Untimely You (2 page)

I cringe at the use of my full first name and sigh. “Yes, that’s me. Can I help you?”

Papers shuffle on her end and my gaze does a quick sweep around the office. Nobody seems to notice me taking a personal call during work hours, so I focus my attention on her.

“I’m sorry, but your loan has been denied. Mr. Carmichael wanted me to assure you that if you would like to reapply when you’ve been at your job for another eight months, we could work with you. Unfortunately, your debt to income ratio is high but your short work history at your current place of employment is the major factor in the denial of this loan.” Her voice is bored and unaffected.

I, however, am not. Anger surges through my veins.

“This is ridiculous,” I complain, unable to keep my voice from rising to noticeable octaves. “I have nearly perfect credit! And I’m living month to month at my place. Not to mention, I have the down payment you required. That debt will be eliminated once I get that building because I’ll live in the apartment above the store!”

The woman sighs. “I’m sorry, Miss Noble, but while those factors might be true, your length of employment is the problem. Before this job, you were unemployed. Underwriters need work history, ma’am. You don’t have one.”

“Because I was taking care of my dying grandmother! Have you people no sympathetic bones in your bodies?”

“Like I said, you can reapply in another eight months. Have a nice day and thank you for doing business with Cornerstone Bank and Trust.”

Click.

I blink several times in shock. Not only have I been denied the ticket to my dream, but I also just got hung up on. Unbelievable.

“Who ran over your cat?” Paul questions with a chuckle as he sits in his chair at the cubicle beside me. “Or should I say cats? How many cats do you own anyway?”

Swiveling in my chair in a burst of fury, I shoot him a venom-laced glare. “Shut it, punk. I may be older than you, but I’m not an old maid and I don’t own one single fur baby.” In my over exuberant denial of his cat lady digs, I send my travel coffee mug careening across my desk. Thankfully it was only
partially
full and only spilled on
half
the papers I was working on. With a huff, I snag three tissues from the dispenser to clean up the spill. I’d like to say this sort of thing never happens…but I’m not a liar.

This sort of thing happens all the time.

I’m what most people call a hot mess.

A clumsy-trip-over-anything-let-me-see-what-I-can-break-or-spill-on-accident kind of hot mess. The hottest mess of them all. Quite frankly, I’m on fire.

He laughs and I grumble. Paul is a nice guy who likes to give me shit, but today I’m not in the mood. I’ve been having a period from hell this week and I’ve just been denied by yet a third bank for a business loan and operating capital. Clearly, my education and background in business management mean nothing to these lenders. Or the fact that I managed an office at a publishing firm for seven years before my grandmother got sick. I’d given up that job to care for her for four years before old age finally got the best of the spunky old woman. The day she died, I went job hunting again.

But apparently there’s such a thing as being too qualified. Every management position seemed to want to hire from within rather than take a chance on an outsider. I’d been looked over time and time again.

Hocksted Holdings was one of the few companies that had any openings. While the position was fairly entry-level, there was promise for growth for those individuals who wanted to work hard enough for it. Mr. Andrews, part owner of Hocksted, was the one who hired me. I’d like to say it was because he’d seen potential in me and was impressed with my résumé—glossing over the four year hiatus. However, it could have been because I tripped over his rug in his office at my interview, tumbled to the floor, and skinned both my knees in the crash. I’d never seen such a horrified look on a potential employer’s face in my life. I’m sure I had a neon sign blinking above me that said,
Hazard alert—this girl is a workman’s comp nightmare.
Thankfully, he didn’t heed the warning and hired me on the spot. A part of me felt guilty for leading him on to think I’d do great things one day for the company. In actuality, I was biding my time so that I could eventually start my own small publishing firm.

A tendril of auburn hair falls in my face and I hastily tuck it behind my ear. I’m overwhelmed by defeat. Noble House was supposed to be a one-woman show—a small time publisher that uncovers the talent that gets looked over and forgotten about. I was going to wear many hats in the beginning as I grew my company and eventually hire a couple of employees. Unfortunately, my dream seems to be just that. A damn dream.

“Want to go to lunch later?” Paul questions while he taps away on his computer. “My treat.”

I absently agree because I’m suddenly inundated with the scent that makes me crazy and concentration is no longer my friend. Like a lioness in heat, I lift my nose and inhale the masculine scent of Mr. Hocksted. Each time I pick up on his sinful smell, he’s already stalked past me toward his massive office in the corner. From behind my cubicle, I don’t get to observe him much—well, not at all. He’s not chatty like Mr. Andrews, who converses with the staff on a regular basis. No, Mr. Hocksted just storms through here with the fury of an F5 tornado. The air parts like the Red Sea for his domineering form and swirls around me, knocking papers to the floor and sending my hair tickling across my cheeks.

“I was thinking El Loritos. Don’t they have half-priced margaritas on Wednesdays?”

Lifting a little in my chair, I give Paul a quick
mmm hmmm
as I spot Mr. Hocksted just in time to see him slip into his office. The door thunders shut behind him and I stare at the thick mahogany as if at any moment it might reopen with him gazing back at me. With a sigh, I sit back down. Today he was wearing a navy blue pinstripe suit that hugged his beautiful frame. On occasion, I’ve caught glimpses of his face. Angular jaw. Black hair styled to perfection. Penetrating, irritated brown eyes with tiny crow’s feet in the corners that indicate he’s older than me. He’s kind of fucking scary, but I think that’s part of the reason I’m attracted to him.

I glance over at Paul and wonder if I could ever date a guy like him. The jokester. He’s my typical type: tall, handsome, funny. But something tells me he’d be a bore in the sack. Paul probably thinks doggie style is getting kinky. He probably also loves his mother more than any video game ever crafted and there’s a good chance he might still live in her basement. My coworker definitely belongs in the friend zone.

