Chapter 16 – Pleasing the Boss

“Leave?”

“Leave this room. I don’t care where you go. I just can’t have you here right now.”

For a minute, I think he’s going to stand his ground. Tell me I’m being unreasonable. This isn’t his fault. But he must recognize how upset I am in the end. “I’ll go join Joe in the hot tub then.”

If Joe’s there this late at night, there are probably Bastian Bunnies there too.

And I don’t care. Not my business.

At least he makes the pretense of grabbing a pair of swim trunks before heading for the door.

When he’s opened the door, I suddenly feeling guilty about tossing him out. “Give me an hour.”

“Okay. Text me if you need anything.” Then he’s gone.

I open my texting app, not to message him, but to message Shiloh.

Would you f**k someone to get a job?

Depends on how good the job is. And how hot the guy is.

Dream job. Really hot guy.

My phone rings in my hand. Shiloh’s face appears on the caller ID. “Are you thinking of f**king Hadrian Seymour?” she asks when I answer.

I perch on the side of the bed, trying to decide how much I want to say. The clock is ticking, though, and I don’t think I have the energy to replay everything that just happened. “I think I might be considering it. Is that bad?” It feels really bad.

“Two questions—would you f**k him if there wasn’t a job on the line?”

“If I wasn’t married?”

She groans. She’s always trying to get me to take advantage of my open arrangement with Elvis.

I ignore her. “If I wasn’t married, then…probably, yes.” It’s the first time I’ve admitted it, even to myself. But there’s an attraction with Hadrian, and if I were available, then yes. I could very easily see myself in his bed.

“Real hard for me not to say go for it just from that, but there’s a second question—are you hoping that it will make Elvis jealous?”

I blink, refusing to get teary again. “I know it won’t make Elvis jealous,” I say.

“I’m not exactly sure that’s true,” she says, to my surprise. “But the point is that you’re not thinking about doing this for the wrong reasons.”

“I’m only thinking about the job. And I really want the job.” Especially now that I’m pissed at Elvis. I hate the idea that he’s going to walk out of this with more than I have. I’m sure I won’t feel that way tomorrow, but right now I feel it hard.

“Okay, another question—if you do this and you don’t get the job, will you regret it?”

Honestly, I don’t know. Maybe I could have one steamy night with the man and let it be just that.

But then I think about what I know of Hadrian. How he played with us all evening. He probably thought of it as foreplay, and even after he got in my pants, I’m not sure he wouldn’t withdraw his offer.

“Your hesitation is answer enough,” Shiloh says. “Much as I hate to advise you not to f**k a rich, hot asshole, I know you. You’ll feel guilty, and you won’t ever be satisfied if this is how you get your show. Which is stupid, if you ask me. Doesn’t matter how you get your place. Matters what you do with it, but you’re a good girl, and you think you have to do things the right way, and somehow I love you despite that.”

I laugh. “I’m not that good.”

“Sure. Whatever you say. But let me make sure you know that whatever you do with the rich boy, I have no problem with it. In case that needed saying.”

“You won’t think I’m a whore?”

“Definitely not.”

Actually, it makes me feel better. Even though she’s right—I can’t sleep with Hadrian and feel good about myself. Not while I believe in my commitment to Elvis, however one-sided it might be. Not when it’s in exchange for something I should have earned without getting on my back.

And realizing that makes me pissed again. This time my anger is directed where it should be—at Hadrian. For playing with people’s emotions like he does without consequence. For putting me and Elvis in this impossible position. For thinking he can have anything he wants because of his last name.

My anger gives me momentum. I throw my phone down on the bed, shed my PJs, and find something quick and easy to put on—a simple wr*p dress that I planned to wear on the ride home.

Then I gloss my l*ps and throw on some flats. Hadrian wants me to come to his room? Then I’ll come to his room. I want to see his face when he hears the word I’m sure he rarely ever hears—no.

I’m in the hallway before realizing I don’t know exactly where Hadrian’s room is. With a vague imp**ssion that it’s somewhere on the first floor, I head downstairs.

To my surprise, there’s a member of the staff waiting for me, one I haven’t met yet, most likely because he’s on the night shift. “Ms. Shaw, if you’ll follow me.” He walks without asking where I’m going or who I’m looking for.

Which means he already knows.

I have half a mind to turn around and forget the whole thing. The egotistical nerve of Hadrian Seymour, to be so sure that I’d jump at his command, that he had someone waiting to escort me to him. It would serve him right to find out he’s wrong.

But I’m also self-centered, it seems, because it’s more important to me to see his face when I tell him no than to let him be pissed for not showing up.

Also, I’m not about to get his staff in trouble for my actions. I wonder about my escort as I follow him down the hall to the right wing of the house. He seems to be older than me, younger than Elvis. What has he seen in his time with Hadrian? How many women has he taken to his employer’s room in the middle of the night? How often did those women have a partner or spouse somewhere else in the house?

I want to tell this man—a man who hasn’t even shared with me his name—that it’s not what he thinks. I’m not like them. I’m not the kind of woman who will trade sex for status.

I don’t know what keeps my mouth shut, but I don’t speak up, and eventually we’re at Hadrian’s room. The servant knocks on Hadrian’s door for me, then throws it open when Hadrian says, “It’s open.”

I take a step in, but while the door is still ajar behind me, I blurt out loudly, “I’m only here to talk.”

The words are out before I’ve even located Hadrian in the massive suite. When I do, he’s closer than I’d expected, pouring a bottle of wine at his mini bar, his back to me. He’s made himself comfortable since dinner. His jacket is gone and his dress shirt is untucked. He’s barefoot, which feels strangely personal, and makes my lower belly tingle in a way I find disturbing.

He waits until the door cl**ks shut before he speaks, but he doesn’t turn. “If that was for the staff, you don’t have to worry about them. I only hire people who have proven they can be discreet.”

It’s amazing how the guy can prove himself to be even more of an asshole than I thought he was. “That wasn’t for—” Well, it sort of was. “That was for you. I’m telling you. I’m only here to—”

But then Hadrian turns around, and his shirt isn’t just untucked—it’s unb**toned. And holy shit, that man has abs. Like rows of them. The six-pack kind. Eight-pack, actually.

“Whoa.” Damn, I really need a filter.

“You’re only here to…whoa?” His l*p curls at one side, amused.

I don’t know what pisses me off more—his amusement or his abs. Either way, the curse sl*ps from my l*ps without thinking. “f**k you.”

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