Freedom Page 4

  “This is overkill,” Carson comments, watching Dylan power through his set.

  I move back to hiding against the wall and think about how I am going to work with a guy who really doesn’t want me here. Maybe we could have separate offices.

  “Overkill, my ass. I need this. What I don’t need is an assistant who needs me to help her,” Dylan grunts.

  Assistant? Fuck him.

  “She’s not your assistant. She works for me just like you do, so let me tell you how we’re going to operate. Emma is taking a big load off your shoulders, and she already knows the ropes. She has a lot of wholesale experience, so you are not training her. You’re not her boss. You two will work together, and you will get your head out of your ass and start being more polite to everyone around here. Got it?”

  “I heard every fucking word,” Dylan growls.

  On one hand, I want to cry for being spoken about in that manner. On the other hand, I want to walk in there and give Dylan a good, hard right cross against that handsome face of his.

  Defensive moves are probably the only thing of value I learned from some of my father’s bodyguards who taught me how to fend for myself without breaking my knuckles. My father’s best guy, Sean, always says my preeminent defense tactic is to grab a guy’s groin and squeeze the hell out of his nuts, and when he buckles in excruciating pain, I should ram the base of my palm up against his nose to break it. Sean says the fun part is when you get to watch a guy crumble and fall, howling in pain. I’ve done that before, and it is not fun. Besides, I shouldn’t be entertaining these types of thoughts about Dylan. He hasn’t physically attacked me; he simply gave me an emotional sucker punch to the gut.

  Not wanting to hear any more of the conversation, I flee down the hall and grab my sweater and bag from my office and bolt out to the back parking area.

  Damn. I took Dylan’s favorite spot again and he’s parked his bike next to my car, boxing me in. Now I am going to have to go back inside and ask Dylan to move his bike so I can make a U-turn to get out of this jam. I don’t want to face my angry officemate, but I don’t have much choice unless I just leave the car and walk home.

  No way. I am not letting this guy intimidate me.

  I storm back into the building, down the hallway and into the gym where Dylan is now alone. He’s standing and rubbing a towel over his sweaty chest.

  Nice, hot stuff, now move your frigging bike!

  “Hey,” I say and he pauses his movements to stare dumbly at me. “I need you to move your bike so I can get my car out.” My demand is terse, and I accentuate it with a little hands-on-hip action before leaving the room angrily.

  You better be following me soon, buddy. I clomp down the hall and back out to my car.

  In less than a minute, Dylan is outside revving up his bike—still shirtless. He moves it away from the driver’s side door of my car and loops around back to the far side of the lot. I inspect the distance between Blackard Designs and the building next door, trying to judge how to turn my car in that tight space so I can drive out the back end of the lot, too. Instead of going back inside the office, Dylan saunters up to the other building and leans against it, casually watching me.

  This can’t be too difficult. I have a compact car. It can make a tight U-turn. I get in and start the car, feeling his eyes on me. I crank the wheel all the way to the left and pull out. I inch back in reverse and go forward again, each time trying to get the car to turn more. After too many attempts, it is like the silly golf cart scene with Mike Meyers in Austin Powers. I thought that movie scene was hilarious, though on me, not so much.

  Dylan lets out a rumbling laugh that grows louder with each curse I mutter then finally approaches the car with a giant grin plastered on his face. He’s cute and sexy, and I am furious with him.

  “Move over,” he orders as he opens my door.

  “I can drive a car,” I snap.

  “Not like me you can’t. Move.”

  I scramble to the passenger side and then he lowers himself into the driver’s seat and adjusts it, rolling it back as far as it will go so his legs can fit in. Before I can say a word, he whips the car in reverse, turns quickly into the spot I started from and guns it. I mean, he guns it like a rocket launch. My hands clutch the dashboard, and I let loose the most awful, piercing shriek as the car flies backward at top speed to the open area of the dirt lot before Dylan slams it into a hard stop.

