Crazy In Love (South Bay Soundtracks) Read online

  But the way he got under my skin? Well, two could play that game.

  I smiled at him, even though he wasn’t looking at me. “That’s fine, Julian.”

  His beard twitched again, but otherwise he made no indication he’d heard me. I stifled another sigh. Okay, calling him by his first name had been a nonstarter. I’d figure out which buttons to push soon enough. Resolved, I again turned to leave, but again, his voice stopped me at the door.

  “Taylor?”

  I turned, whisking away the annoyed expression as best I could. “Yes?”

  “Wipe the fucking smile off your face before the meeting. It’s faker than your tan.”

  “Taylor! What the fuck is this?”

  A second later, I heard noises outside my office, noises I’d heard hundreds of times: the smooth roll of a chair over carpet, then the muffled click of high heels. And like one of Pavlov’s dogs, the sounds made my teeth grind and the vein in my temple pop out. Another second and I’d probably start growling.

  Right on cue, my assistant appeared in the doorway to my office. And as always, she had a dazzling smile on her flawlessly made-up face. Her smile – the same one I’d seen every fucking day for the last four months – made me my jaw clench. Her smile made my everything clench.

  “What is what, Julian?”

  I narrowed my eyes. Her continued use of my first name was pushing all of my goddamn buttons. She’d been doing it since day one, and it was infuriating. Everyone here went by their last names, at my decree. It kept things focused on the work, not on interpersonal relationships. It kept us all on an even playing field. In short, it kept everyone from going crazy.

  But for some reason, my assistant thought it was cute to flout the rules here. And to add insult to injury, she said it was all my fault, which was clearly a steaming pile of lies.

  All right, fine. I admit, I called her by her first name, too. But that was only because (a) her last name had too many fucking letters, some of which were inexplicably silent, and (b) I was. her. boss. I made the rules, and I could break them if I wanted to.

  And her continued insubordination was really getting to me. My teeth were nearly ground to nubs, and I had a tic right behind my ear that would not go away until she went away.

  And the fucking thing never went away, because she was around all. the. time.

  Much to my annoyance, she was every bit as good at her job as she’d smugly promised she would be. She was here early every morning, stayed late every evening, and always had a hot coffee waiting for me when I needed it. She knew when I was hungry, when I needed to get up from my computer and take a break, and when I needed to talk to that guy in Production face-to-face instead of by email. If I needed a package sent, it was already on its way. If I had to set a project deadline, it was in my calendar. If I needed to send an email, it was already drafted.

  Which, at the moment, was actually the problem.

  “What is this shit in my outbox?”

  Her smile never faltered, though I couldn’t help but notice a manic gleam in her eyes.

  “It’s the email that you asked for,” she replied, her high-pitched voice crisp and polite. Too polite. She was always too goddamned polite.

  I inhaled roughly and counted to ten, trying my best not to yell at her. “I asked you to draft a response to Engineering telling them when the next round of bonus reviews would be.” Something they should have asked HR, not me. But apparently no one in this company could wipe their asses without my input.

  “Yes,” she replied, the ‘duh’ evident in her tone. “That’s what I did.”

  More deep breaths. At the rate I was going, I would need to take Lamaze classes just to learn some new techniques.

  “This is not an email detailing the review dates, Taylor. This is a meme.”

  Her smile widened. I swear to God, I had nightmares about that smile. I’d wake up in a cold sweat, her other features fading even as that smile remained. She never stopped smiling, even in my REM cycle.

  And the worst part was that the smile was just a show. There was nothing behind it, no feeling. And everyone got the exact same smile. Me, her co-workers, the FedEx guy. Even her legion of adoring fans – those morons who stopped by her desk with the flimsiest of excuses just to get a chance to be near her – couldn’t see the truth: the smile was as fake as her tan. And her boobs, probably.

  Possibly. I wasn’t sure, because I tried really hard not to look at her boobs. I tried really hard not to even think about her boobs – or her anything, for that matter. I tried really hard not to think about how the woman who had been slowly pushing me toward the fucking nuthouse also happened to be insanely hot.