Paul doesn’t hold a candle to the mysterious man who owns this company. I’m no gold digger—I’m an orgasm digger. And something tells me Hocksted would be just the freak in the sheets I need.

My skin flushes and I sigh. It’s been at least nine months since I last had sex. Some guy my best friend Shawna set me up with named Dave who had wined and dined me. He’d tried to show me some of his magic tricks with his tongue too, but had miserably failed. The moment he started tonguing my ass, I knew an orgasm was off the table. Where he thought he was being an adventurous lover, I was worried that he might get a little more than he had bargained for. Before he left, he tried to kiss me with his dirty mouth. I’d dodged his lips, forced a hug instead, and then refused to answer any of his calls thereafter.

Some days I consider calling him just for some action—maybe I could have coached him a little better on what a girl needs.

A shudder courses through me.

Perhaps something new will do me some good. Paul might have some not-so-dirty tricks up his sleeve. And maybe, just maybe, he knows how to show a woman a good time.

My eyes skim over his hipster hair and glasses. The scruff on his jaw isn’t meant to be cute, it’s there from being lazy. Lazy in real life means lazy in bed.

Mr. Hocksted is always impeccably dressed.

Mr. Hocksted is always shaved smooth with not a hair out of place.

Mr. Hocksted is the type that eats lazy for breakfast.

“How old are you, Paul?” I question as I pick at the cheese that’s beginning to firm up on the unfinished queso with my tortilla chip.

He replies to a text and downs the rest of his margarita. I’d abstained because I find it disrespectful to drink knowing I have to return to work after. Paul clearly has no qualms about it.

“Twenty-six. You, Cat Lady?”

I flip him off and pull out my debit card to pay for my portion of the bill. Don’t want him getting any funny ideas.

“Call me Cat Lady again and I’ll claw your balls right from your body,” I threaten. “And I’m thirty-three.”

He feigns shock at my threatening words and I giggle. Paul may not be a Hocksted, but he is good company.

“NO! NO! NO! NO!” a voice screeches over and over from the booth behind Paul.

We both startle and I lean out of the booth to see a woman frantically trying to calm down the person in front of her while she attempts to feed a baby in a high chair.

“Austin,” she coos, “it’s okay. Daddy will be here soon. He has your DS.”

The boy, who I’m guessing is around ten or eleven, begins his shouting again. “NO! NO! NO! NO!”

She jerks her head over her shoulder and gives everyone an apologetic smile, including me, as she attempts to calm her son. When he starts banging on the table with his fists, the baby in the seat starts to cry. To an onlooker, he probably appears to be a misbehaving brat. However, since I grew up with Shawna and her younger sister Alyssa who is autistic, I recognize the signs of a child having a meltdown from an illness rather than an attempt to rile their mother.

Snatching my copy of
Great Expectations
from my purse, I scoot out of the booth and sit down beside the child. His brown hair is messy and wild. He continues his fist slamming and chanting as if he doesn’t even notice my presence. It’s utter chaos at the table.

Ignoring his meltdown, I flip open to the page I’d been reading last night and begin reading aloud. Each word is soft and calm, barely audible beside his commotion. But soon, his fists stop and he stares over at me, mouth open. The boy leans in really close, breaching one’s normal personal space zone, and I briefly glance at him with a wink, never stopping my reading. His wide brown eyes gaze up at me as if I’m a magical creature he’s never seen before. When he starts to fidget, I pat his hand and then smile when he gives it a tight squeeze. His breathing is heavy as he peers down at the book, clearly intrigued with what I’m doing.

I read as the food is delivered.

I read as they eat.

I read even when Paul grumbles about being late back to work.

Eventually, a flustered man comes bounding through the doors of the restaurant waving a grey Nintendo DS in his hand. “Evie, we got the house!” His confused eyes land on mine for a brief moment before scooping the frazzled woman into his arms to hug her.

Jealousy pangs my heart that they were able to get what they wanted when only hours earlier, I was denied. I lean toward the boy and whisper, “One day I’m going to have a store and fill it with books. Whenever I get anxious, I read and it makes me feel better.”

He wraps his arm around me and hugs me. “Pretty.”

I beam at him and ruffle his hair. “Handsome.”

His gaze holds mine for a brief second before he starts chanting “Daddy.”

I slide out of the booth to leave the family be. My hand nearly knocks over a glass of water but I catch it before it sends more chaos into their day. When I glance up at the mother, tears well in her eyes. She reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “Thank you, sweetheart. You have no idea what you just did for us.”

My cheeks heat and I shrug her praise off. “It was my pleasure. Way better company than Paul over there,” I tell her with a smile.

She winks at me and releases my hand, letting me go to sit back down at my table.

“Ugh, you have the patience of a saint,” Paul complains as if reading to the child was some sort of burden.

I roll my eyes at him as I tuck my card back into my wallet, mildly annoyed by the fact that I paid for his lunch too in my absence. I’m just gathering my things when I’m assaulted by an all-too-familiar, enticing scent.

“Miss Noble?”

The voice is rich, smooth like melted chocolate. My eyes drag up the fitted navy material of his slacks, up over his expensive black leather belt, along the pearly buttons on his powder blue dress shirt that stretches over his clearly muscled frame, glides up his taut, tanned neck and land on his mouth.

He’s never directly spoken to me, and I’ve certainly never been this close to him before. Not once in the four months I’ve been working for his company. My gaze lingers on his frowning, full lips for a second longer than they should before landing on his narrowed chocolate eyes encased in dark lashes. The tiny crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes are more prominent in the bright restaurant lighting and I’m curious about his age. His eyebrow arches up as if he’s amused at my blatant gawking and a small smile tugs at his lips showcasing some lines around his handsome mouth that prove the fact that he’s spent many years laughing.