The New Rule: (The Casual Rule 2) (20 page)

He takes a quick breath and blows in out slowly. “Don’t think I ever saw that skirt before.”

“You probably don’t remember,” I lie, my finger lazily circling my garter belt clip.

“I’d remember that little number. I’ve never seen it.” His lascivious smile tells me that in his mind I’m already bent over his desk, and he’s banging me hard.

“Maybe I’m confusing you with another Professor.”

“I hope not.”

I smile and shake my head. “Nah, you’re it for me.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Are you wearing anything silky under that outfit?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” I tease, raising a brow.

“I plan on finding out. Ready to get the show on the road? The quicker we get this meeting over with, the quicker you’ll be bent over my desk.”

I knew it!

Professor Martin may look respectable to the outside world, but I know there's not a respectable thought going through his mind right now.

“Sure. I’ll let Vivian know you’re here.”

~o0o~

Vivian stands from her chair as we walk into her office, extending her hand out to Ben. They shake cordially, and we take our seats. Vivian sits behind her desk. Ben and I are on the two leather chairs facing her. He removes his glasses and places them in the front pocket of his shirt.

No, leave them on. Let me ogle the sexy Professor for just a few more minutes.

“Good to see you, Ben. Let’s get down to business, shall we?”

Vivian is not one for small talk and bullshit. She dives right in… which means the shit’s about to hit the fan. Ben has worked with Vivian long enough to know this is her style. I’m sure he knows if he’s called in, it’s not going to be rainbows and pats on the back. But he’s playing it cool.

I’m actually surprised he didn’t ask me about this meeting. If the shoe were on the other foot, I’d ask. Then again, I’m much nosier than he. We’ve always tried to keep business and pleasure separate in our relationship; maybe that’s why. Or maybe it’s because he has so much on his mind, he didn’t want to address it.

Whatever the reason, we’re here now.

“Just give me the bad news,” Ben says, leaning back in his chair.

“Why do you think it’s bad?” Vivian asks.

“Because I’m sitting across from you,” he answers, his elbow leaning on the arm of the chair, his chin resting on his fist. “Otherwise, I’d get an email from Julia.”

I squirm in my chair. I forgot that Ben and Vivian operate the same way: Direct and to the point. I have to keep reminding myself that when Ben is here, he’s not my boyfriend; he’s an author.

An extraordinarily hot author who I’ve seen naked... in his bed… and mine… and the shower… and the tub in his bathroom... and his kitchen.

Stop, stop, stop.

She nods with a smirk. One thing I can say about the both of them, they share a great deal of respect for each other’s gameplay.

“Julia, do you want to start?” Vivian asks.

No, I don’t want to start. I want to be far the hell away from here.

She’s purposely putting me in the hot seat. This is one of her “teaching moments”. I have to face the things I dread the most head-on, no matter what my relationship with the client is.

I detest “teaching moments”.

I clear my throat and straighten my posture.
This is work. This is work.
“Of course.” I turn to Ben. “The last draft you sent us was good, but it’s…” I cringe on the inside because the next word is going to suck. “Lacking. The flow is stilted. Your last book flowed so beautifully—like someone was sitting next to you telling a story. This draft lost some of the magic.”

Ben twists slightly, facing me, crossing his arms in front of his chest. His posture is rigid. I know enough about his body language to know he is not pleased. But I’m here to do a job, and that’s what I plan to do so I continue.

“Chapters seven through twelve, especially, need retooling in a more conversational manner. This is too factual. We do want facts, but they need to entertain us while we learn.”

Vivian chimes in. Her words are white noise to me. I don’t hear a word she’s saying as she goes into greater detail about all the revisions she wants. I’m too busy watching Ben. His mannerisms give away his mood. From the looks of his clenched jaw and his fingers now curling in a tight grip around the arms of the chair, he’s barely holding on to his self-control. He’s usually pretty good at tempering his initial reaction to constructive criticism. I have a bad feeling about today. It’s like watching a human pressure cooker, and I’m waiting for his pressure valve to explode. No doubt he’ll be hissing like one when he’s ready to blow.

