The unopened text from my brother most likely holds the information I need.
B: You will meet him outside. His authorization will be granted by noon. Remember to behave like a PERSON, not a ROBOT.
Ignoring the childish urge to send a long-drawn-out text regarding the definition of robot versus android, I let out a heavy sigh of surrender. “Fine. Inform him I’m on my way down.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The instant the phone is back in place Sherman inquires, “Would you like me to wait to clean the glass surfaces or continue my duties like normal? I know your office preferences, Dr. Rothwell, but I prefer to ask just in case one day you change your mind on a whim.”
A whim?
No, thank you.
And change my mind about letting people in here without me?
Never.
It’s not the expensive art on the walls or leather-bound books worth thousands of dollars I worry about going missing. I could care less if someone wanted to drink all the overpriced whiskey Brandon adores or pee in the potted plant, I still can’t believe is alive after all these years. Hell, they can even have my Swedish, customed designed office chair the company commanded I take as a welcome to the building gift.
What matters most in this room is the thing I take everywhere with me to guarantee its safety.
But the files on my desktop are a close second.
They may be protected, but I’m not a fucking moron.
I work in an entire building filled with people capable of doing more than just meets the eye.
Why would I for a second leave one of them alone in a room with materials this sensitive?
Opening my desk drawer to grab a mint rather than waste a piece of gum pre-breakfast, I kindly ask, “Could you come back in like twenty minutes?” The tin touches my hand at the same time I cringe. “Maybe thirty? I have that meeting with Ember.” My thumb flicks off the lid on a second heavy sigh. “But she talks so much that it’ll probably be more like forty-five to fifty-two minutes before I’m even on the elevator headed back here.” Fishing out the bad breath killer, I continue to needlessly ramble, another clear sign that substantial sleep has been in low supply, “Then again that’s assuming the new unwanted member to the team doesn’t slow down production with an extended Q and A session that should really be reserved for college graduates here on an intern assignment.” Prior to popping the mint into my mouth, I suggest, “How about you just do my office last?”
Sherman lightly chuckles on an amused headshake. “The usual then?”
An innocent shrug bounces my shoulders as I release my own snicker.
Creature of habit.
Why deny it?
After slipping my phone and badge into my pocket, I escort Sherman out of the room and myself to the nearest elevator. I ride up to the main level to the soundtrack of my own never-ending out-of-control checklist. Unfinished notes from the night before and missing evaluations that should’ve been received by midnight ping to the same rhythm that the machine does. Crankiness regarding the rising number of things I don’t have time for – including showing around some unwanted meathead that probably only looked remotely tolerable on camera due to the shit lighting – increases with every stride I take across the lobby. By the time I step outside into the crisp morning air, I’m not only bitter about the pending situation but hangry since I have to deal with it instead of self-deliberating over which type of berry-flavored cream cheese spread, I’m in the mood for.
“Blake Rothwell?”
Holy shit.
The sound of my own name has never sounded smoother or sexier.
Am I still dreaming?
My body sharply turns to the left putting me literally toe to toe with the man I saw on camera earlier. Whether it’s the tips of my feet crashing into his dress boots or his unexpected build that has me stumbling backward is unknown.
Oh yeah.
I’m definitely still asleep.
Men half a foot taller than me don’t typically smell like fresh-cut oranges or wear dark designer suits. They usually play sports where their height is appreciated as an athletic benefit and smell like sweat because it’s catnip for groupies. And I don’t meet them outside of sophisticated buildings like this one. I meet them at parties my big brother commands I go to “for the company” and avoid talking to them so that I don’t have to see their faces frown in confusion when they realize exploring the Nobel Prize website is my version of keeping up with sports stats.
The male in front of me flashes a small, almost bashful smile at the same time he attempts to make amends, “Sorry! I didn’t mean to step on you.”
“You know, I’m usually the one having to make that apology,” I thoughtlessly confess. “Considering I am the average size for a male and not a woman. At least in this country. In others it, of course, varies. Height wise I might feel more at home and apologize less for it in Latvia or the Netherlands where being taller is much more common, yet I would then stick out because of my width and larger than average chest. I suppose it’s safe to say that each region of the world has its sizing pros and cons and comparison problems.”
His grin grows in magnitude, successfully stealing my breath in the process.
Cool, cool. Wasn’t using it anyway.
He extends the open palm not holding a fast-food bag in my direction. “Bronx.”
My own isn’t even allowed an opportunity to touch his before he’s yanking it away on a wince.
“Mierda,” is mumbled barely above a whisper. “Bradford.” It’s offered once more, yet the recoiling expression remains. “Bronx Bradford.” Our shaking is followed by an unexpected profession, “I don’t usually introduce myself to clients by my first name. I um…,” he clears his throat to break up the words stuck there; however, he keeps our hands connected, allowing the jolts of erotic electricity to endlessly fry my system, “You’re free to call me whatever you like, Dr. Rothwell.”
Papi while I ride him like a bull that’s trying to break into the rodeo circuit is probably not what he has in mind.
For fucks sake, when I was setting boundaries for my brother, I didn’t think I needed to tell him to send me a bodyguard less like Kevin Costner and more like Kevin James.
Maybe he’s trying to punish me for not allowing extras from Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. to complicate my workday.
Or maybe he’s just an idiot who’s completely unaware of how strikingly attractive this man is.
But how could he not know?
He’s the one with the perfect skills to observe this man’s glory.
I mean, Bronx is flirting with the heights of the heavens, filling out his suit as though it’s a job application he desperately needs, and sounds like he could make a career in voice porn if this whole security business avenue doesn’t end well.
Curie on a cracker…I would so subscribe to that site.
But just his channel.
“Blake,” I fumble out as our hands finally fall apart. “You can call me Blake.”