Life Support (The Breathe Series Book 2) (50 page)

“That, my friend, would be my complication.” I turn back to him.

“I will gladly release you, sir, from such a burden. It’s all part of the great customer service I like to give around here.” He takes on a serious tone.

“Thank you, eh, Jim . . . I appreciate your thoughtfulness. But, alas, this is a burden I must carry alone. Try not to feel sorry for me.” I lift my glass to him and nod before heading over to her.

“I can’t—I’m too busy feeling sorry for myself,” he mutters.

“Charlotte?” I ask softly. She turns her head and looks up at me.

“Mitch?” She smiles.

“Mitchell.” I correct her.

She nods. “Mitchell. Hi.”

“Merlot?” I place her wine in front of her before taking my seat.

“Oh . . . thank you.” She picks it up to take a sip.

“Very punctual—that’s good,” I say as I take in the sight of her. I was very specific in my ad about the type of woman I wanted to “employ.” So far, she’s a vision more perfect than my imagination could conjure up.

“I try to be. I’m not always successful, I must admit.” I watch as her smile hits her eyes with ease as she speaks. “Mitch? Everything all right?” She leans her head to the side.

“Yes. Why?” I sit up straighter and take another sip of my scotch.

“You were just staring at me . . . for a while.” She breaks eye contact and plays with the charm on the stem of her glass.

“Sorry. You’re just . . . you’re a very beautiful woman.” I swirl the cubes around and take my last swig.

“Um, thank you,” she says hesitantly as she plays with a napkin. I place my hand on top of hers to stop the fidgeting. Her eyes fly up quickly to meet mine. Shit—did she just feel that, too? No. What am I thinking? She’s a professional. Then again, I’m not quite sure why I felt a flutter of electricity—this isn’t my first time around, either.

“Please call me Mitchell, Charlotte.” I pull my hand away.

“Isn’t that what I called you?”

“You called me Mitch a moment ago; only close friends and family call me that.”

I sigh, half expecting her to roll her eyes at me.

“Well, I’m a little less formal. You can call me Charley.” She smiles. There’s something playful about her smile, as if she’s teasing me.

“Charlotte is such a beautiful name. Why do you go by Charley?” I sit back, studying her again.

“Oh, that’s my dad’s doing.” She takes another sip of her wine and leans back in her chair. “I’m the youngest of five girls. My dad, like most men, really wanted a son. My mom told him she was done. No more after me. So he asked if he could name me Charlotte. Of course, she didn’t know it was so he could call me Charley. But it stuck. Everyone calls me Charley.”

She takes another sip.

“Did he ever get over not having a son?”

“Oh yeah. Turns out, he named me perfectly. I was quite the tomboy, and his constant sidekick.” She shakes her head, laughing at herself.

“Is he still alive?” I set down my empty glass.

“Oh yeah. Healthy as a horse, that guy! I think he’ll outlive me!” I watch her face light up as she talks about him. I wonder if “dear old Dad’s” health would be as good if he knew what his precious sidekick did for a living.

“The waitress is right over there. Do you want me to wave her down for another drink?” she asks just before opening her purse. “Excuse me,” she says, then quickly texts. “Sorry.” She puts the phone back.

“Turn it off.”

She looks up. “Sorry?”

“No phone when you’re with me,” I say calmly.

“Okay, well, I, uh . . . put it on vibrate. I will not turn it off, but I can assure you that we won’t be interrupted again unless there’s an emergency. I only answered to let my friend know that I arrived safely.” She seems perturbed. “Why are you smiling like that?” Now she’s just plain irritated. I think my smug smile just got a little bigger.

“Finish your wine, Charlotte. I want to go upstairs and go over my contract with you.” I push her glass forward.

“Contract? What sort of contract?” Her eyes go wide. I can’t help but laugh.

“Don’t worry; it’s not that sort of contract.” I open my eyes wide enough to match hers, and she laughs again.

“I don’t have to call you ‘sir’?” she asks playfully.

“Hmm . . . nope. No.” I shake my head.

