The Contract; A Billionaire Romance (18+)

THREE

Odessa

Once I'm in the hallway and everyone disperses, I pull out my phone and shoot Jenna a text.

Me: Be prepared for a phone call once I'm off work. You're not gonna believe my shitty luck.

Jenna sends back a quick response.

Jenna: I can't wait for the next installment in Odessa's crazy life followed by a heart emoji. I roll my eyes and pocket my phone, rushing back to my office, wondering how long I can hide inside there and get away with it.

Maybe I'll open a window and launch myself out of it, ending this suffering once and for all.

I circled these halls about ten damn times trying to find the meeting room and knew that I was in for it for being late. There wasn't a soul to give me any sort of guidance, and the directories were so confusing. I don't think the person even knew what they were mapping out. It could have been the Empire State Building, for all I know.

I finally accepted defeat and found Cindy in the lobby to help me. That took another five minutes.

But that doesn't matter now—what matters is who the fuck I saw standing at the front of the room, looking at me as if he had seen a goddamn ghost.

What are the odds?

I made him a promise, a deal; next time I see him I will give him my name and my number, taking it as a sign of fate. Now, he technically has both, but not in the ways we had planned—this isn't fate, this is the universe playing a sick joke on me.

I feel my face heat at the memory of his mouth against mine and shake the thought from my head. He is my boss—that is if he keeps me around—and I cannot be having these feelings.

I quickly return to my office and print out the meeting notes. I feel that I did a good job summarizing every topic he covered and writing them into a well-articulated document. Once he sees this, I'm crossing my fingers and my toes that he'll decide to keep me employed.

With my luck, the chances are far too slim for me to even be hopeful.

I take a deep breath and prepare myself for the worst, and I rip the document from the printer and leave my office, heading over to his frosted doors. I take a deep breath and knock on the door, my palms sweating and my heart hammering so hard in my chest that it hurts. He calls for me to come in, so I do. I stand in the doorway and take in his grand office of dark wood tones and brown leather. There are a few pictures and awards here and there, and even a bar cart on the far wall with his whiskey displayed. This room is a stark difference from the rest of the building. Once I've taken in my surroundings, I'm suddenly assaulted by his scent, the same scent from the coat he wrapped around me.

It's everywhere.

It's all-consuming—mind-numbing. I don't recognize what cologne it comes from, but I know it's probably expensive and has a name I can't pronounce. It smells of cedar, musk, and warm notes of toasted vanilla—of a man.

I see him clutching a glass of amber liquid, gripping it as if it's a cure-all elixir he can't live without.

I could go for one of those, too.

"Close the door," he instructs, so I do. I step inside and stand awkwardly, unsure of what to do. His stare is so heavy that I feel the weight of it on my chest like someone placed a hundred pounds of stone on me and asked me to breathe. I clutch the paper tightly in my fist and curse under my breath, releasing my fingers, but the damage is done—the paper is crumpled at the edges. He motions with the hand that holds his whiskey to a chair in front of his desk, so I walk forward on shaking knees and take a seat, wanting to be anywhere but here.