Shanice Wilson, born and raised in Harlem, moves to Atlanta for her new job. The company sets her up in a lovely cul-de-sac in an almost deserted part of the suburbs.
Nate Dylan is the president of the Dead-Eye Angels MC. He rides with his buddies...
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Song: Arcade by Davina Michelle
I step into the empty executive floor of D&G, bathed in the silvery luminescence of the November moonlight that pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The sight of the moonlight dancing on the Atlanta skyline fills me with a bittersweet mixture of awe and nostalgia. Each twinkling light whispers stories of ambition and duty, reminding me why I'm here on a freaking Sunday. Though the lights don't compare to the grandeur of New York, the ATL has its own unique charm, and hopefully, it'll convince him to be here. Clutching the bottle of old vintage Château Lafite Rothschild, I pause, letting the ambiance wash over me, the moonlight mingling with anticipation in my veins.
"Hey, didn't think you'd come in on a Sunday," Hendrick's baritone voice greets me as I enter the office.
I shake the Bordeaux in my hand that I took from the business lounge. "And miss the opportunity to drink an $800 bottle of wine, never. "
Hendrick walks to the far end of his office, his steps echoing softly against the polished floor. He retrieves two long-stemmed wine glasses and sets them up on the table in his lounge area. "It beats being friends with the owner's grandson," he says, a touch of impishness in his voice. "But we're here to work."
I playfully roll my eyes. Great way to ruin my fun. I haven't savored a great bottle of wine since the days I lived with my parents. And not to be a snob, but it sure beats the $6 wine from the corner grocery store, especially if it's free. "Sure, Hendrick. We always do this. We start working, and ten minutes later, you start opening up about the indomitable Antonella."
He takes a seat on the rich, supple black leather upholstery, flawlessly tailored to showcase the finest quality. I run a hand over it, relishing the smooth texture. It invites touch, but I quickly withdraw my hand, my lips curling upward. Hendrick is a notorious womanizer, and he has mentioned more than once that he and Antonella have fucked all over his office. Some things shouldn't be shared between an employer and their subordinates.
Hendrick waves me over as he crosses one leg over the other. "It's a new couch. Victoria decorated when she learned about my extracurricular activities," he chuckles, loosening the buttons on his silk and cotton button-up.
"Still, there are some things you shouldn't talk about in polite company," I say, taking a sip of the delicious five-year-old wine.
He snorts. "Really, you polite company? The woman who comes to work in jeans and sneakers? Antonella would have eaten you alive for dressing down like that."
"You don't have to worry. It's only Nordstrom workwear from now on."
I sit next to Hendrick, and we delve into the latest setbacks of the product launch. Who would have guessed that launching a new smartwatch would be pernicious for the D&G brand? I did because every Tom, Dick, and Harry is launching one, and you can't compete with the production capabilities of Asian companies. But yeah, it's Hendrick's passion project — a.k.a. distraction from Antonella — and I'm stuck helping him.