“Do I need a safeword?”

“Nope.” Jesus, she’s cute. She’s perfect. Just what I wanted. I hope she’ll agree to my terms.

“Any chains, whips, floggers, canes, or paddles involved?” She pushes back on a finger for each thing she rattles off.

“Jesus—I may need a safeword!” I give her a playfully horrified look. She laughs again and I think it’s the loveliest sound I’ve heard in a long time. Charlotte takes the last sip of her wine. I stand up and hold my hand out to her. She smiles and takes my offer. I pull her to me. Her nervousness catches me a little off guard. Is she always like this with clients, or is it me? I tilt my head as I lean in and sweep her lips with a kiss.
Mmm . . . soft.
“Let’s go.” I nudge her nose with mine.

Mitch hits the button for the ninth floor as I try to collect my wits about me.
Mitchell . . .
that’s going to be hard for me. He looks like a Mitch, but not a Mitchell, if that makes any sense.

He’s a handsome man. Not drop-dead gorgeous, but definitely handsome. I’d peg him to be in his early forties and just under six feet tall. He has dark, dirty-blond hair. His eyes are hazel, and kind-looking. His smile hits them, and like magic, I can see him as a little boy. I have to keep reminding myself that this isn’t a regular first date. Though if I were my friend Julie, the end result would be a regular first date.
And
, he’s taking me upstairs to sign a contract, amongst other things. What did his ad say?
“If upon initial interview I feel you are right for the position, you will fill out all necessary paperwork and begin immediately. Length of employment, as well as salary, will be discussed at that time.”
So, I’m guaranteed a phone call after our first “date.” Definitely a step up from Julie’s regular first dates. That, coupled with the fact that I instinctively like him, makes me feel a smidge better.

“What’s going on in there?” he asks, pulling me out of my thoughts as his index finger softly taps my right temple.

“I was trying to find that out myself, but . . .” I trail off.

“But what?” Smiling eyes.
Not a regular date, Charley—stop it!

“I was rudely interrupted by someone knocking and asking me ‘What’s going on in there?’ before I could even find out.” I state in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Rudely, huh?” He bites back his smile.

“Hmm . . . yes. Probably not the last rude thing you will do to me tonight.” I sigh playfully and watch as the numbers light up in the elevator. It stops, but it’s only the seventh floor.

“You think I’m going to do rude things to you tonight?”

His voice is full of mirth. I open my mouth to say something, but the door opening distracts me. Mitch yanks my hand, pulling me to the back of the elevator as two older couples get on and the door closes.

“Frank! This is going up!” One lady hits her husband’s arm as her irritation pierces his eardrums, I’m sure.

He shrugs. “So what?”

“Charlotte,” Mitch says, nipping at my right ear, “you didn’t answer my question.”

“That’s because Frank got on the wrong elevator,” I whisper, holding an accusatory hand out in the direction of poor Frank.

Mitch raises an eyebrow. “Charlotte.”

“Charley,” I correct him. He places his hands on my hips.

“
Charlotte
,” he insists, squeezing my hips and pulling me back against him aggressively. I gasp—
Christ, I’m such a girl!
Frank’s wife shoots me a look—
Christ, she’s such a bitch!

“Do you think I’m going to do rude things to you?” he asks again in a whisper.

“Well, I guess it depends,” I say.

“Depends on what?” He crooks his neck to look at me. I gaze up at him.

“If our definition of what’s rude is the same.” I smirk.

“Christ . . . I think I’m going to enjoy the hell out of finding out!” he says at his regular volume. Everyone turns to look at us. Luckily, we don’t have to endure their stares. “Excuse us, please.” Mitch leads the way through the older couples, holding my hand. “Good luck, Frank!” he says loudly as we head down the hall. We hear Frank’s friend laughing.

“Mitch!” I smack his arm. “He’s going to get holy hell for that!” I say with exasperation. Mitch ignores me and opens the door to the room. No sooner do I step in than he slams the door shut and pushes me against it.