  I had no idea why I was even attracted to her, either. Usually, I was into women who were more natural, more intellectual. Less concerned with their hair and makeup, and more concerned with the contents of their minds. With those women, I knew how to act, how to flirt. I might not have had game, exactly, but at least I felt like I was on the same plane as them.

  Taylor was exactly the kind of woman I didn’t want: spray-tanned, contoured, and highlighted beyond anything nature intended, even in its wildest dreams.

  So why was she starring in my wildest dreams?

  And why the fuck was she naked in those dreams?

  I couldn’t make sense of what was going on in the dark corners of my brain. She made me question whether the sky was even blue. I had no idea how to act, what to say, how to think around her. So I played the snarling beast, barking and snapping at her, completely unable to control myself.

  Christ, no wonder I was going insane.

  “Well,” she replied, “you said to tell them May, and this was the first thing that came to mind.”

  She locked eyes with me, and they gleamed with something that was starting to become familiar to me: triumph. In an instant, I understood what was going on here. The meme was a prank. She knew she was making me crazy by planting it in my email, and she did it anyway. In fact, I was pretty sure she was doing it because it would make me crazy.

  And now that I thought about it, it all seemed like part of some plot, some grand scheme to drive me insane. The meme, my name, that goddamn smile. It was like some kind of science experiment. She was conditioning my behavior. She was the doctor, ringing the bell over and over again, and I was the drooling, barking dog.

  “It’s unprofessional,” I growled, unable to stop myself, despite my epiphany.

  “Justin Timberlake could never be unprofessional,” she argued.

  “Isn’t Justin Timberlake the one who introduced America to Janet Jackson’s nipple?”

  And shit. I should not have said the word ‘nipple.’ Not to this woman. Because now I was sporting a semi at my desk, my cock swelling against the zipper of my jeans, making me grit my teeth and clench my ass cheeks. And there was no way I was going to get any relief for that particular problem any time soon. For one thing, it was the middle of a work day.

  For another, the one woman I wanted to take care of my erection was also the last one I should ever get involved with.

  “And frankly, it’s perfect,” she continued, ignoring me. “It’s efficient, because it tells them the date without a bunch of unnecessary words. And it’s funny, so it puts everyone in a good mood, even though they’ll have to wait almost seven months for the next review.”

  I scowled at her scolding tone. “I don’t set the fucking dates. Talk to HR if you’re unhappy with the wait time. Bonus payouts fall under their purview.”

  She pursed her lips – a bright pink today, because apparently I was nuttier than I thought, if I was making a note of her lipstick color. Then she took three deep breaths, like she was steeling herself for something, before finally smiling again.

  “That’s fine,” she replied. “I can’t speak for Engineering, but my questions are more about my salary than anything. And that falls under your purview.”

  I tipped my head back, rubbing a hand across my face. She was asking for a ra
ise? Wonderful. Just what I fucking needed today.

  “I’ve been with MorTech for a little over four months now, and I think my performance so far has been exemplary. I’ve made several improvements to your workflow that have demonstrably improved your productivity. And I’ve consistently put in sixty hours a week or more, with no overtime. I think-”

  “You’re a salaried worker. You’re not eligible for overtime.”

  She paused for barely half a second. “Right, but really, I think I’ve gone above and beyond-”

  “Taylor, you make the same amount of money as your predecessor.” I opened my eyes, staring at the ceiling. I knew it was rude not to look at her, especially when she’d clearly rehearsed this whole speech. But I couldn’t face that perma-smile right now. “And the same as every other executive assistant in the company, for that matter,” I was quick to add, since she kept jumping right in whenever I paused. “Furthermore, your salary is competitive with the market, and you won’t find better benefits at another company.”

  “I’m never sick, though, so while I appreciate the health plan, I really think the more relevant discussion is my base pay. Now, I don’t want to bring my personal business into the discussion, but the fact is that I could really use the extra money-”

  “For what?” I snorted. “Is Barney’s having a sale? Need to add to your shoe collection?”