  I stop screaming, still breathless, staring at the distance we’ve covered, then look over at Dylan who is leaning on the steering wheel, gloating.

  “How was that?” It is a devilish grin that turns into a beautiful smile.

  “Terrifying!” If it were anyone other than him with me, I’d probably vomit into my lap.

  “You’re out, aren’t ya?”

  “I think you left my spleen back there.” I slow down my breathing, but I’m still shaking.

  He chuckles.

  “What the hell was that? You could have given me a little help and just directed me to back the car out myself.”

  “You seemed really determined to do it the hard way. Why didn’t you think of backing out in the first place?”

  “Because I’ve been driving out head first every day, so I was a little flustered. Forget it.” I am not going to tell him that he makes me nervous, that my body trembles with little earthquakes when he is near me.

  I get out of the car and walk around to the driver’s side on my wobbly, shaky legs and yank the door open. What is with this guy? He either shuns polite conversation with me or he acts like a madman.

  “Sorry,” he says as he gets out of the car.

  He puts his hand on my shoulder, and for the first time, I notice a small tattoo on the inside of his wrist, a word that I can’t make out. The warmth of his heavy hand makes me heady, especially since I am inches from his naked chest, nicely defined muscles and all; not to mention his low-slung sweat pants that sit below the rim of his briefs.

  Look away, look away, my brain screams.

  I push his hand off me and it startles him. “You listen to me.” I do everything in my power not to tear up. “I heard your little tirade in there with Carson. I’m sorry you don’t like this new working arrangement, but I like this job and I need it. Let’s make a deal to get along because I cannot afford to go back to New Jersey. My family’s business won’t exist for much longer, and I don’t want to work with any more goombas. I’m good at this job and I’m a people person, goddammit! I’m more of a people person than you are, and I can sell the shit out of anything! So don’t you dare try to mess this up for me and screw me out of this opportunity!”

  His blue eyes stay locked on me a moment longer without blinking. “I won’t,” he replies in a soft, deep voice. “I’m not going to screw this up for you, Emma.”

  “Okay then. Good night.”

  Without another word, I get in my car and drive away. As I do, I check the rearview mirror and find Dylan watching me.

  Five

  Dylan

  I wasn’t necessarily honest with Carson. I don’t dislike having Emma here. I dislike feeling on edge, as though I am going to lose it around her because I like having her here too much. It’s caused me to be a shit to her, letting her think that she’s the problem.

  This whole week has been about me working very hard to avoid her and everything that is appealing about her. That is hard to do when she sits a few feet away and wears a goddamn skirt every day, so of course, I have to watch her cross and uncross her legs every ten minutes or so. One day, I was on the phone with a client when I couldn’t resist taking out my phone and using the stopwatch app to clock her leg action.

  There is the sexual aspect—I can’t deny that—but I also like hearing her talk.

  I am scared shitless about this. I am not going to let her get too close to me, yet that doesn’t stop me from observing her with others and catching her light-hearted laughs or no-nonsense conversations wi
th clients. I want to say that her presence is good for me because I notice the differences in my own attitude. I’ve gone from numb to actually looking forward to my day. When was the last time I felt that way? When was the last time my emotions were genuine and not orchestrated by a chemical imbalance?

  I think about her while I run in the morning, and when I get to work, I hope she is the first person I see when I walk in the door. My problem is that I don’t know if this is happening for the right reason, and my self-doubt has made me more short-tempered than usual with everyone, especially Emma.

  Jumping in her little car and then putting my hand on her shoulder, well, that just made my whole damn day. It doesn’t take much—just her.

  ***

  Speeding up the empty, dark road, I consider not going back to the house. It’s a tomb. Maybe I need an all-night drive on my bike. It is Friday evening, so I don’t have to be anywhere in the morning.

