Million Dollar Devil

11.

The next morning, the city wears its gray skies like a heavy cloak.
I wake up feeling like I barely slept. which, to be fair, is true.
The memory of last night, of Mr. Hayes at my door, his lingering stare, the way my heart had hammered against my ribs, plays on a loop in my mind as I dress for work.

By the time I slip into my fitted green dress and swipe on a soft pink gloss, I feel...better. More composed. Almost like I can pretend last night never happened.

Almost.

My green dress hugs my hips, smoothing down my body in a fitted line that ends just below my knees. I pull the sleeves down slightly, trying to ward off the lingering chill clinging to my skin from the frozen morning air. 

My pink lips tremble lightly as I walk, still thawing, and my fingers move stiffly, fumbling the strap of my bag. The sharp tap of my black heels against the hardwood floor rings out like gunshots in the otherwise still hallway, each step a little too loud, a little too revealing.

From behind Mr. Hayes' office door, deep, muffled voices ripple out. A low, masculine symphony of power plays and negotiations. I ease the door open carefully, hoping I can slip past unnoticed, but the second I step into the space, the air shifts. 

I feel it immediately, the prickle of attention. I try to keep my head down, pretending I'm invisible as I make a beeline toward my office. 

Subtle entrance? Absolutely not.

I sound like a tap-dancing horse.

Four men lounge across the couches like they own the place, their voices threading in and out of each other's with casual seriousness. And then there's Mr. Hayes. He sits slightly apart, his posture relaxed but his presence impossible to ignore. Leaned back against the leather, one ankle casually hooked over the opposite knee, he doesn't even have to speak to dominate the room. His dark hair is slightly tousled, his black suit molded perfectly to his broad frame looking like someone who woke up rich, handsome, and slightly annoyed about it.

The second I step inside, his head turns.
Green eyes, sharp as broken glass, lock onto mine.
The conversation continues without him, but he doesn't look away.

He runs his fingers across the stubble on his jaw then absently over his lips, and for some reason my brain just... short-circuits. I physically shiver like someone flipped the AC on max.

I quietly shut the door behind me as I slip inside. I place my jacket on the coat hanger and settle into my seat. 

The warmth of the room washes over me as I make myself comfortable. My tired eyes remind of the events of last night, after which I had barely gotten any sleep. Practically every aspect of the night had been one giant embarrassment, from my looks to my broken heater, the piled up dishes, and my leaking roof. I'm sure I have sufficiently demonstrated to Mr. Hayes what a disaster of a person he hired, there would be no more proof necessary.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, I groan before I even look.

Message from Leo Hayes:

You're late.

I glance at the clock, 8:03. Three minutes. Three minutes and I'm officially on Santa's Naughty List, Corporate Edition. I roll my eyes before typing a quick response.

Lillian Wright:
I'm sorry, it won't happen again.

I begin sorting through my emails, making note of meeting times for the week. I set a reminder to email all notes to Mr. Hayes ensuring he won't show up at my door again. As usual his schedule is chalk-full of conference calls, dinners, meetings and special events - all of which were up to me to handle logistically. If I'm stressed just having to make this schedule, then I can't imagine having to live it out. When does the man sleep?