  She was silent for so long that I finally dragged my gaze away from the ceiling, looking at her once more. To my surprise, she looked angry. No, wait. Not angry. Her eyes were shining with barely-contained tears, and her chin was wobbling. Ah, shit.

  “Taylor-”

  She cleared her throat loudly, interrupting me. “I’ll redraft that email for you without the meme. It’ll be in your outbox in an hour.” She looked at the clock, and I followed her gaze. It was almost two o’clock. “I haven’t taken lunch yet today. I’ll do the email afterward.”

  I nodded, not sure what to say. It was clear I’d stepped over a line, but I wasn’t sure how to apologize. At the end of the day, as much as I obsessed over the woman, I didn’t know her well at all. Some days, I wasn’t sure there was anything to know. She was pretty. She liked makeup and clothes and shopping. Those were the things she gossiped about with some of the other women in the office. If there was more substance to be found beneath that eyeshadowed, hairsprayed veneer, I’d never seen it. I wasn’t sure anyone – her friends, her family, her constant stream of admirers – had ever seen it.

  But did that give me the right to be a dick? Maybe. Maybe not. I ran a hand over my face again, frustrated. I felt like I didn’t know anything anymore, not around this woman. She turned everything on its ear, bent every rule I had for myself and how I behaved around women. And it was pushing me to the breaking point. Something had to give, and I really didn’t want it to be me.

  I opened my mouth to say something, but she beat me to it.

  “I don’t feel like leftovers today, so I’m going to treat myself to Pappardelle’s. Do you want the stromboli? You haven’t eaten since before your meeting.”

  As if on cue, my stomach rumbled. Like I said, Pavlovian – and not just my reaction to the food. But I ignored it, staring at her. If I hadn’t been paying attention, I would think nothing had happened just now. Her smile was firmly in place, if a little dimmer, and her eyes were glassy. But without those subtle clues, she looked like the same old Taylor: polite, professional, and maddeningly pleasant. I exhaled slowly. Maybe I was forgiven already.

  “Yeah, thanks.” I stood, pulling my wallet out. “Here.” I held out a twenty for her.

  “I’ve got it.” Her eyes locked with mine, glinting coldly in a way that told me I was not actually forgiven. Not by a long shot. “My salary is competitive enough to cover a couple slices of pizza, Julian.”

  “Taylor-” I began, but she’d already turned away. I watched through the open door as she walked over to her desk, pulled on her coat, and grabbed her purse.

  “I’ll be back in forty-five minutes,” she said.

  “Take your time,” I told her, like being generous with her lunch break would make up for being an asshole. “This time of day, you might have to wait for a fresh pie. The lunch rush is long over.”

  She looked back up, her gaze still cold, her smile now brittle. “I’ll be back in forty-five minutes,” she repeated, her tone firm. Then, without another word, she turned and left.

  I watched her go, wondering whether I’d ever know what the fuck was going on with that woman – and more importantly, whether I even wanted to.

  I was still wrestling with my emotions when Graham Morris came to see me.

  “Hey, Kusmierski.”

  He flashed me a smile as he stood over my desk, looking sharp in a crisp green button-down and tailored slacks. I sighed in appreciation as I looked up at him. Now, there was a man who knew how to dress his body to its advantage. He was considerably bigger than my sartorially-challenged boss, too, being nearly half a foot taller and about fifty pounds heavier – and all of it muscle. And, as a mere cog in the engineering machine that was MorTech, he made a lot less money. If Graham could look so good every day, then there was just no excuse for Julian to walk around looking like a vagrant.

  “Hey there, Morris.” I pasted on a smile, blinking rapidly to try to dispel the stubborn tears that had plagued me ever since I’d tried – and failed – to negotiate my salary earlier.

  “It’s dance party time, huh?” He nodded toward my speakers, which were blasting one of my favorite songs.