  Before I can consider that thought further, I see flashing hazard lights up ahead. As I get closer, I notice it’s Emma’s midnight blue Honda on the shoulder of the road. I park my bike in front of her car and walk back to her. The front left wheel is flat and I can’t help but laugh. I can’t believe how many times I have laughed or felt like laughing in this one week alone, all because of this woman.

  She gets out of the car, frowning at me. “Yeah, I know. It’s hilarious.” She’s pissed.

  “So after razzing me with your big speech, and burning rubber out of the lot, here you are, stranded on the side of the road.” I chuckle and take my helmet off.

  “I didn’t burn rubber. I’m not that kind of driver.”

  “You’re some kind of driver, that’s for sure.”

  “Are you going to stop laughing and help me?”

  “Pop your trunk. I’ll get the spare out.”

  “Um…”

  “What? I’ll change your tire for you.”

  Emma puts her head down and groans another snappy curse word.

  “This was my spare,” she says. “I had a flat a few months back and I never got around to putting a new spare in the trunk.”

  “What?” I start laughing again. “Your dad owns auto supply stores all over the tri-state area. You couldn’t pick up one little tire on your way out the door after work?”

  My laughter isn’t endearing me to her in the least.

  Frustrated with her predicament, she leans against the car and sighs. “I can see you think this is a hoot, but please stop laughing.”

  As if my body is willingly deciding what I should do, I lean against the car next to her and rest my right arm on the roof as close as I can get to her glossy hair. If I have bad instincts about getting that close to her, I ignore them.

  “I don’t think we can get a tow this late,” I tell her.

  “That’s fine. I don’t want to deal with this now. I’d be happy to push it off the shoulder and leave it until morning. The house isn’t that far. I can walk.”

  “You’re not walking on a county road in the dark.” I gently give her back a nudge away from the car. I hold the door open and reach in to release the brake then push the car and steer it off the shoulder onto the grass. Emma runs behind the car to help push with a little too much enthusiasm, and the car rolls faster than necessary.

  “Whoa, hey, baby, that’s enough. I’m not going to chase this car downhill.” I chuckle, grabbing the brake and stopping the car.

  I let her grab her bag then lock the door and slam it closed. When I turn around, Emma has an odd expression as she stands in the tall grass. Her legs must be cold, and… oh, crap. I called her baby. My instincts suck.

  “Come on; I’ll give you a lift home.” I pretend as if I’m not getting too friendly with her. Let her believe I say baby to every woman.

  “On your bike?” She glances suspiciously at my Harley and then down at her skirt. I look, too. She’s got great legs and I wouldn’t mind having them pressed against me on the bike.

  “Yep. You need my helmet.” I move in close to her and put my black, half helmet on her head and adjust the straps to tighten it. When my fingers touch her hair and graze the soft skin on her cheeks, it sends warning flares to alert my dick.

  She looks up at me as if she knows this. Her dark eyes have their own magnetic force, and if I haven’t totally lost my mind, they are showing a little interest, too. Damn, her eyes are beautiful. I am tempted to kiss her now for the hell of it to see if I’m right except I already said I wouldn’t screw this up for her.

  I take off my leather jacket. “You need this, too. Your little sweater isn’t enough.”

  “Then you’ll be cold,” she replies.

  “Don’t worry about me.” I put it on her and she shrugs her slender arms into my extra-large jacket. It’s huge on her, and with the helmet, she looks adorable and sexy. I am so fucked.

  I swing my leg over the bike and pat the back bump. “You’re sitting here. Climb on and hold on tight.”

  She hefts her leather bag onto her shoulder and pulls her skirt up a few inches to swing her leg over the bike. “You’re not going to speed, are you?”

  “No,” I answer as she leans against my back and barely holds onto me with just her fingertips. When I pick up her wrists and pull them tightly around my waist, she lets out a small oomph as I pull her flat against my back. “Hold. On.”

