"A million...dollars?" That's the first brilliant thing I manage to say.
"No, rupees." His sarcasm takes me by surprise, and I can't even take offense to his tone. Yep, I deserve that one.
"Although yours is well-advanced, it still isn't finished, so it has less value. Furthermore, you're a single individual, not a company, so once more, the price lessens."
Still hung up on the million, I'm not registering much of what he says. He notices and snaps his fingers in front of my face. "Focus, Andrea, I'll only tell you this once. I have to check the extent of your work, but given what I've seen, the price you ask for should range between two to three hundred."
"Two to three hundred...thousand?" Okay, I need to shut the fuck up until my brain works again...
He doesn't even bother to answer me this time. "I can help you determine the exact value of your work if you want. I'll be the one assessing it anyway if the sale ever happens."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why are you being honest? I mean, you can tell me pretty much any number--I don't know better. Why are you not trying to scam me?" Or maybe he is, but he's great at hiding it.
He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. I try to ignore how his bulging muscles stretch the fabric of his shirt, making his impressive physique even more stunning, but I'm a lost cause.
"I'm not opposed to negotiating harsh prices with other companies. They have the backbone to sustain it, and it's the law of the market. But dealing with individuals, especially one of our own employees, is a different thing. Kelex is doing well enough to afford that kind of expense every month, so I don't see the point in hustling you," he explains, his gray eyes locked onto mine. "Also, you're a smart woman. You can find out the truth and decide to go sell it elsewhere."
His justification makes sense, but the only thing I can think of is that he thinks I'm smart. I do take note, though, that his resolution to not scam people is commendable. I didn't expect him to be like that.
"I already told you: I'm not an asshole," he reminds me. I flinch, disconcerted to see I'm this transparent. "So, do you want to do an initial assessment of what your work is worth?"
I nod energetically. Hell yeah, I do!
He goes around me and grabs the chair in front of his desk, the one I sat on earlier, to settle it next to his, where my computer is displayed. It isn't a small and light chair, but some kind of heavy designer armchair. And he moves it as easily as a cheap foldable chair, veins bulging in his forearms.
This lovely packaging has me forgetting all about the unpleasant interior.
It isn't helping my case to know that this man has enough strength to lift me up against a wall and keep me there for a while and barely break a sweat. A mental image of Alexander fucking me with passion against a wall of his office, his perfect naked body shining with perspiration as he ravages me with deep, hard, and powerful thrusts, makes its way into my brain.
The dry sound the chair makes when he settles it down takes me out of my naughty daydream. Since that dreaded wet dream, I've been masturbating like a lunatic, but it's obviously not enough to contain my libido.
He literally just moved a chair, and that's enough to make me a little wet.
We end up exploring my work together while I avoid glancing at him as much as possible. But his smart brain is enough for my body to maintain a constant flushness. He continually impresses me with how quickly he catches up with my intentions, and how fast he comes up with ways to correct or improve problematic elements.
Forty-five minutes into it, I send a text to Oli. It's clear that I can't make it, as we barely scratched the surface. Oli's reply comes quickly, and my heart twinges as I read it. He insists that it's fine and expresses how proud he is of me. I feel extremely guilty about it, because a small part of me is relieved we won't be having our date tonight. And I hate myself for it.
But I'm distracted away from that as we go back to work. We spend a further hour on everything, and I can't get enough of Lex's appreciation for my work. He's aware of the immensity of what I programmed, and he voices it a few times throughout.
Eventually, when we reach the end of it, he leans back in his chair and silence fills the air. I slip my hands under my thighs, not sure what comes next. When it becomes awkward, I glance at him sideways. He's holding his folded glasses in his hand, and his eyes are on me. There is something in his gaze that is unfamiliar, almost as if he is enthralled. It's strange, coming from the brooding man he is, but I guess this app could really be game-changing for the company. I can practically hear the gears running in his brain.
For several seconds, he keeps looking at me strangely, until I clear my throat to break the awkward tension and move on with whatever should happen next. That snaps him out of it, and he returns his attention to the complex script displayed on my laptop.
"We're supposed to wait for the sale to come through before we can start working on it," he says. "However, I would like it if we could start as soon as Monday. The app could be ready in four to six months, and I don't want to waste a day."
Wow, that's even faster than what I imagined. "I don't see why we couldn't. Maybe we can sign some kind of contract, stating that Kelex will make me a fair offer for the app, so I'm sure I won't get scammed?"
"I'll have it prepared."
"Oliver is already involved in the project, so I thought maybe I could work with him on it," I suggest.
"No," he counters dryly. No? What does he mean, no? "Mason and Steven are more qualified to work on it. They are far better when it comes to movement recognition and deep learning algorithms. We'll also get two or three people from the graphic department so they can start sketching and find a concept."
Mace and Steve? Well, I have no problem with them. But I do feel sorry for Oli. He would love to work on it with me. It isn't rare for us in the Troll's Lair to help each other out, so maybe we'll get to, anyway.
"Fine, I'll work in tandem with them, then."
"No," he rebuts with the same authority as before. "I'll have a desk set up in here. You'll work with me."
Naturally, I'm confused as fuck and think he's messing with me. But his serious expression proves he isn't, in fact, joking. Upon understanding that, my amusement dies instantly, and blood leaves my face.
What the hell? How did I end up in this position? This cannot be happening. Not only do I fear the arguments that would most certainly occur, but my sanity is also at risk. I can't be near him all day long for weeks and be tempted by him constantly.
"Hmm, are you sure?" I say, trying to be as amiable as possible.
"Yes. It'll be for a month, two at most. I swear I'll try not to insult you too often."
It's the first time I see him make a joke. And it's at his own expense. Maybe the man has a few redeeming qualities, after all. I smile politely and close my laptop. "We can give ourselves the weekend to think about it," I suggest. Hopefully, he'll come to his senses and change his mind by then.
"I'm sorry for keeping you here so late," he says, surprising me once more. "I hope you didn't have any plans."
There's no point in guilt-tripping him for a decision I made myself, so I reply, "Nothing that couldn't be rescheduled."
Minutes later, we're in the elevator, on our way to the lobby for me, and the parking sublevel for him. I'm tense everywhere, doing my best to ignore how isolated we are. He hasn't bothered putting his jacket on, having it thrown over his arm instead.
"Will it be okay for you to get home?" he asks, breaking the silence.
"Yes, I'm pretty sure the buses do their routes until midnight or something."
"I can drop you off if you want."
Although the offer is both generous and tempting, there's no way I'll sit with him in his car for over ten minutes. Nope, not happening.
"I'm good. Thanks." Before he can insist, we reach my floor. "I'll see you on Monday," I say, forcing a smile on my face. "Enjoy your weekend."
"You too. Thank you again for your time."
Seriously, I'll never get used to this man being polite and nice.
A sense of relief fills me when I step out of the confined space and hear the panels close behind me. Phew... I did it! I survived an entire evening by his side, with no spontaneous combustion or throwing myself at him. I need an underwear change, though.
My satisfaction goes to shit when I reach the revolving doors. It's raining cats and dogs. Fuck. Since it's not like I have a choice, I do my best to wrap my computer bag into my jacket, pull up the hood, and step out. I walk at a quick pace, desperate to reach the bus stop before I'm soaked to the bones. The streets are utterly empty, not a car or person in sight. I'm reaching the corner of the building when a sleek gray car, a Mercedes halfway between a sedan and a sports car, slows down next to me. Just as I'm about to pick up the pace, the passenger window opens.
"Come in, Andrea. I'll drop you off at your bus stop."
Oh, fuck... It's him.
"I'm good," I answer. I don't like being commanded to do things. Even more when it is him. Which makes our boss-employee dynamic a lot of fun.
"Stop being so stubborn for half a second. Get in."
When I halt my steps, he hits the brakes. We do a brief staring battle, and I try to remind myself why I can't get in his car. Maybe I'm overreacting a little bit. It's harmless.
I know I'm just being stubborn again, like he said, so I bite my tongue and obey, for once. My face is a mask of discontentment as I walk to his car, and it remains that way as I enter the luxurious vehicle.
"You take your bus at Pike Street?" he asks. I nod, my eyes stuck on the windshield wipers, chasing drops of rain over and over.
He switches gears, and we're off. I know nothing about cars, but this one's high end for sure. Even the blinkers' sound is lush. Alexander's driving is pleasant and experienced, and I sometimes glimpse at his hands smoothly gliding over the steering wheel. I can't help but wonder what those strong fingers and palms would feel on my skin, grazing it as he's grazing that leather.
What stage of craziness is it already when you wish you were a steering wheel?
I'm somehow disappointed when we reach my bus stop. As I'm about to get out, he stops me, putting his hand over my forearm. The simple contact sends shivers all the way through my chest, and I look toward what he's pointing at, right outside my window.
The electronic sign, where the bus times are usually displayed, only reads three fateful words. STRIKE! SERVICE INTERRUPTED.
Defeated, I blow out my cheeks before resting my head back. "I can drive you home," he kindly offers.
For the umpteenth time this evening, he's showing some unusually amiable behavior, and I want to grab his shoulders and shake him out of it. Everything is so much simpler when he's a one-dimensional jerk. If my body acts the way it does when he's rude and arrogant, how will it behave if he turns out to be a nice guy?
