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Authors: Kira A. Gold
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them directly, or just for this guy?”
“Just for him. He’s new there, so it’s a small house and he needs it done fast. You should see the place. The roof is going to look amazing when it snows.”
Her phone fell silent. “Hello?” she prodded.
“Have you met anyone else that works there?” her father asked.
“Daaad. He’s fine. It’s legit. I got the job through an agency. He’s very professional.” And ridiculously handsome, with hair that made her fingertips itch to smooth it into place, and eyes that followed her when she moved around a room. And confusing, like with the sudden about-face when he went back to work and ignored her. She blew across the tea, making ripples in the liquid. “How’s Grampa?”
“He’s doing better every day.” A woman’s voice called her father’s name. “I should go,” he said. “I love you, honey.”
“I know. I love you, too.” She hung up and sipped her tea. It was smooth and smoky and went perfectly with the fortune cookie. She ate it all before reading the little scrap of paper.
Love can turn a hut into a golden palace.
Vessa wondered what effect lust would have.
* * *
Bergman droned on about the importance of the trust of the community in the firm’s brand, a counterpoint to Mara Bjorn’s speech about modernizing the mission statement, and Killian shifted in his chair, cracking his spine.
His back ached after being bent over plans for hours of adjusting walls in minute detail and transferring the changes into AutoCAD on his laptop—seven years of higher education reduced to mindless data entry. His ass hurt, too. Only the titular bosses got the comfortable chairs, one on each end, padded leather and adjustable. He slouched over the table, too tall, a high school kid at an elementary desk.
And his balls ached. He’d worked most of the weekend on the living room floor of the house, hoping she would show up again in the middle of the night. She’d been dressed in her sleep shirt and nothing underneath, hair piled on her head, eyes messy and dark and...and...and sultry , as if a bed was too boring to hold her. She’d smelled like the shower he needed, talking about dancing in her underwear and reading erotica, and him with an obscenely hard erection, in sweatpants. He’d had to leave and cover his lap with his work like a schoolboy hiding a classroom boner with a textbook.
Bergman mentioned something about technology that he missed and he mentally kicked himself awake. He didn’t have time to moon off about a girl.
Bengt caught his eye and flicked his gaze up at the clock over his mother’s head, then shifted his hand, a minute gesture, miming the toss of a shot glass.
Killian nodded, a tiny jerk of his chin. A pencil tapped the table. Starla fixed both of them with an evil eye that was meeting-speak for “don’t start drinking without me or I’ll gouge your throat with this pencil.”
“Did you have something to add, Starla?” Mara Bjorn’s voice and face were both bland, the same tone she’d used when Bengt and he got busted for smoking pot in the dorm their sophomore year. Is there anything you’d like to tell me, boys?
“Yes, thank you, I do,” Star said. “I have the promo materials and a preliminary schedule for the open house. It’s coming up fast and I want to go over—”
Bergman cut her off. “Next week, Miss Jamison. August is a long way away, and I think everyone has had enough meetings for the day.”
Starla closed her laptop with a snap and an artificial smile and Bengt winced. The employees filed from the room, grateful and guilty, no one meeting her eyes. Killian’s phone rattled against the change in his pocket, a group text from Seth, saying he’d gotten them a table in the back.
He met Bengt in the lobby. “I’m in favor of getting out of staff meetings early,” his roommate said, “but that was a dick move on Bergman’s part.”
“He wouldn’t have done it if Starla was a guy.” They walked in
“Just for him. He’s new there, so it’s a small house and he needs it done fast. You should see the place. The roof is going to look amazing when it snows.”
Her phone fell silent. “Hello?” she prodded.
“Have you met anyone else that works there?” her father asked.
“Daaad. He’s fine. It’s legit. I got the job through an agency. He’s very professional.” And ridiculously handsome, with hair that made her fingertips itch to smooth it into place, and eyes that followed her when she moved around a room. And confusing, like with the sudden about-face when he went back to work and ignored her. She blew across the tea, making ripples in the liquid. “How’s Grampa?”
“He’s doing better every day.” A woman’s voice called her father’s name. “I should go,” he said. “I love you, honey.”
“I know. I love you, too.” She hung up and sipped her tea. It was smooth and smoky and went perfectly with the fortune cookie. She ate it all before reading the little scrap of paper.
Love can turn a hut into a golden palace.
Vessa wondered what effect lust would have.
* * *
Bergman droned on about the importance of the trust of the community in the firm’s brand, a counterpoint to Mara Bjorn’s speech about modernizing the mission statement, and Killian shifted in his chair, cracking his spine.
His back ached after being bent over plans for hours of adjusting walls in minute detail and transferring the changes into AutoCAD on his laptop—seven years of higher education reduced to mindless data entry. His ass hurt, too. Only the titular bosses got the comfortable chairs, one on each end, padded leather and adjustable. He slouched over the table, too tall, a high school kid at an elementary desk.
And his balls ached. He’d worked most of the weekend on the living room floor of the house, hoping she would show up again in the middle of the night. She’d been dressed in her sleep shirt and nothing underneath, hair piled on her head, eyes messy and dark and...and...and sultry , as if a bed was too boring to hold her. She’d smelled like the shower he needed, talking about dancing in her underwear and reading erotica, and him with an obscenely hard erection, in sweatpants. He’d had to leave and cover his lap with his work like a schoolboy hiding a classroom boner with a textbook.
Bergman mentioned something about technology that he missed and he mentally kicked himself awake. He didn’t have time to moon off about a girl.
Bengt caught his eye and flicked his gaze up at the clock over his mother’s head, then shifted his hand, a minute gesture, miming the toss of a shot glass.
Killian nodded, a tiny jerk of his chin. A pencil tapped the table. Starla fixed both of them with an evil eye that was meeting-speak for “don’t start drinking without me or I’ll gouge your throat with this pencil.”
“Did you have something to add, Starla?” Mara Bjorn’s voice and face were both bland, the same tone she’d used when Bengt and he got busted for smoking pot in the dorm their sophomore year. Is there anything you’d like to tell me, boys?
“Yes, thank you, I do,” Star said. “I have the promo materials and a preliminary schedule for the open house. It’s coming up fast and I want to go over—”
Bergman cut her off. “Next week, Miss Jamison. August is a long way away, and I think everyone has had enough meetings for the day.”
Starla closed her laptop with a snap and an artificial smile and Bengt winced. The employees filed from the room, grateful and guilty, no one meeting her eyes. Killian’s phone rattled against the change in his pocket, a group text from Seth, saying he’d gotten them a table in the back.
He met Bengt in the lobby. “I’m in favor of getting out of staff meetings early,” his roommate said, “but that was a dick move on Bergman’s part.”
“He wouldn’t have done it if Starla was a guy.” They walked in
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