  It’s less than ten minutes to her house, and it turns out to be the best damn ride I have had in years. Having her arms wrapped around me, tightening against me when I take turns and climbing the road to her bungalow, feels unbelievably good. I don’t want this to end.

  I drive right up to the front door and park the bike. Instead of letting her off and leaving, I get off and follow her the few steps to her door.

  “I haven’t been in these cottages since I was a kid. I forgot how tiny they are.” I hover behind her on the small porch as she jiggles her key in the door.

  Her eyes meet mine. “Thanks for giving me a ride home. You don’t have to see me in. I’m good.”

  Yes, this is the point where I should go and leave her alone, but the thought of going back to Leo’s empty home and spending the next few hours thinking about her before I can fall asleep sounds like misery.

  “Well, I think you owe me,” I say, contemplating some way to stall my departure.

  “What?” She sounds a little peeved, trying to decipher my meaning. I guess my reputation does warrant her to question if I am making a sexual implication.

  Her hand is keeping the front door closed.

  “Dinner. You owe me dinner. I saved you and your car twice today. I’ll take anything, even a can of soup and some toast.”

  I really don’t give a crap about dinner at this point, however I’ll say any lame ass thing to keep hanging out with her and that little smirk she gives me.

  “Dinner?” she questions as she opens the door and leads me inside. “I suppose I do owe you a little favor.”

  “Jesus, this place is small.” I walk inside and feel the urge to duck my head since the ceiling skims so close to my scalp. “My summer friends’ families used to rent these cottages when they were strictly for the tourists. I don’t remember these doorways being so low.” I have to bow my head as I enter the miniscule kitchen.

  “Well, you’re a giant,” she remarks, walking down a short hallway to her bedroom. “I’m going to change out of my work clothes.”

  That gives me a lot of fresh new images of her naked as I peruse her cramped kitchen.

  “These appliances could fit in a doll house. Nothing is full size,” I say loud enough for her to hear on the other side of the wall. “This would be perfect for a hamster.”

  “Shut up!” she shouts, however I can hear amusement in her tone. “I like this place. It’s the right size for me and it’s affordable.” She returns barefoot, dressed in stretchy black lounge pants and a little white t-shirt that shows off her trim waist and that nice rack I notice every day
at work. Her hair is flowing carelessly around her face and she looks relaxed for a change, and if possible, even prettier.

  Sometimes, I worry my gaze may appear as a leer, so I avert my eyes before I get sucked into her vortex. Too late, buddy.

  I pull open the fridge. “What are you going to make me for dinner? Because there’s no food in here.”

  “I have food,” she scoffs and joins me, ducking her head under my arm to peer into her pint-sized fridge. “Pickles, cheddar, water and yogurt. That’s dinner.”

  Her self-assuredness makes me smile.

  “You’re kidding.”

  She steps back and puts her hands on her hips. “I didn’t have time to go to the store, and I definitely didn’t know that you’d be inviting yourself over for dinner. So pickles and cheese it is.”

  I slam the fridge door. “New plan. You come to my house, and I’ll make dinner for you.”

  As I quickly think of vegetarian dishes I could drum up on short notice, Emma’s face contorts as she stares at the refrigerator door. She doesn’t even hear what I am proposing.

  “Oh, my God,” she whispers as she removes a magnet and pulls a note off the fridge door. It’s a white napkin like the ones stacked in a basket on her kitchen counter.

  “What’s wrong?” I step closer to her and instinctively put my arm on her shoulder.

  “He found me. Oh, my God. He already found me.” She bites her lip and begins to tear up a little.

  Six

  Emma

  “Who, Emma?” Dylan demands as he holds my shoulders firmly.

  “My ex,” I whisper. I can barely see through my watery eyes.

  “You have an ex-husband?” Dylan asks, astounded.

  “My ex-boyfriend, Robert.” I shake my head. “I can’t believe he was here. The door was locked when we got here, but somehow he got inside.”

  Dylan takes the napkin and mumbles the brief message to himself: