The Two Week Arrangement (Penthouse Affair, #1)

Presley

Poking her brush at the paper, Bianca mutters, “This looks like ass.”

I glance at her perfectly decent watercolor landscape. “Hey, you’re doing better than me. My trees clearly have some kind of disease.”

She’s always been the more artistic one. It was her idea to spend our lazy Saturday afternoon sipping cheap wine at a nearby painting studio that offers classes. Not that I objected—after the week I’ve had, the instructor’s hypnotically calm voice is more than welcome, and the act of painting is also soothing, despite how much I suck at it. Plus, Bianca’s mother bought her a gift card here last Christmas, and so this little excursion doesn’t hurt my pocketbook.

We mix and dab in comfortable silence for a while before Bianca asks, “So how’d your first week at the new job go?”

I hesitate, the tip of my brush hovering over a lumpy cloud. “Actually . . . something weird happened last night.”

“Why were you working so late? I thought you were going out for a drink.”

“I wasn’t working. Well, I sort of was, just not at work.”

“You can start making sense whenever, y’know.” Her brush drips paint on the carpet, but no one seems to notice.

I take a deep breath. “I saw Dominic at the bar, and he said . . . he needed somebody to go to a business dinner with him. The person he invited ditched him.” I probably don’t need to mention the detail about how he hires women for sex. “He offered me five-hundred dollars, so I went.”

Now it’s Bianca’s turn to pause. She stares at her painting, her brow furrowing deeper and deeper, then she looks at me. “Your boss paid you to be his date.” Her tone is dead flat.

I pause to listen to the instructor’s next instructions before replying. “O-okay, I get how that sounds bad, but it wasn’t really a date, per se, he just—”

“Asked you to dinner?” she says icily.

“It’s not like we were alone together. There was an investor—the point of everything was to try to impress him. Strictly business. I would have done it for free, the money was just because it was such short notice.”

She purses her lips, then makes a low, grudging noise. “Well . . . as long as this isn’t some gross sexual harassment thing, I guess I don’t have to kill him.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s not.” No matter how much I sometimes wish it were, except there’s nothing gross about Dominic Aspen. “Anyway, I think it went well. The investor seemed happy. I hope it was enough to convince him that Aspen is a worthwhile bet.”This belongs to NôvelDrama.Org - ©.

“Great, but I’m still skeptical about whether this was the best idea,” Bianca says.

“I know it’s . . . unorthodox. But I figured, hey, I can make a little extra money for Michael’s school stuff, learn more about business, and get extra access to the CEO. I’m competing with three other highly qualified interns, so why not take advantage of a chance to push ahead?”

“Those are all good points.” Bianca smirks. “And I’m sure that you having the hots for Dominic has nothing to do with your decision.”

I almost knock over my cup of paint water. “W-what? Of course it didn’t.” Then I realize what I just admitted to. “I mean, I don’t.”

“Bullshit, honey, you talk about him nonstop. And now you’re gunning for—how did you put it—extra access?” She bounces her eyebrows.

“Please shut up,” I say on a groan.

But she plows ahead with her teasing anyway. “I guess I should be glad you’re dating. I think you’d be more relaxed about work and money if you got laid once in a while.”

“I told you it wasn’t dating, and nobody is getting laid!”

As she cackles at my pain, my phone rescues me with a chime. It’s a text from Austin.

Hey, I’ve been thinking about you. Still want to get drinks soon?

I have to think for a second before I remember who that is. I have his number saved, so—oh yeah, the guy from the coffee shop who liked Delinquent Story. How could I forget? My life’s been so crazy lately, all the chaos just shoved the memory of meeting him right out of my brain.

I show my screen to Bianca. “See? This is what a date looks like. Not the weird fantasy you’re inventing about me and Dominic.”

“It’s not just in my head, but hey, whatever you need to believe.” Before I can argue back, she asks, “So you’re gonna go out with this Austin dude?”

“Sure, why not? He’s cute, and he seemed nice.” And I really need a distraction right now. A date with Austin will be a welcome dose of normality. Wouldn’t it?

Bianca snorts. “That doesn’t sound very enthusiastic compared to how you talk about—”

“Oh my God, B, enough already. We’re just going out, not getting married. I don’t have to be crazy about him right off the bat.”

“That’s fair. I guess I’ve accepted dates for dumber reasons.” She takes a sip of wine.

While the instructor demonstrates the next part of the painting, I text Austin back.

I’d love to. How about Wednesday, maybe seven-ish? You pick the place.

Only a couple of minutes later, my phone blinks with his very positive response. This man doesn’t play games . . .

I add another point next to his name on my mental scoreboard.

• • •

Early on Monday, someone knocks on my cubicle wall. I turn in my chair, expecting Jordan or one of the other interns, only for my heart rate to spike at the sight of Dominic.

Dominic in a dark navy suit looking so fuckable, I have to swallow down a wave of lust.

“Good, you’re here,” he says. Before I can wonder where else I’d be, he asks, “Do you have a moment to talk?”

“O-oh, of course, please come in.”

He’s the freaking CEO—I’d make time for him no matter what I was in the middle of. I can only hope this isn’t the bad kind of we need to talk. I fold my hands attentively in my lap, trying not to wring them.

His dark blue eyes flick back and forth. “I meant privately. In my office.”

My nerves flare with a mix of excitement and trepidation. What does he want?

The part of my brain that’s been living in the gutter ever since I met Dominic is laser-focused on the prospect of being alone with him. Every other part is panicking over whether I’m about to be fired. But if that were the case, would he seem so strangely on edge?

Well, no matter what’s going on here, I have to face it like a professional. I save the document I was working on and get up to follow him.

Dominic leads me through a short maze of halls to his corner office, opens the door, and gestures for me to go first. As I enter, I admire the lavishly appointed room, which boasts a huge, polished cherrywood desk, a matching bookcase packed with volumes of business books, and plush leather chairs around a smoked-glass coffee table for meeting VIPs. It smells like coffee and a hint of Dominic’s spicy cedar cologne. I wonder whether the furniture remained from when his father occupied this office, or if Dominic picked it out himself when he took over.

He closes the heavy oak door behind him. All the noise of the bustling workplace beyond it cuts off, leaving us wrapped together in dense silence. “About last Friday night . . .”

My stomach tries to leap out of my body.