“Trim the over-descriptive details, parts of the back stories are weighing down the piece,” she finishes her thought.

Finally, he bursts.

“You are tearing my work apart. Weeks of work, just shredding it.”

“You’re too attached. We are looking at this objectively,” Vivian argues.

“Subjectively,” he counters. “You’re slaughtering it. This is a factual book. It’s not some fluffy romance piece. You want to change the entire vibe of the book. I worked my fucking ass off. I flew all over the country, hardly got any fucking sleep.”

“Ben,” I caution. He can disagree all he wants, but there’s no need to be rude to my boss about it.

He twists his head slightly and glares at me, sending a chill up my spine.

“You have something to add, Madame Editor?” he asks icily, raising an eyebrow.

Mr. Hot Author has just turned into Mr. Freeze.

Vivian leans back, steepling her fingers over her mouth. I think a part of her is enjoying this.

“Look, I know you have a lot going on at home, but it’s no excuse to be rude to us,” I say.

“Do. Not. Bring my personal life into this conversation,” he hisses.

As predicted—he’s hissing.

“Ben, you knew there’d be revisions. This conversation shouldn’t come as a shock to you. It’s all part of the process.”

“Your opinion is skewed. I think it’s fine exactly the way it is.”

“Are you going to stomp your feet now and hold your breath?” I ask.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re acting like a child in the midst of a temper tantrum.”

“Is that what you think?” he asks.

“That’s what I know,” I answer. “We can’t market dull.”

“Did you just call my work dull?”

Shit, I did.

“I’m sorry, I misspoke.” I look back at Vivian, wide-eyed, hoping she’ll help bail me out of the corner I just backed myself into. But she looks positively amused by this; her eyeglasses now resting on the top of her head and her elbow bend on the desk with her chin resting in her palm. She’s hanging me out to dry. I continue to attempt to take my foot out of my mouth.

“What I meant to say is we can’t market a book of just facts, anyone can get that information off the internet. We need it to come to life for the reader. Ben, I know you can make these revisions. We’re not asking for anything more than the style of writing from your previous work. This one changed direction along the way; we’re just trying to redirect it back on course.”

He looks at me blankly. His expression is completely unreadable. He turns to Vivian. “Are we done here?”

“I think so.” She stands, holding out her hand. “We’ll be in touch, say two weeks?”

He stands and shakes her hand. “Two weeks. Have a pleasant evening, Vivian.”

She smiles slyly. “Same to you. Julia, you might as well head out too. I think we’re done for the day.”

Damn, I was hoping she’d hold me back. Vivian is used to these encounters. I think some sick part of her loves it. It rarely fazes her.

He turns to me and narrows his eyes. I want to punch him and kiss him. I’m not sure which way to go, so I do neither.

“Are you sure you don’t need me for anything?” I ask. It’s practically a plea.

“No, I’m good. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says with some humor in her voice. She’s actually enjoying my torture. Maybe she wants Ben and me to talk it out without her within earshot.

Or she’s a sadist. A hardcore sadist.

A few times she’s mentioned that she and her husband/writer, Jim, had editorial disagreements. She’s well acquainted with the routine: fight, make-up, fight, make-up until the next time.

“Okay,” I say slowly. I stand from my chair and wonder if Ben and I are still on for dinner tonight.

I guess the fact that he’s still standing here waiting for me means we’re still on. His jaw is still clenched and his brow furrowed. Oh great, he’s brooding.
This is looking to be a real spectacular night.

I grab my purse and log out of my computer. He waits for me at the side of my desk with a puss on his face.

We walk to the elevator together. He pushes the call button. We wait silently for the elevator to arrive. I watch our reflections in the stainless steel doors. He’s looking straight ahead. Our eyes meet in the reflection and he quickly looks away.

Yup, this is going to be a fun night. The only banging I’m going to get is me banging my head up against the wall while I deal with Professor Moody.

The elevator pings and the doors slide open. Ben waits for me to enter first. At least he’s still a gentleman. The elevator is packed as usual, forcing us to stand close. Normally, this wouldn’t be an issue. I love standing close to Ben, but in the mood I’m in, I’d throw him down the elevator shaft if I could.

