One Kiss: An Office Romance Read online

  One Kiss

  Jess Bentley

  Copyright © 2019 by Jess Bentley

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  EXCERPT FROM BOSS DADDY

  Also by Jess Bentley

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Clarissa

  The early-morning commute is just as crushing as usual. The sun is shining through the breaks between skyscrapers, and businesspeople of all types do that hurry-wait-dodge-dive-hurry dance that we all do, trying to get to our desks on time.

  On rainy days, there aren’t as many people on the wide, concrete sidewalks of downtown Chicago, but the ones that are there are ten times as brutal. Since the weather is beautiful today, people are just slightly more polite, though they would happily elbow you into the crosswalk if it meant getting past you just a little bit quicker.

  Still, I can’t help but feel some strange sense of optimism as I walk through the sunny streets. Things are finally starting to settle down at work. I am pretty sure that I am getting noticed by all the right people. If I just keep my head above water for a little while longer, I know that everything will fall into place.

  My cell phone buzzes in the pocket of my tweed pantsuit, the one with the palazzo-flared leg and poplin jacket, which is a favorite. Careful to watch people around me for signs of sudden changes in direction, I lift the phone to my ear and thumb it automatically to take the call.

  “You’re up early,” I remark wryly, instantly knowing who it is.

  “Can’t sleep,” she frets.

  I pause with the throng of commuters who are lined up behind the Don’t Walk sign. About half the people continue to walk in place, gently bouncing to trick their FitBits into thinking they’ve exercised more than they did.

  “Well, it’s almost eight,” I shrug. “It’s not like the crack of dawn. It’s practically a respectable time for people to wake up.”

  “Not for teenagers,” she drawls through a huge yawn. “We need like sixteen hours a day of sleep or something. You can look it up.”

  The light changes and everybody presses forward, flooding the crosswalk with silk and wool and leather.

  “Yeah, that doesn’t sound right,” I shake my head as I walk swiftly through the crowd. “Besides, you’re only going to be a teenager for about two more months. You’re going to need to find a better excuse.”

  “Jeez, you’re right. I better enjoy it while I can—ugh...”

  “Landry?” I ask, as her voice trails out. “You okay? I think I’m losing you…”

  “No, I’m here, I’m here,” she sighs, grunting uncomfortably. “I just, um, slept wrong or something. My neck is all weird.”

  “Slept wrong?” I repeat sarcastically. “You mean you overslept wrong.”

  “Ha. Ha. Ha,” she adds mirthlessly. “You think just because you’re about to be Head Br—”

  “Stop!” I bark, startling several office workers and executives and attorneys around me.

  They glance at me with alarm and then resign themselves to the flow of traffic and float away. I huddle closer to the class enclosure next to the revolving door of my office building.

  “What?” she answers quickly. “Are we still not—”

  “Bup bup bup!” I interrupt her immediately. “Don’t say it! You’ll jinx it!”

  “Jeez, Clarissa,” she groans dramatically. “You can’t really jinx things. Either he’s going to make you the Head Br—”

  “Stop it! I’m serious!” I exclaim, pulling the phone away from my ear to stare at it in horror.

  “I’m just saying you’re being superstitious!” Landry continues unperturbed on the other end of the line.

  I know exactly what she is saying. I just really want her to stop saying it.

  “Okay!” I finally answer through gritted teeth, jamming a fist against the tight knot of my stomach. “You’re breaking up! I have to go!”

  “Fine! I’m going back to bed!”

  “That’s what I figured!”

  Rolling my eyes, I tuck the phone back in my pocket and straighten my shoulders. From my reflection in the glass, I still look every bit as composed as I should. Bright-eyed, check, and bushy-tailed, check. Ready for the day.

  Before security, I duck to the left side of the lobby to get a quick coffee at the kiosk. I had coffee at the apartment, but a little more never hurts.

  “Hey, Clarissa,” Nayala smiles at me over the shoulder of one of my brawny workmates. “The usual?”

  “Yes, please,” I nod.

  My workmate turns around to raise an eyebrow at me, looking me up and down. He’s one of those fireplug-shaped guys with tufts of dirty-blond hair ringing his puffy ears and a permanently disgruntled disposition.

  I just shrug almost imperceptibly under his gaze and keep my lips shut. I have found, working in an office of almost all men, that sometimes saying nothing is the only thing you can say without repercussions.

  He turns back around, apparently as satisfied as he’s going to get, and takes the tall paper cup from the countertop then walks away. As soon as he is out of range, Nayala winks one of her enormous, cocoa-brown eyes at me.

  “Gee, I’m sorry to scare Fred off for you,” I smirk. “I think you have a shot with him.”

  “Oh, yeah, he’s quite the conversationalist,” she quips in her clipped, Middle Eastern/Londoner accent. “I’m a bit sorry to see him go.”

