate here in the metal death trap.
“I wouldn’t say nervous. Slightly peeved at the whole inconvenience of it all but certainly not nervous”came the sound of a young woman, a voice like vanilla pudding, sweet in the traditional sort of way, but the richness of her tone was utterly luxurious and warm. Nate had barely paid notice to what she had said, too absorbed by her sultry English accent.
“Yeah, a lot of the chaps in the office aren’t looking forward to it. They heard this guy is a bit of a ball-buster,” Red retorted, making the corner of Nate’s mouth twitch to suppress a bemused smirk. Yes, it was true, he made all his personnel fall into line and preferred a more authoritarian approach in managing his fleet.
“Hah!” Ava, he presumed, laughed a cold sound that made his lips straighten into a thin line. “I’m sure the boys will be just fine. Everyone knows that the Yankees are all talk and no action.”
Nate’s ears pinned back at this, his already stoic expression turning frosty at the bigoted remark made by a woman who would need to be put in her place if she were to work under him.
The elevator chimed and the doors opened upon the seventieth floor. Nate, being the first one out, charged up the corridor and straight towards the office he would now take over.
His new office was situated at the far end of the department space, tucked away into the corner and encased in glass walls. After unlocking his door, the fluorescent lights flickered above the tiled ceiling before illuminating the spacious office. A large mahogany desk, with intricate carvings upon its front, sat at the front of the office, with several dark leather sofas at either side of the open space.
Nate was silent as he placed his suitcase behind the desk and began opening the blinds around his new working environment. When they were open, he raised his brows and let out an impressed chuff through his nose at the panoramic views of London. However, the real impressive sight was when he opened his side blinds and saw the golden goddess sat at her desk—an impossibly beautiful face, the sunlight catching her hair through the window behind her and setting her locks alight.
Ava Archer.
She looked like a red exclamation mark against all the mundane black and grey suits in the office, sat there in that crimson dress that was almost too provocative for work—not that he was complaining.
With a crack of his knuckles, he decided it was time to show Ms. Archer some of that so-called action she believed he would be lacking.
Nate took long strides out of the office, approaching the desk of the young woman who was currently too busy playing with her hair to notice that her new boss was attempting to introduce himself.
Lack of attention—not ideal for an assistant.
The longer she continued absentmindedly inspecting her hair, the more Nate’s patience thinned until eventually his nostrils flared and he slammed his palms down on the edge of her desk.
“Fuck me!” she squealed, her body jolting upright like that of a kitten getting spooked by a green vegetable, and her reaction almost managed to bring a smirk to Nate’s frosty face. Such an odd way to greet her new boss, he thought.
“Ms. Archer, I presume?” Nate raised his brows and watched as Ava scraped herself from the ceiling.
“Mr. Brooks, I presume?” she retorted sassily, causing Nate’s face to fall back into his signature stoic expression.
“Correct,” he stated, pushing up from his knuckles and onto his fingertips, all ten digits pressed against her desk. “My office in ten.” He pushed off her desk and began retreating to his office, but not before addressing her over his shoulder, “Oh, and bring coffee, Ms. Archer.”