Our arms occasionally brush up against each other, sending a wicked charge through my body directly to my sex.
Stupid hormones
. There’s something about me hating Ben that makes him irresistible. My brain hates his guts, but my body is begging me to jump him.

I will not succumb to desire… at least until he apologizes for being an ass.

Then I’m going to succumb the hell out of him.

I turn my head slightly and watch him. He’s looking forward, ignoring me. I close my eyes briefly and inhale him. The insides of my stomach flutter.
Traitorous body.
Why is it that the more I hate him, the more I want him?

And I really, really, really hate him.

The elevator doors slide open to the lobby. We walk out silently and head toward the doors.

We take turns going through the revolving doors until we’re outside. The fact that we’re not talking to each other complicates our dinner plans. I don’t know if we’re still eating together or not. I don’t know if I want to eat with him if he’s going to continue this silent treatment.

Maybe he doesn’t want me around and he’s hoping I’ll go home. We’re both acting like stubborn fools. We’ve done this dance before; neither of us is going to give an inch.

Well, fuck you, Ben. I’m sticking around until you talk to me. I don’t mind feeling uncomfortable, as long as my company makes you uncomfortable too. I think I’m channeling some of my inner-Vivian, as a small part of me is starting to enjoy this. Very small… but I’ll take what I can get. If he doesn’t want me here, he’s going to have to say so. That will require actual words to depart from his perfect lips and while he’s in asshole-mode, that ain’t happening.

We walk past Emilio’s Café, I guess tapas are off the menu tonight and continue walking toward his street. Damn, I was looking forward to Emilio’s sangria.

Finally, we reach his building. This was no easy feat, considering Ben’s stride is much wider than mine making his pace quicker. He looks over at me, seemingly annoyed that I’m still keeping up.

Tough luck, buddy. You want me to leave? You have to tell me to leave.

Ben’s not the only one who can shift into asshole-mode.

We walk into the waiting elevator. Ben presses the button for the twentieth floor and stands at the back, leaning against the wall. I stand in front of him, staring at the closed stainless steel doors with my arms crossed in front of my chest.

As I’m staring ahead, my anger is increasing over his unprofessional behavior at the office and the silent treatment I’m getting. By the time the elevator reaches the seventh floor, there’s steam coming out of my ears.

I close my eyes briefly and inhale his Benessence. Why do I have to be so damned attracted to him? I snap myself out of my temporary lustful lapse and look straight ahead. I notice Ben checking out my legs in the reflection on the stainless door.

He’s such a man. And I’m such a hypocrite.

The elevator stops at the twentieth floor. We get out and walk to his apartment. He looks irritated that I’m still here.

Tough.

He opens the door to his place. I walk past him, flinging my handbag on the small table near the coat closet and continue to walk into his living room. I stop for a second when I see the entwined daisies Ben still keeps by his window as a reminder of how we hold each other up.

I still hate him. I still want to throttle him. But now I have a reminder of just how sweet this man is when he’s not acting like a jerk.

And it thaws me a little.

He unbuttons his shirt as he marches past me in the direction of his bedroom. I manage to get a peek at his chest. God, he’s delicious. I fight the urge to follow him and watch him change out of his clothes. I know how weak I am when it comes to his body. The bastard knows it too. I bet he did that on purpose.

Doesn’t matter. I’m angry with him. And he still needs to apologize.

And suffer.

I unbutton the top two buttons of my fitted blouse, casually allowing one side to fall off the shoulder. He wanted me to wear silk. He’s going to see silk. My silk bra strap, at least. Between the boots I’m wearing, the Co-ed ensemble, and what he knows is under it, he’ll weaken. He’s a man with a dick that often overrules his brain, especially when it comes to pretty silk and lace undergarments.

He strolls back into the living room in a pair of sweats and a tight white ribbed cotton tank.
Shit.
I have a few things working against me. The guy smells so fucking good. That white tank is hugging his abs perfectly; I can clearly see each ripple of muscle. And his biceps, damn the gun show is out in full force. Even the stupid sweats are sexy. Naturally, my eyes go straight to his bulge.