Hot Water (10 page)

Dax says, “That’s not true. He looks hot interns like hot shit.”

“Still,” Violet says. “He usually just looks. We’re not important enough to grace the inside of his office.”

So I guess none of them got the whole “I want to help you” speech from Rhys Bradley. Only me. Only people he thinks are easy fucks. I’m so honored. And . . . pissed at Caden. What kind of massive jerk goes telling his friends lies like that? That’s so very . . . high school.

“Does this have anything to do with you partying with him last weekend?” Violet asks.

“No.” I choke back my tears. “Like I said. We just shared a limo. He wants me to handle a project for him. It’s nothing,” I say into the tissue, so that people won’t see the lie on my face. “And I really didn’t sleep well last night so I’m overtired, and I overreacted.”

“I didn’t sleep the whole first week I interned here,” Charlotte says. “It can be a little stressful.”

The others agree. I look up at them, grateful that they’re around. “Thanks,” I sniffle. “I’m good now.”

 Charlotte says, “Well, if you need our help, we’re here. We’re a team, Cicily. We help each other.”

“Yeah,” Joely says. “Just let us know.”

Dax offers, “Or if you want us to beat the shit out of him, we can do that, too.”

“You can do that, Dax,” Jacinta says.

Violet laughs. “Jacinta would rather just fuck the shit out of him.”

 Jacinta smiles. “Make love, not war.”

Caden

Working at Williams has always been about putting out fires and navigating a minefield. I’ve never particularly liked it, but because of my Williams blood, I’m good at it. I do well under pressure.

Well,
certain kinds
of pressure.

 Luckily, I’m not near Cicily Chase very often. Cicily Chase. That’s her name, as much as I wish I could strike it from my memory. I wasn’t even supposed to know her name. I was supposed to fuck her, and forget her. And now . . . now she’s way too close for comfort. She’s invaded my bachelor party, invaded my office building . . . I will not have her invading my brain, too.

But I’ll see her in the halls. She brought papers to me one day, and though I try to ignore her, it’s not the easiest thing. Today she’s wearing this tight black dress that hugs her body in all the right places. She was covered completely and yet the things I thought about her were obscene. I can barely look at her for a second without thinking of her straddling my lap in that tiny bikini of hers. Thoughts like that can kill a guy.

I know I need to stop. Stop looking. She’s our fucking intern.

But when I see the door to Rhys’s office open, and she rushes out, I can’t help but look twice. I know how Rhys operates. Especially behind closed doors.

My suspicions are heightened when I see her expression. Her eyes are wet. She practically runs down the hall to her cubicle.

I knock on Rhys’ door a second later. When I come in, he says, “We doing lunch?” as if he hadn’t just made a girl weep a minute before.

I ignore the question. “What were you using that intern for?”

He grins. “She’s so hot. You don’t mind if I . . .”

I shake my head. “No. Like I said. I don’t. It’s just . . . she just looked a little riled up when she left.”

 Truth was, she looked more than riled up. She looked terrified. But he obviously didn’t see that because he says, “She’s fine. Give it a few days and I’ll give her a good ride. The little slut.”

I lean in and whisper, “We do not need a sexual harassment lawsuit on our hands.”

His grin widens. “Since when are you so concerned about who we fuck around with?”

“I’ve always been.”

“You didn’t seem to mind when Andrews was fucking with the girls from Accounting at the office Christmas party, or when Smith was doing Baxter. And . . .” He studies me. “She’s not my first and she won’t be my last. What’s up with you? This never bothered you before.”

“I know.” He’s right. It never has. I’ve been above it all. But now . . . it bothers me. It more than bothers me. Knowing what I told him about her, I can’t help feeling like shit. Like I caused him to think all these things about her. “Look . . . about her. I . . . didn’t . . . do anything with her except drive her home.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You didn’t? What happened to the free pass?”

“I let it expire,” I say. “But it’s okay. I don’t need that. I’m over it. Really. It doesn’t bother me.”

He nods. “Still . . . are you fucking psycho? You had the opportunity to fuck that hot piece there and you said no? Are you out of your mind?”

