Mia
There were eighty-three vents, twenty-nine screws, five blades, and four bulbs on the ceiling fan above my bed.
I rolled to my side, certain muscles mocking me and providing undeniable proof of why I was unable to sleep.
“I want you to watch. And tomorrow when you’re sore, I want you to remember who did it to you.”
He wasn’t kidding.
Without realizing it, my hand had traveled to my breast, absently twisting my nipple beneath my tank top.
Closing my eyes, the touch of my own hands turned into his in my memory.
His long, graceful fingers ghosting along the undersides of my breasts, his thumbs brushing my nipples, cupping me in his large palms .
.
. damn it.
I let out a loud sigh and kicked a pillow off my bed.
I knew exactly where this train of thought was headed.
I had done this exact same thing three nights in a row and it had to stop now.
With a huff I rolled over onto my stomach and closed my eyes tight, willing sleep to come.
As if that ever worked.
I still remembered, with perfect clarity, the day almost a year and a half ago when Raphael asked me up to his office for a talk.
I’d started at RMG working as a junior assistant for Raphael when I was in college.
When my mother died, Raphael had taken me under his wing; not so much a father figure, but certainly as a caring and warm mentor who had me to his home for dinner to keep an eye on my emotional state.
He’d insisted his door would always be open for me.
But on that particular morning, when he phoned my office, he sounded uncharacteristically formal, and frankly I was scared shitless.
In his office, he’d explained how his youngest son had lived in Paris for the past six years, working as a marketing executive for L’Oréal.
This son, Trevor, was finally coming home, and in six months would take over the position of chief operating officer at Montgomery Media.
Raphael knew I was a year into my business degree and was looking into internship options that would give me the critical hands-on experience I needed.
He insisted I complete my master’s internship at RMG and that the youngest Mr. Montgomery would be more than thrilled to have me on his team.
Raphael handed me the company-wide memo that would circulate the following week to announce Trevor Montgomery’s arrival.
Wow.
That was my only thought as I looked over the paper on my way back to my office.
Executive VP of product marketing at L’Oréal in Paris.
Youngest nominee ever featured in the Crain’s “Forty Under 40” list, published several times in the Wall Street Journal.
A dual MBA from NYU-Stern School of Business and HEC Paris, where he specialized in corporate finance and global business, graduating summa cum laude.
Christ.
What was it Raphael had said?
Extremely driven?
That was an understatement if I’d ever heard one.
Scott had hinted that his brother didn’t quite share his laid-back personality, but when I’d seemed concerned he quickly put my mind at ease.
“He has a tendency to be a bit stiff and completely anal retentive at times, but don’t worry about it, Mia. You can handle his bark; you guys are going to be a great team. I mean, come on,” he said, wrapping his large arm around me.
“How could he not love you?”
I hated to admit it now, but by the time he was set to arrive, I had developed a bit of a crush on Trevor Montgomery.
I was extremely anxious about working with him, but I was also impressed with everything he’d accomplished in his relatively short life.
Looking up his picture online didn’t hurt either: the man was a specimen.
We communicated through e-mail leading up to his arrival, and although he seemed nice enough, he was never overly friendly.
On the big day, Trevor wasn’t due in until after the board meeting that afternoon, when he would be officially introduced.
I had the entire day to work myself up into a ball of nerves.
Being the good friend she is, Emily came upstairs to distract me.
She sat in my chair and we spent over an hour discussing the merits of the Clerks movies.
Soon I was laughing so hard I had tears running down my face.
I didn’t notice that Emily stiffened when the outer office door opened, and I didn’t notice that someone was now standing behind me.
And though Emily tried to warn me with a swift hand across the throat—the universal sign for “shut the fuck up”—I ignored her.
Because, apparently, I’m an idiot.
“And then,” I said, giggling and holding onto my sides, “she says, ‘Fuck, I had to take a fucking order off a guy I blew after junior prom once.’ And then he says, ‘Yeah, I’ve waited on your brother too.'”
Another bout of laughter hit me, and I stumbled backward a bit until I collided with something hard and warm.
Spinning around, I was mortified to see that I had just ground my ass onto my new boss’ thigh.
“Mr. Montgomery!” I said, recognizing him from his photographs.
“I’m so sorry!”
He did not look amused.
In an attempt to ease the tension, Emily stood and extended her hand.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Emily Fulton, Scott’s assistant.”
My new boss simply glanced at her hand without returning the gesture and raised one of his perfect eyebrows.
“Don’t you mean ‘Mr. Montgomery’?”
Emily’s hand slowly fell as she watched him, obviously flustered.
Something about his physical presence was so intimidating she was at a loss for words.
He nodded to me.
“Miss Dawson. You will refer to me as Mr. Montgomery. And I expect you in my office in five minutes so that we may discuss proper workplace decorum.” His voice was serious when he spoke, and he nodded curtly to Emily.
“Miss Fulton.”
Sliding his gaze to mine for another moment, he turned on his heel toward his new office and I watched in horror as the first of his infamous door slams took place.
“What a bastard!” Emily mumbled between tight lips.
“A beautiful bastard,” I replied.
Hoping to smooth things over, I went down to the café to get him a cup of coffee.
I’d even asked Scott how he took it—black.
When I nervously made it back to his office door, my knock was followed by an abrupt “come in,” and I willed my hands to stop shaking.
I curved my lips into a friendly smile, intent on making a better impression this time, and opened the door to him talking on the phone and writing furiously on the notepad in front of him.
My breath caught when I heard his smooth, deep voice speaking in flawless French.
“Ce sera parfait. Non. Non, ce n’est pas nécessaire. Seulement quatre. Oui. Quatre. Merci, Ivan.”
He ended the call but never lifted his eyes from his papers to greet me.
Once I was standing in front of his desk, he addressed me in the same stern tone as before.
“In the future, Miss Dawson, you will keep all non-workplace-related conversations outside of the office. We’re paying you to work, not gossip. Do I make myself clear?”
I stood speechless for a moment until he lifted his eyes to meet mine, raising an eyebrow.
I shook myself out of my trance, all at once realizing the truth about Trevor Montgomery: although he was even more breathtakingly gorgeous in person than in photos, he was not at all like I had imagined.
And he was absolutely nothing like his parents and brother.
“Very clear, sir,” I said as I walked around his desk to set his coffee in front of him.
But just as I was about to reach his desk, my heel caught on the rug and I lunged forward.
I heard a loud “Shit!” escape his lips—the coffee now nothing more than a scorching stain on his expensive suit.
“Oh my God, Mr. Montgomery, I am so sorry!”
I rushed over to the sink in his bathroom to grab a towel and ran back, falling to my knees in front of him and attempting to wipe off the stain.
In my haste, and in the midst of humiliation I didn’t think could get any worse, it suddenly occurred to me that I was furiously rubbing the towel against his crotch.
I averted my eyes and hand, feeling a heated blush spread from my face down my neck as I caught a glimpse of the noticeable bulge in the front of his pants.
“You may go now, Miss Dawson.”
I nodded, rushing out of the office, mortified that I’d made such a horrible first impression.
Thankfully, I proved myself pretty quickly after that.
There were times when he even seemed impressed with me, although he was always short and on edge.
I chalked it up to his being a giant asshat, but I had always wondered if there was something specific about me that rubbed him the wrong way.
Besides that towel, of course.