  “It’s a Whitney kind of day,” I replied, my smile slipping. Whitney Houston was a pop goddess, and I humbly worshipped at her altar. But she was kind of like the nuclear option for me, only to be brought out when I was having a bad day. And thanks to Julian’s casually cruel words a couple of hours ago, it was an exceptionally bad day.

  Graham tipped his head, studying me with curious green eyes. “Everything okay?” he asked.

  Ugh. If he could sense something was wrong, then I was obviously not doing a good enough job covering my emotions.

  “Totally.” I nodded, digging deep to bolster my smile with everything I had. “Just a lot to do today, you know?”

  He chuckled. “I do know. I said to Wilson earlier that this was the longest week ever. Then the bastard reminded me it was Monday.”

  “That jerk,” I sympathized.

  Graham nodded, giving me another easy smile as he kept talking, telling me all about the dart game he and his buddies had set up in their corner of the engineering floor. They were just trying to keep morale up during this super-busy time, and I nodded, because I could understand how important it was to keep your spirits up in a fast-paced, demanding workplace.

  Graham continued to smile at me, pleased that I was listening, as always. He had such a nice smile. He was just a nice guy, really. Always so easy-going. He asked me out at least twice a week, and it never seemed to bother him that I turned him down. If anything, it just seemed to make him more determined.

  But I was equally determined. I did not want to date my co-workers. It was too messy. I’d learned that the hard way at Golden Goddess, when my boss, Mr. Weston, and his business partner, Krista Summers, had broken their long-term relationship. The fighting was so bad that the whole company had nearly gone kerplooey, and the fallout was enough to convince me never to go there with someone I worked with.

  Unfortunately, there was no policy against fraternization here at MorTech. In my four months here, I’d had to come up with all kinds of new and gracious ways to decline the constant date offers from my male co-workers – and even a few from my female colleagues. Those weren’t too bad though, since a woman’s ego isn’t usually as fragile as a man’s. We handle rejection much better, in general, than the delicate flower that is the human male.

  “So, I was hoping you wouldn’t mind adding to the super-long day,” Graham said, and I had to blink again to snap myself out of my thoughts. Good thing I had a nearly perfect memory fo
r things I’d heard, even when I wasn’t paying attention. It allowed my mind to wander while still retaining all the information thrown at me.

  “Oh?” I tried my best to sound noncommittal, while not being too discouraging. I knew where this was going, and I was trying to let him down easy. I needed to say no, but not hurt his feelings. Because the last thing I wanted was for him to hate me. The last thing I wanted was for anyone to hate me.

  God, sometimes I was tired of the mental gymnastics I went through just to have a simple conversation. When I was feeling kind of low, like I was now, I envied the people who could just let everything fly with no filter, like my best friend, Larkin. She truly didn’t care what people thought about her. But then, she was also kind of unpleasant, and I was the only real friend she had left. As much as I loved her, I didn’t want to be in her shoes. I liked having lots of friends. I liked being the popular girl.

  Because the popular girl was never abandoned for greener pastures. I worked hard to be the greenest freaking pastures around.

  “Yeah, I was thinking we could catch a movie tonight. There’s tons of new releases right now. And we could grab some burgers first.” He gave me another smile, and I hesitated. I actually hesitated.

  Graham was a great guy. He was attractive, and sweet, and smart. He had a good sense of humor. And he was financially stable, which was important to me. He’d just been telling me last week about the house he’d bought a few towns over. He talked about his parents with reverence, and spoke of his sister like she was the second coming. He was respectful and kind. Life with Graham would be nice.

  Plus, burgers were my favorite.

  But I didn’t really want a nice life with tasty burgers, apparently. Not if my stupid freaking attraction to Julian freaking Morgan was any indication of my heart’s true desire.

  Somehow, in the last four months, my initial (reluctant) admiration of him had morphed into full-blown obsession. I thought about him twenty-four/seven. And sure, it was my job to think about him, to anticipate his needs. I was hired to make his life easier, and I was good at my job.