“I didn’t. She’s . . . It . . . for whatever reason, it didn’t happen.”

His eyes narrow. “Wait. She said
no to you
?”

I shrug. I can’t lie. Fuck. This is not what I want to get into at work. I have a hundred billion dollars’ worth of investments I need to see to and I’m fucking talking about a
girl
? “Man. Come on. What the fuck difference does it make? I’m getting married.” He just stares at me, a slow smile spreading on his face, so I change the subject. “Did you work on the Donaldson plan yet? Because that’s coming up, when? Friday?”

He breaks from whatever trance he’s in, which I’m sure involves him envisioning the various ways he can get our intern naked, and says, “Yeah, man. Got it covered.”

I turn away to get back to my office, but I know what that look in his eye means. Rhys has always been the ultimate competitor. Now, he’s done with trying to have everything I have. He’s bored with that, because I’ve made it too easy. He’s ready to move on.

Now, he’s going to try to have something I can’t have.

And fuck if I’m going to let that happen.

Chapter Eleven

Cicily

I don’t tell my mother about Rhys. I can’t. How do I bring that up? I can’t very well tell her about how he came onto me, because I’m sure the conversation would eventually swerve to how he and I were cruising around in a limo last Saturday when I was supposed to be toasting marshmallows and having an innocent friendly sleepover with Bow. And my mom’s been working at this job for so many years, it’s like her baby. She’d probably take his side. After all, he’s the professional. I’m the teenager who’s anything but.

I don’t really have the time to tell her, anyway. For the past week, my mother and I have been going around in two different circles. She’s handling all the top-level things for the executives, like putting together their presentations and acquiring materials for the trade show. I’ve been filing paper, getting coffee, and doing all the things a trained monkey could probably do. So when she comes around my cubicle one morning, I’m confused.

“I have something for you,” she says. “A big opportunity to show your talents and get more visibility.”

More visibility
? I’m already worried. Honestly, for the past few days, I’ve been afraid to leave my cubicle to use the bathroom. I don’t want to run into Rhys Bradley, or Caden Williams, and after that display at the Monday morning meeting, I’ve gotten my share of looks from the executives. I do not need visible, thank you very much.

“You know how to design presentations, don’t you?” she asks when I’m in her cubicle.

“Yes.”

“Great! NAWM’s Summer Conference is in a couple weeks. These weeks are always hectic because we need to prepare the presentations that the managers will give. I usually do them on my own, but I thought . . . why not get you involved? And Mr. Williams said it was a great idea.”

“He did?” I ask.

She nods. “And in fact, he was willing to let you design all of his presentations. “ She hands me a stack of papers. “Here are the files. You have a meeting with him in ten minutes.”

My stomach drops. “Mr. Williams . . . the senior?” I ask hopefully.

“No. Caden Williams,” she says. “The older Mr. Williams hasn’t been able to handle much since his stroke.”

“Oh,” I say. I take the files. In the back of my mind, I know I should be going through them, trying to make sense of what’s inside, and assembling a notepad and pen so I can take notes, but being the shallow person I am, in the front of my mind is only one question:
How do I look
? I rush into the bathroom and inspect myself in the mirror. I’d tried to put my blonde hair up professionally, but it just looks messy. And I’m wearing a black sweater that’s pilled, and a skirt that’s too clingy and short. I run my top teeth over my lips to give them some color, and practice my sultriest look for a split second, until I realize what I’m doing.

This is Caden Williams. The man who lied to his best friend about me. The same man who, just a few days ago, said we needed to keep on a professional basis. I’d assumed those things alone would mean he’d want to keep as far away from me as possible. So asking me to do his presentations . . . isn’t that a bit like kicking a hornet’s nest?

Obviously he’s not facing the same inner turmoil I’m dealing with . . . alternating between wanting to be a good little worker, and wanting to kiss him again. He’s the utmost professional, after all . . . ruling and delegating and dealing with uncomfortable situations is in his blood. He’s probably already forgotten about what my lips feel like on his.

I wish I could say the same for myself. If my mother knew any of the things I’d done with him, thought about him . . . I wouldn’t live to see another day.

Still, ten minutes later, when I arrive at his office, his lips are all I can think about.