“This is the last time I’m telling you—Mitchell!” he says through his teeth with a mixture of anger and irritation.

“Oh, honey, you must’ve had a little too much to drink. I’m Charlotte.” I place my hand on my chest. “You’re Mitchell.” I move my hand to his chest. Mitch looks down and shakes his head, then backs away from me.

“Forget it. This isn’t going to work. I’ll pay you for tonight, but you can leave.”

He pulls out his wallet. I’m trying to decide which action offends me more: his dismissal, or the reaching for the wallet? Of course, getting pissed about either and walking (storming, really) out of here is not going to put food in front of my kids and a roof over their heads. And . . . I like him. Yeah, he seems to have some quirks—we all do. But I like him. I feel okay with him. okay with what I’m going to do with him.
Was
going to do. Unless I rectify this situation.

“Whoa . . . wait.” I reach out and touch his arm. “I’m sorry.” I take a step or two closer. He stares down at me intently. “You made me nervous. I joke when I get nervous. I can’t help it.” He tosses his wallet on the table, then puts his hands on my hips and pulls me toward him.

“I made you nervous?” he asks before planting a light kiss on my nose.

“Well, yeah. You slammed me up against the door and yelled in my face.” I pull my head back as he advances. “Third rude thing you’ve done to me in the hour I’ve known you, by the way.”

“Third?” he questions with a smile.

“Yes.”

“When was the second time?”

He leans in to kiss me.

“You made me gasp in the elevator . . . in front of other people.” I pull my head back again.

“The horror!” His eyes widen. “Well,” he starts before he touches my cheek, “I can do better than that.” He leans down and kisses me. My knees weaken as I part my lips, allowing him to deepen the kiss.
Holy shit—this guy can kiss!
I hear a slow waltz playing in my head. Our mouths remain in perfect hold while our tongues dance skillfully as if this was their millionth waltz, not their first.

Mitch pulls away abruptly. He stares down into my eyes again, his left thumb strumming across my bottom lip.

“What?” I ask, feeling self-conscious.

“You’re different,” he finally says after a few more moments of awkward silence.

“What do you mean?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing. Come. Let’s look at the contract.” He leads me over to the sofa, which has a bajillion pillows on it. It looks nice, but you have to pull off half of them just to sit. I scan the room while Mitch gets the contract out of his briefcase.
Must remember to call him Mitchell!
God forbid! What’s up with that, anyway?

The Ames is quite the contemporary hotel. Not too overbearing, though—there’s more softness to it than a sterile feel. The walls are gray. There’s a beautiful, white, decoratively engraved fireplace. I’m not sure if it’s real, though. The room is very calming, with gray, white, and deep purplish tones. I’d love to curl up on the chaise lounge over in the corner and read a good book.

“Charlotte . . . here.” He hands me a manila envelope. I turn it over and open it up. The first paper I see is a non-disclosure agreement. I look up at him. “This is to protect both of us, really.” He leans in until we’re almost cheek-to-cheek as he looks on with me. “Basically, this states that you can tell people about us. However, you cannot tell anyone about our business arrangement, or our real one.” I can’t help my confusion or the fact that it’s all over my face. “You’ll understand in a minute. Do you have any questions about what you can or can’t say?” he asks, preparing to hand me the pen. I read it over. “C’mon, Charlotte.” Mitch sighs impatiently. “I just explained it to you. Sign so we can move on.”

“Excuse me.” I look over at him. ‘Do you have a lot of contracts handed to you at work that you have to make decisions on?”

“Sometimes several a day. Why?”

“Do you read them over, or do you just go by whatever your associates tell you?”

I look back down at the paper.

“I read them over. That’s different. It’s business,” he says. I jerk my head back up and give him “The Look,” the one that says, “what the hell do you think
this
is?” “Yeah, okay, but you haven’t even gotten to the contract yet.” He points for emphasis.

“Pen.” I hold out my hand. He gives it to me and I quickly sign. I hand the NDA back to him and move on to the contract.

It’s only a page long. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I find this odd. Instead of questioning it, I decide to read.