  “I can retrieve him for you if you like?” I offer facetiously as she turns the steam wand on full blast and gives the stainless steel pitcher of milk a good jostle.

  “If you do, I’ll tell him you’re secretly in love with him,” she singsongs threateningly.

  With quick, precise moments, she pours the espresso into a paper cup and drips the frothy milk over the top, ending with a marshmallow-like dollop that makes my mouth water.

  “You’d only break his heart,” I sigh. “It just isn’t meant to be between us.”

  She scowls prettily as she sprinkles a bit of cinnamon on top of my cappuccino. “Not even for poor old Fred?”

  She reaches for a lid and I raise my hands in protest. Understanding, she replaces the lid on its stack and slides the scrumptious beverage toward me: topless, steaming, and delicious.

  “No time,” I answer vaguely as I reach out for the cappuccino. “Not even for poor old Fred.”

  “Oh, one day you will make time,” she smirks as she swipes my debit card through the reader.

  “You really think so? I’ve been able to resist, so far.”

  Nayala shrugs wisely as though she has decades of experience, though I suspect she only has a few hundred hours of romantic comedy movies’ worth of experience. I have never known her to have a romance, a marriage, or even an ex to talk about. Then again, I guess we don’t know each other all that well.

  “When it comes along, you w
on’t be able to help it,” she pouts. “Everything will shift. All your priorities. You will have to make time.”

  I nod dramatically, playing my role of “eager listener” to the best of my ability.

  “You’ll have to tell me more about this mysterious planetwide shift one day,” I smile.

  She nods officiously. “Certainly,” she smiles, by way of goodbye, her eyes already on the customer behind me.

  All I can say is that the cappuccino foam must have hypnotized me, because when I take the cup and napkin from the counter and pivot, my mouth already watering as the fluffy cloud of cinnamon-dusted goodness wobbles against the rolled paper lip, I completely forget that the other customer behind me. I lean forward into the space where he already is, jerking myself back in a panic only to slosh that perfect, frothy dollop over the side and watch it fall in horrific slow-motion. It practically leaps from the cup to splash over the wool-trousered crotch of a man I have never met.

  Right. Across. The. Crotch.

  Gasping, my arm shoots out with the napkin between my fingers, smearing and swiping the foam until I realize what I’m doing.

  The crotch.

  I can’t not know it anymore. I feel it—him—beneath the fabric. The thick, profound flesh that responds immediately to my touch, getting more rigid in moments.

  I turn to stone. Or at least I hope I do. A marble replica of myself appears where my body used to be.

  “Oh my God,” the marble replica babbles feverishly, “I am so sorry.”

  My hand hovers in midair, aware at a cellular level that I have just soiled, and then fondled, a complete stranger.

  “Wow,” he grunts uncomfortably, “that’s pretty hot.”

  Finally I allow myself to make eye contact. His serious brown eyes crinkle at the edges, hopefully with something like humor. Though I am practically stunned into stupidity, my brain does manage to make the following split-second assessment: square jaw, high cheekbones, and thick, wavy hair.

  Christ, that is a handsome man.

  Okay, let the babbling begin.

  “I am so sorry!” I hear myself say. “Let me get you a napkin… I mean, other than this one. I mean, you can do this yourself of course. I mean, God, are they ruined? Your slacks, I mean? I mean… Oh, wow.”

  Swallowing hard, I force myself to press my lips together. I have to make myself stop.

  The corner of his mouth twists into a subtle smirk as he takes the napkin from my trembling fingertips and, tugging his pants taut with his other hand, dabs the fabric gently.

  “Is it coming out? I’m so, uh—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he smiles gently, bracketing his cheeks in long, deep dimples.

  After a few seconds, he stops and just shrugs.

  “I could pay for dry-cleaning? I mean…”

  I could shut up, I tell myself sternly. That’s an option I could explore. Shutting up. Shutting up right frickin’ now.

  “You know what, I think I have another pair in my car. I’ll just head over to the parking garage. My dry-cleaning is in the back seat—isn’t that a coincidence?”

  “It certainly is,” I choke over my dry, useless tongue.

  He smiles gently, reaching out and, to my surprise, nudging the hand that holds the rest of my cappuccino toward my body.

  “Go ahead and drink that,” he suggests. “It looks delicious. What’s left of it, anyway.”

  When he smiles, I can’t help but marvel at the perfection of his straight, white teeth. Supermodel teeth. But not overly whitened or anything. Just good, strong teeth.

  His eyes focus on me as I lift the cup to my lips and take a drink. It’s just cool enough to sip, and the aroma and texture flood my mouth. I hear myself sigh.

  “That good, huh?” he smirks.

  I feel my cheeks go bright red with embarrassment. And yet I can’t just walk away. I’m caught in limbo between what I feel is an unfinished apology and some kind of tractor beam of attraction.

  “It really is delicious,” I chuckle, cringing with embarrassment.