He’s sitting at the desk when I open the door. It’s amazing how well he’s perfected the “Couldn’t care less” attitude. “Miss Chase. Sit down,” he says sternly, without looking from his computer screen as he types.

I sit down, and suddenly I realize I’d forgotten the pen and notepad, and the entire file my mother gave me. Dumbass. What, did I think the city’s most eligible sexy bachelor since birth just wanted to see me? Immediately, I start to blush.

I’m about to tell him when he turns, bangs on his desk like a drum, and says, over his spectacles, “So! Miss Chase.”

He’s so very mature looking, that it’s almost impossible to believe that a guy like him would go the high-school route and lie about his sexual exploits with me. What for? It’s obvious he gets enough . . . he probably doesn’t need to go around lying about it. He’s, unquestionably, hot. And I never believed it possible that a man could look that good in glasses. I find myself blushing harder as he stares at me, then his eyes trail down to my mostly-uncovered legs. I cross them tightly and shift in my seat.

“I hear you’re a PowerPoint whiz,” he says.

I nod, even though I doubt my few hours of work on the program qualify me as “whiz”.

“Well, we will need your expertise. Unfortunately,” he continues, bringing his eyes up to meet mine. “We’re going to be very busy this week and next. Very busy. We have to get this work done. You okay with that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I promise that if you hang in with me, you will be well-rewarded.” He says this without any hint of impropriety, and yet my evil mind starts to wander to different ways he could reward me. Maybe he could let me suck on those lips of his again, or give me a peek at what’s underneath that shirt . . . “Miss Chase?”

I’m startled out of my reverie. “What?”

“You’re blushing. Are you feeling all right?”

 In truth, I’m
not
. My mind had started to wander to just what might have happened
had
I decided to let him nail me in his BMW last Sunday. And what would that feel like? My naive mind can only fill in the blanks, but for some reason, my imagination when it comes to him is particularly vivid. “I’m fine,” I manage.

“I hope you don’t plan on having much of a social life for the next few days,” he says. “Because I’m really going to need you here.” He points down at his desk, and once again, all I can think about is him needing me there. In his lap. I am so in need of a lobotomy.

“Right,” I say. “I’m your girl.”

“Great. Let’s get to work.”

Caden

Cicily rips out PowerPoint slides like her life depends on it, and they’re always exactly the way I want them. Like she can read my mind. I really, really hope she can’t do that, because it would show just how weak and out of control I really am. But Cicily, on the other hand? She has it all together. Not only is she hot, she’s a good worker. I keep telling myself it should be easy to focus on the last of those qualities, and ignore the first, because I am
the
Caden Williams. But I’m giving myself too much credit.
The
Caden Williams is—what was it my dad called me? – a pansy.

I told myself that if I put her in charge of my work, she wouldn’t have time for Rhys. I told myself I was protecting her, doing what was necessary for the good of the company. Utter bullshit. That’s probably why I feel like the big bad wolf whenever she comes around. Thus, I’ve been limiting our interaction to email and phone.

Friday afternoon, I call her. “Great job on the slides,” I say to her. “Your mom was right. You’re a whiz.”

“Thanks, sir.”

This isn’t working. Even her sweet voice turns me on. Calling me “sir”? Fuck, there’s nothing hotter than that.

 I know I should just hang up, but part of me wonders if she ever thinks about what happened between us. If she ever wishes she hadn’t stopped. If she can see that I think about it, nearly every day, despite being
the
Caden Williams, the Iceman of Williams & Williams. I realize there’s a lot of dead air, so I quickly say, “Have any plans for the weekend?”

“I’m going to the beach,” she says.

The beach. I wonder if she’s picturing the beach the way I am, with her in my lap.

“Oh, right. You said you’re a surfer?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light and professional.

“Yes, I am.”

“How did you get into that?”

“My dad’s a five-time East Coast Surfing Champion,” she says. “I’ve been surfing since before I knew how to walk.”

“Really?” I don’t hide my surprise well. I knew she was athletic, from those sculpted leg muscles, the toned abs . . . shit. Why am I thinking this? “You must be good, then.”