Page 2 of Merging Wright

“That?”

The item certainly is too large for an elevator. Not that it should be brought up to our offices. That belongs on the road and not traffic-packed pavement. That screams dirt, dust, and sweat; sunshine filtering through trees on back roads; and feet on a front dash with windows rolled down.

Mach’s delivery is a sharp contrast to the man sitting behind a glass-surface desk in a corner office overlooking Lake Michigan. Between the black leather couch in his space and the crisp business suits he wears, not one speck of his persona coordinates with the item waiting for his signature atop a flatbed Ford on the avenue.

“That,” Pete confirms with a large grin.

And I laugh.

2

Playlist: “That Ain’t My Truck” – Rhett Akins

[Mach]

“Mr. Wright, you need to get down here.”

Jane’s throaty tone with a hint of humor filters through my cell phone. I should chastise her for calling my cell like whatever is downstairs isn’t business-related. Only a handful of people have this number. I keep a strict professional relationship with all my employees, especially Jane Fox. As our top account executive, she’s a line I don’t intend to cross, despite wanting to trace all her curves, zigzag over her planes, and unravel her lines before stringing them back together.

Jane is one of the few employees close to my age, and that alone keeps her off-limits as I have a penchant for the younger set. But my business partner Tucker and I also have a strict no-fraternizing-with-the-employees policy for ourselves. We already had more headaches than we needed with Tucker’s late wife as our first client. Their relationship set the precedent.

Do not dip your wick where a flame might become an inferno.

Speaking of heat, Jane knows I hate it when she calls me Mr. Wright. There’s something about her smoky, seductive voice using a formal title, like a schoolteacher about to scold me, and I’m buzzed on the anticipation of punishment. Like a dominatrix about to demand I spank her—not that I know about such things.

However, Jane and her voice inspire fantasies I keep under lock and key.

“What is it?” I demand.

Jane responds with a throaty chuckle. Her laugh is like a live wire straight to my dick, and I close my eyes, suppressing the sharp prickle of arousal rippling through me.

“You need to see this.” Her voice rings incredulous with a hint of laughter.

Why can’t she freaking tell me what it is? Or better yet, sign for the damn item and bring it up to the office?

“Jane, I give you permission to accept it. Collect the package and get back to work.” The harshness in my tone is unnecessary as Jane possibly works the hardest of all of us. She comes in early. She stays late. She gives up weekends to complete projects, and she never complains. She grumbles. She grunts, but she doesn’t openly whine. She doesn’t think I notice, but I do. A woman like her is my equal in drive and determination. However, I like to play hard on occasion, and Jane clearly does not. The woman has no life.

“No can do.” She laughs deeper. “This package needs proof of your acceptance.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. “Fine. I’m coming down.”

This is not what I need right now. I’m in the middle of figures on the Torres campaign. If the client wouldn’t keep changing his mind. Should we use blue or red? What about the curve of that line? Is it too much? Too angular? I’m not part of the creative team—more a numbers and placement man—and the newest athletic influencer is going to be the end of me.

Pressing the down button for the elevator more than once won’t bring the lift any faster, but I still jab my index finger into it twice.

What the hell is so special it needs my signature and personal acceptance for delivery?

Body coursing with sudden energy, my foot taps next, and I’m half tempted to take the stairs down thirty-four flights when the elevator doors open.

“Finally.” I step inside and meet my reflection when the doors close. At forty-eight, I work hard to maintain a strong body and a sharp mind. I surround myself with creative, intuitive people—both young and old—but I’m feeling my age lately. And I have no idea why. The years add up, but the figure is still only a number. In my head I’m still twenty-three with the added wisdom of experience. I love my scotch, an occasional cigar, and younger women to help remind me I can get my dick up. I once worried I’d need to take a little blue pill as I aged, but that doesn’t seem to be an issue for me. My sex drive is like the rest of me—full steam ahead.

I’m arrogant. I get it. The trait might be one of the only things I inherited from a father I never knew. Pride runs in our shared genes. Too bad he was a dick, and his dick got him in trouble a few times . . . one of those times resulting in me.

Shaking off thoughts of a man I’ve never met, I exit the elevator on the ground floor. The early afternoon sunlight brightens the lobby, and Jane casually leans against the security desk. She’s smiling at old Pete, who seems under her spell. Damn that voice . . . and her outfit.

Jane wears professional clothes like a high-fashion runway model. Today, she’s in a hip-hugging, caramel-colored pencil skirt that hits right above her knees. The material looks soft, and more than once, I’ve wanted to run my hand over the fabric as it stretches over her curves and cups her ass. Dark brown heels accentuate the firmness of her legs, making them appear longer than they are. She’s roughly eight inches shorter than me, but those killer heels scream don’t fuck with me, not come fuck me, which would be my pleasure. Her shirt is an off-white color, and she has one-too-many buttons undone, hinting at a skin-colored bra underneath.

I try not to look directly at Jane. If I do, the fantasies of bending her over my desk, hitching up any skirt she wears, and driving into her, begging her for the smiles she gives everyone but me, take over. If Jane were a train, the crossroad gates are down, warning me to stay away from her.