  “I will be sure to get one for myself when I get back. After the pants, that is. I think I still have a little time before they send HR after me. First day, you know. I’d like to make a good impression.”

  When he smiles light lines fan out from his eyes. He has brown eyes. Kind eyes.

  “New job?” I ask, taking another sip of my coffee.

  He glances at his wrist, checking the time on a fine watch. An antique, I think. Kind of a classic detail on this thoroughly modern gentleman. Most men just check their cell phones.

  “Yes… in about twenty-three minutes. If I hurry, I might still have time to get a coffee for myself.”

  I cringe with guilt, but he just shrugs amiably. His eyes sweep back and forth across my face, belying some kind of internal monologue. I wonder briefly what he’s thinking.

  “I guess I should be going,” he says simply.

  He begins to turn away and then pivots back toward me. His eyes search mine for a full two seconds.

  “Actually… I never do this,” he begins in a conspiratorial mutter. “And I hope you won’t think this is appropriate, but… could I maybe get your number?”

  My breath catches in my throat. I feel myself begin to smile. No. “Smile” is not the word. I feel myself begin to grin.

  “So you can send me a dry-cleaning bill?” I joke.

  He shrugs devilishly. “Something like that.”

  “That does seem fair,” I reply.

  He takes his cell phone out of the front pocket of his satchel, another detail that I can’t help but commit to memory. He doesn’t keep his cell phone in his pocket. He keeps it close, but not too close. Maybe he is not completely addicted like 95 percent of everyone else in this world. That would be a relief.

  I give him my cell phone number and he holds his phone away to text something that I can’t see. By the teasing look in his eyes, I wonder what on earth he could be sending me. Something tells me it’s not a vulgar picture.

  “There we go. Promise me you won’t look at that until later, okay?” He winks devilishly.

  Again my breath is swept away from me. What a flirt!

  “Now to save your contact name… What should I call you?”

  “Clarissa,” I answer, unable to find a more clever alternative anywhere in my half-functioning brain at the moment. “Clarissa Goring.”

  “Maxwell Kent,” he smiles. “Pleasure to meet you, Clarissa. Sorry I have to run off like this.”

  I feel my cell phone buzz against my thigh as the text message alert comes through. Maxwell backs away, eye contact lingering as long as possible before he rushes to the revolving glass doors, his steps quickening as he moves away.

  “I sure hope he isn’t going to be late for his first day,” Nayala announces behind me.

  I whirl around to face her. She’s smirking imperiously as she cocks her head to the side and raises her eyebrows.

  “Think you could make time for that?” she continues.

  “You watch too many movies, Nayala,” I retort, but my voice sounds unconvinced.

  She shrugs and looks away, wiping down the counter with a white, fluffy towel.

  “I’m just saying…”

  “I heard you!” I answer, rolling my eyes as I back away toward the elevators.

  But as I ride the elevator up to the thirty-fourth floor, a few ounces of cappuccino still in my trembling hand, I feel… something. Some flutter in my belly. Butterflies. My stomach clenching nervously in something that feels sick, painful, excited, and wonderful all at the same time.

  And awful. Don’t forget awful.

  I feel like I just crossed a threshold that I can’t uncross. I gave him my number. A stranger! Why would I do that? Just because he asked? I feel like I’ve been strapped into a roller coaster, and the attendant has just announced that I have to keep my arms and feet inside the ride, and this whole thing is going to start any moment.

  Okay, I tel
l myself. It’s just a phone number. It’s just a text. Nothing has happened yet.

  But what if it does? What if he asks me out or something?

  Then you go out, like a normal human being, I tell myself. What’s the worst that could happen?

  The worst that could happen is that Nayala could be right.

  “Okay, you’re being ridiculous,” I mutter under my breath.

  The woman in front of me on the elevator turns around, twisting her neck curiously and edging away from me. I realize I said that out loud and force a not-insane-looking smile onto my face until she scowls and turns back toward the door.

  See? I can handle it.

  The elevator doors slide open and the lightly vanilla-scented air of the reception area floods in. The receptionist, Rosemary, gives me a friendly nod of greeting as I stride across the textured carpet toward my cubicle.

  A maintenance man is busy working on my boss’s door, and as I near him I realize he is scraping Greg’s name off the glass. My mouth pops open a little bit. This is the Head Broker’s office, and since his promotion a couple weeks ago, that position has remained unfilled.

  I don’t even want to think it. But the thought keeps creeping around the edges of my mind even though I am stubbornly trying to ignore it.

  Maybe? Could today be the day I finally get that promotion?

  I’m sure that people have noticed my work, even though Greg has this annoying habit of taking credit for all the deals I put together for him. But that’s my job, right? As his assistant, my job is to make him look good.

  And I’ve made him look really good. I mean, really good.

  As I step into my cubicle, I allow myself a moment to watch the maintenance man and wonder whose name he’s going to put on the glass. In my imagination, I can see it vividly. Clarissa Goring, Head Broker.