Romancing my spy

Alex 

I am so late. Unbelievably late. And what can be worse than showing up late to your first day at a new job? Showing up hungover, covered in mostly coffee. And mud after tripping and falling over a flowerpot while making my not-so-subtle escape. Also wearing your last night’s hookup white shirt. Well, brown now.

And I know what you might think: Oh, that’s such careless behavior. I completely agree. Despite being the best at what I do, slip-ups like this would still leave a mark on my reputation. It’s already tough enough making my way as a woman in a man-driven field. I certainly don’t need any black balls marring my name.

Nevertheless, I want to make something clear. I am usually not like this. I am organized, sharp-minded, and an utmost professional. There’s no way I could have built such an impressive career otherwise. However, I am also human. A flawed one, with apparently little self-control.

And this week was hectic, insane, and really demanding. I pulled a lot of late nights, and I just needed a little unwinding before I got right back on the proverbial horse. Except I got carried away. One drink turned into four, I then left for another bar. And the next thing I know, I was singing karaoke at the top of my lungs with a cute guy I just met. Until we left together. The sex was mostly blah, but his bedsheets smelled nice, and I was bone tired, so I fell asleep. And overslept, which I never do ever do. Not even in my own bed, let alone a stranger.

But don’t worry. I have a plan. This job comes with a personal assistant. And he doesn’t have to attend the meeting. I will pay him for the shirt he’s wearing. Maybe for some gum as well, if he has it. Then, after the meeting, I’ll sort everything else out and face the repercussions. I check my watch as I run through the imposing building’s front door. Luckily, I still have 8 minutes to get to the conference room.

Moreover, the elevator gods answered my prayers, and I find an empty one in the lobby. A quick ride later to the 24th floor, and I dash to the bathroom. I already texted my assistant to wait for me there. It won’t be a very good first impression I’ll be making, but it is what it is. I’ll do my best to mend it down the road.

Speed walking my way to the end of the hallway, I am relieved to see him standing outside with a coffee in hand. Oh, he’s good. It’s exactly what I needed and I feel like breaking out in a happy dance. I don’t, but I make a mental note about it. And he will definitely be getting a raise as soon as I settle in.

Grabbing the cup, I gulp it greedily as I drag him inside by the elbow.

“I am sorry for my lack of manners,” I tell him in the most apologetic voice I can muster. “But the meeting is about to start, and I need your shirt. Here,” I say, rummaging through my purse and pulling out a crisp 50-dollar bill. “Go buy yourself a new one. I got the notes covered, and I don’t need you for the presentation. Just be back in 40 minutes or so.”

I don’t miss his stunned expression. And it’s understandable. There’s also this slight mischievous glimmer in his eyes. And I’m not sure what to make of it. Another thing I don’t miss? How freaking, absolutely, breathtakingly handsome he is. Tall and broad-shouldered, with bright blue eyes piercing into my soul. Not to mention how mouthwatering he looks taking his sweet time unbuttoning his shirt, only to reveal a chiseled chest and abs you could bounce quarters off. Oh, Mylanta… I should turn around. And I do before I add more stupid and unprofessional things to my already growing list.

Instead, I walk over to the mirror, doing my best to tame my wavy black hair and wipe away any mud smudges on my face. Staring at my reflection, I grimace. Not my finest but it will do. Maybe if I add some more concealer under my dark eyes, for good measure.

A throat-clearing brings my attention back to him, and I waste no time pulling the shirt over my head and exchanging it for his. Throwing on my blazer, I ran past him, a woman on a mission.

“By the way, my name is…” I hear him chiming in behind me. Wow, he could have been a baritone with that gruffness in his voice. And my skin instantly prickles. How am I supposed to work closely with him for the next foreseeable future? What if my reaction to him will always be this? Maybe it’s a fluke, due to my tiredness. Besides, that’s a future-me problem. One I don’t have time for right now.

“Yes, yes, I know. Damian,” I briskly reply without looking back. “We’ll talk more later, when you get back.”

“Actually...” he cuts in. But I don’t hear the rest of what he’s saying. I am too focused on locating the room I am supposed to be speaking in… in less than a minute.

Some commotion draws my attention to the other side of the open-concept floor. There’s a small group of fancy-suited men chatting and laughing. So, I casually and confidently walk over there, like I didn’t just barely avoid a catastrophic outcome.

“Gentlemen, glad you could make it.” I address them. “My name is Alex Whitaker, the new finance consultant. And I am here to make you richer than you ever dreamt. If you could follow me inside…” I say, pointing to the open door to our left.

“Oh, the infamous Miss Whitaker. Or should we call you the finance guru?” An older dude pipes up in a semi-mocking voice.

Shocker… they are giant pricks. They always are. And have little to no respect for me. Nothing I haven’t deal with before. I am aware they are skeptical, that’s a given. Middle-aged men are highly reticent when it comes to taking money advice from a 27-year-old woman. But numbers and predictions are my jam. I live and breathe for business analytics. I have my craft mastered to a 0.001 precision, which is unheard of. That’s what makes me so good at my job.

That’s what makes me so sought after. And that’s why they reluctantly agreed to meet me. Even the most elusive of all business moguls… Elijah Huxley. He’s so reclusive and private that very few people have ever seen him. He does all his dealings through third parties. And so far, he has avoided and outright rejected any and all interviews or in-person meetings.

So him being here today, agreeing to meet with the brokerage firm I just partnered with, is a huge damn deal. And I almost blew it.

Smoothing a hand over my jacket and closing my button, I plaster my fake cordial smile I perfected for this type of interactions.

“You’ll be calling me the one who made you a billionaire in a few short months.” I quip, unbothered. “But until then, Guru works too.”

Barks of laughter erupt and spread like wildfire throughout the gathered crowd. And I know I won them over. These people sense fear and feed on it. They pray on any other weakness you might demonstrate, for that matter. There’s only one way to deal with them: throwing their bullshit right back at them. And obviously, reminding them about the prospect of getting more money.

I have a good reason I never wear tight-fitted dresses or any excessive makeup at this sort of meeting. Loose-fitted suits are mostly my go-to. So much so, I wear them on nights out as well, out of habit. They wouldn’t take me seriously otherwise, no matter how smart or capable I was. And I need all their focus to be on my words, not my body.

When the laughter dies down a bit, the same beady-eyed man from earlier adds,

“We’re just waiting for Mister Huxley to join us. And here he is. Right on time.”

The curiosity gets the best of me, and I turn around to get face to face with… my assistant. Wearing my filthy shirt under his pristine blue suit jacket. And a knowing smirk on his plump, kissable lips.

Oh, for the love of… I suddenly feel like fainting.