"I'll get myself an Uber," I suggest. But that one's quickly dismissed as well. With the bus strike, everyone's using such alternatives. I'd have to wait for forty-five minutes to get a ride home.
"I really don't mind," Lex insists, seemingly entertained by my misfortune.
"I don't want you to make a detour for me."
"Where do you live?"
"Fairmount Park." Please, let him live on the other side of town.
"That's good for me."
Well, fuck...
This is awkward, tense, and not how I expected tonight to go.
My boss is driving me home on a late Friday evening, with my address on his GPS and my wet ass sitting on the fine leather of his seats. Wet because of the rain, of course. Not because of the sexiness of the vehicle, or the little show his hands to every time he takes a sharp turn, or because the entire air surrounding me smells of him.
Okay, maybe a bit of that, too.
There's a play button on the electric board, and because the silence is so uncomfortable, I boldly press on it.
"Resuming the current playlist," the feminine electronic voice answers.
Fuck, I expected it to put on the radio or something. Now, I can see that it's connected to his phone. I'm about to know even more about the man, which can't be a good thing. He already has a place way too substantial in my brain. He doesn't need more.
When I turn to him, I notice his discreet wince. It makes him seem more human, more approachable, and less stoney. "I don't mind. But you might regret your decision. I've been told I have terrible tastes in music," he confesses, never ripping his eyes from the road.
Oh, this should be interesting...
My curiosity is properly piqued, all my attention now on the intro that fills the silence. I'm almost ashamed at how quickly I recognize it. But it's so unexpected that I doubt myself for several seconds. This can't be it. No fucking way.
But there's no denying it. It's Rasputin, by Boney M. The giggle that bubbles in my chest turns into a graceless snort when I try to muffle it. I press my fingers across my lips in a failed attempt to hide my wide smile and muffle my giggles.
"Are you making fun of me?" he asks.
"I'm sorry, it'll pass. I just really wasn't expecting that."
"What were you expecting?"
The genuine curiosity in his tone makes me consider the question seriously. Probably something boring, like classical music or jazz, but I can't tell him that. "Not that," I diplomatically say.
With a broad smile still on my face, I look out of my window, listening to the catchy tunes. The words dance on my lips, but I don't allow them to be voiced.
He still notices. "You made fun of me, yet you know the words."
"Of course, I know them--this song is a banger. I just really didn't think you listened to it."
"Maybe we should stop with the music, before another song starts," he says.
And that only triggers my need to know what comes next. I press the button before he can put an end to this. To my amazement and hilarity, Build Me Up Buttercup resonates in the car. A new series of chuckles escapes me.
"If you're going to mock me the entire way, I'd rather we go with silence," he argues as we're stopped at a red light.
His hand flies to the screen to stop the music. Instinctively--clearly without thinking--I grab him to prevent him from pressing the button. "Sorry! I swear, I'm not making fun of you. I love those songs. It's just unexpected."
My fingers are wrapped over his wrist, and my right hand is just resting on the back of his. I can't help but notice that his wrist is as thick as my ankle, and the skin of his large hand is strangely warm under my palms. If there is, indeed, any correlation between the size of a man's hand and the proportions of his appendage, then Lex is hung. Like, seriously.
And it's suddenly all I can think of.
How big, thick, and long his--
A car honks somewhere, not at us, making me jump and release him. My cheeks are burning and I hope to God he puts my redness on the traffic light. I swiftly slide my hands under my thighs in an attempt to keep them away from temptation.
I can feel he's observing my profile, but I keep staring upfront. The light turns green, but he doesn't do anything about it, so I force myself to look his way. His expression is unreadable, as usual, his gaze locked onto mine. The exchange doesn't last long, but it feels as if his gray irises can see past my brown ones, staring straight into my soul, reading my thoughts and desires.
Despite my best efforts, I can't look away from his entrancing eyes. This man has a magnetic pull on me that I cannot comprehend. He gets over whatever's happening first, refocusing on the road and putting us back on our way to my place. The rest of the ride happens in absolute silence. Music is still playing, but it isn't enough to appease the tension.
As soon as we reach my building, I grab the handle. "Thank you for the ride," I say, hating how shaken I sound. "Sorry for the detour."
He keeps looking forward for an instant, before turning to me. "It's fine. Don't worry about it."
With one last forced smile, I pull on the handle to exit the car. It is still pouring outside, so I run to my entrance. I urge myself to not look back and enter the familiar lobby. Shit... That was weird, and tense, and strangely sexy. I'm feeling electric, and I don't know what to make of it.
Unless he changes his mind, I'll have to spend my working days in the same room as this man.
If that's not a recipe for disaster, I don't know what is.