Womanizer

I turn, and the wind is in his hair the way I want my fingers to be. The wind pushes his button shirt against his chest and his slacks against his long, muscled legs.

“I’ll take you home.”

I groan at how stubborn he sounds. “You took me to the ball twice already, Callan, thank you.” I turn back again.

“Come here,” he says, his voice stopping me.

“Excuse me?”

He sighs and drags a hand over his hair. He stretches out a lovely muscular arm with short blond hairs, his palm up, and wiggles his fingers, a little exasperated. “Come here. Give me your phone.”

I frown but obey.

“Text me when you get home.”

He types something on the phone.

“I’m not going to text you,” I protest as I take back my phone.

“You’re going to text me or you’re leaving right now with me.” He nods like there’s no doubt about him getting his way.

“I’ll text you,” I quickly agree and head inside, telling myself I won’t call him, hating the grin I saw appear when I hastily agreed.

I tell my friends I’m heading home early and take an Uber. When I’m back in the apartment, I brush my teeth and get ready for bed and tell myself I can’t let that personal connection and easy conversation happen again. I want to avoid calling him but here I am, scanning my contacts.

I find his number stored under Not Drake.

I smile over the fact that I had stored him, previously, as Derek. Checking my smile, I frown and type.

I’m home. Satisfied?

For now.

Where are YOU?

Home. Getting some work done.

Oh really? Wow. Well so am I, I lie and get my laptop out, my competitive side stirred.

Such a hard little worker. Lucky boss.

He’s a bit of a hard one too, I text.

There’s a silence and my eyes widen when I realize what I said.

Yes.

He IS.

My tummy flutters.

Oh lord above, help me.

I drop my phone as if it singed me and then power it off. Olivia Roth? His antics cannot get to you. It is not allowed.

I try to quell what seeing him tonight did to me and blame it on the alcohol I imbibed.

Because that crush has been crushed. I’m no longer a naïve young girl needing her brother to bail her out when she gets in trouble, hell, I’m a full-time working girl and I can’t be Callan’s shiny new toy.

I’m worth more than that even though I’ve always battled with feelings of not being enough. Isn’t that why I’m so desperate to prove myself?

Too many people labeling me a blonde bimbo. Too many people underestimating me until I’ve almost believed they’re right.

In that sense only my brother believed in me—and no matter how much I’ve idolized my father’s old friend Daniel Radisson all this time, it was bad boy Callan Carmichael who gave me a chance.

I’m determined to use it and focus on what’s important to me.

Maybe if I stopped feeling prejudiced against Callan’s business ruthlessness, I could pull my head out of my ass and ask him to teach me.

Janine is now interning with Callan and lunches are proving difficult when I have to listen to her gush on how hot he is and how intensely she’s learning. She also mentions she picks up regular calls for him from a thousand and one girls, all asking if he’s in, for Janine to please ask him to call them, inquiring about whether he got this or that invitation, etcetera.

Etcetera.

Etcete-fucking-ra.

“I’m seriously learning so much just by the little glimpses I get into the conference room and phone calls. I won’t even say how I’ll feel if I manage to get a night with him in my pocket, too, oh god. Livvy, the size of his you-know-what is like . . . you can see the size through his pants. And he’s got big hands, obviously it’s huge, he has huge shoes too. And that mouth! He’s so wicked!” She’s flushed as she speaks.

I push the food around my plate, not hungry now. Conversation swirls around us, and all this time, I’m only aware of the low, dull throb inside me.

I came here to work, to learn. Did I let my own personal prejudices and confusing feelings keep me from learning all that I can, from the best man I could possibly learn it from?

I excuse myself and head up to Mr. Lincoln. He’s reviewing the research I submitted earlier today, and he looks distracted as he glances at me from across his desk and asks me to pull up the Alcore proposal again. “Callan requested an update.”

My heart kicks in excitement, and I nod and head to my desk. “Right away, sir.”

Later that evening, after a full day of work and trying not to dwell back on the two nights I’ve spent with the boss—because, really, it needs to stop! There will be no, no third!—I make a phone call to my grandma.

“Hey, Nana!”

“Who is this? Do I know you?”

“You don’t just know me, you adore me.” I curl up on the couch and glance at the steaming green tea I just set on my coffee table—I take it bitter without sweetener, just like my grandmother taught me. “I’m just checking in, Nana. How are you?”

“I’m well, but freaking missing my favorite granddaughter!”

“I’m your only granddaughter. I freaking miss you too.”

I hear her laugh, and then a creak, and I imagine her settling on the swing outside on her front porch. “Tell me about Chicago.”

I grin. “It’s good.” My smile fades a little and I draw an invisible pattern on my jeans. “I just felt a little homesick,” I say, then I ask her what she’s been up to, just wanting to hear the familiarity of home and the routine I know she follows by memory. Pruning the rosebushes, adding food to the birdhouse on the huge oak outside, baking something to give away, looking at old pictures and living by memories of her time when my dad was young, when my grandfather was alive.