Pharmaceuticals case, but he wasn’t ready to do
that yet. He would put it off for a few days. He needed time to get his head on
straight, maybe even get laid. He suspected his drought in the area of sexual
relations fueled a lot of his lusty enthusiasm for Ms. Morgan.
He hit the weights
hard then took a two-mile run around the track. By the time he finished, he was
loose, sweaty and relaxed. A quick shower made him feel like a new man. Under
the heat of the blow dryer, he ran his fingers through the cropped hair at the
top of his head. He’d only recently gotten his hair cut this way. He’d worn it
long through the first part of winter, like he had in college. Back then, it
got him more play with the ladies. Now, the longer hair didn’t gel with his
professional, killer litigator persona. He tended to keep his style short and
neat when he had to appear in court, like he had this week.
After he returned to
work, the rest of the workday progressed with productive efficiency. The
following day, however, he found himself drifting into the same unfocused
predicament. He also found himself in the weight room and on the track the
following day and each of the two days after that. The sight of Jordis in the
hall or during the briefest interaction aggravated his restlessness. Now that
he’d met her, he felt as if he ran into her constantly. It was like buying a
new car. Once you decided on a particular model, the number of similar cars on
the road seemed to multiply by a thousand.
Pondering his new
daily two-hour workouts and the woman who drove him to them, Michael strode
towards the elevator Thursday night. The faint sound of music interrupted his thoughts.
He lifted his wrist and noted eleven fifteen on the face of his TAG Heuer
watch. When he rounded the corner, he saw light streaming from Jordis’s office.
Why he’d passed this way tonight instead of taking his usual route to the
elevator—which took him in the opposite direction—he didn’t really
want to analyze at the moment nor the rush of exhilaration at the sight of her.
She sat at her desk
listening to a tune with a relaxed groove while she reviewed the documentation
in an open file folder. Her bare feet rested on the edge of her desk, bopping
in time with the music. She held the file propped on her knees. With her other
hand, she cradled a refillable twenty-ounce travel mug she sipped from absently
every few minutes.
He sat his briefcase
at his feet and leaned against her doorjamb. Those long legs enthralled him as
much as the first time he’d seen them. He noticed her toes were painted in a
French pedicure to match her fingers and even her bare feet looked sexy. Every
once in a while, she sang along under her breath with the female vocalist about
working what you’ve got. She hadn’t noticed him. He wondered how long it would
take. Until she did, he contented himself with watching her.
* * *
Jordis stilled.
Sensing a presence at the door, she slowly glanced up. Michael Remington stood
with his jacket pulled back, hands thrust in the pockets of his pants. The
stance accentuated how the tailored cut of his slacks caressed his muscular
thighs. Today, he’d paired a charcoal gray suit, possibly Gucci, with a soft
lilac shirt and a shiny silk tie in a deeper almost royal purple. Above his
square jaw and strong chin, his full lips pressed together as if he deeply
pondered something. He had the look of one of those brooding, sporty types
displayed in Armani or Dolce & Gabbana cologne ads.
Her breath caught in
her throat. She hoped Michael thought it was because he’d startled
her—which he had—but, in truth, her breathlessness was due more to
an unexpected kick of hormones than a frisson of fear.
“How long have you
been standing there?” She grabbed a small remote off her desk and pointed it
towards her music player to quiet Mary J. Blige.
“Long enough.” He
slid his fingers through his hair, giving it a tousled look.
Jordis’s eyes
followed
that yet. He would put it off for a few days. He needed time to get his head on
straight, maybe even get laid. He suspected his drought in the area of sexual
relations fueled a lot of his lusty enthusiasm for Ms. Morgan.
He hit the weights
hard then took a two-mile run around the track. By the time he finished, he was
loose, sweaty and relaxed. A quick shower made him feel like a new man. Under
the heat of the blow dryer, he ran his fingers through the cropped hair at the
top of his head. He’d only recently gotten his hair cut this way. He’d worn it
long through the first part of winter, like he had in college. Back then, it
got him more play with the ladies. Now, the longer hair didn’t gel with his
professional, killer litigator persona. He tended to keep his style short and
neat when he had to appear in court, like he had this week.
After he returned to
work, the rest of the workday progressed with productive efficiency. The
following day, however, he found himself drifting into the same unfocused
predicament. He also found himself in the weight room and on the track the
following day and each of the two days after that. The sight of Jordis in the
hall or during the briefest interaction aggravated his restlessness. Now that
he’d met her, he felt as if he ran into her constantly. It was like buying a
new car. Once you decided on a particular model, the number of similar cars on
the road seemed to multiply by a thousand.
Pondering his new
daily two-hour workouts and the woman who drove him to them, Michael strode
towards the elevator Thursday night. The faint sound of music interrupted his thoughts.
He lifted his wrist and noted eleven fifteen on the face of his TAG Heuer
watch. When he rounded the corner, he saw light streaming from Jordis’s office.
Why he’d passed this way tonight instead of taking his usual route to the
elevator—which took him in the opposite direction—he didn’t really
want to analyze at the moment nor the rush of exhilaration at the sight of her.
She sat at her desk
listening to a tune with a relaxed groove while she reviewed the documentation
in an open file folder. Her bare feet rested on the edge of her desk, bopping
in time with the music. She held the file propped on her knees. With her other
hand, she cradled a refillable twenty-ounce travel mug she sipped from absently
every few minutes.
He sat his briefcase
at his feet and leaned against her doorjamb. Those long legs enthralled him as
much as the first time he’d seen them. He noticed her toes were painted in a
French pedicure to match her fingers and even her bare feet looked sexy. Every
once in a while, she sang along under her breath with the female vocalist about
working what you’ve got. She hadn’t noticed him. He wondered how long it would
take. Until she did, he contented himself with watching her.
* * *
Jordis stilled.
Sensing a presence at the door, she slowly glanced up. Michael Remington stood
with his jacket pulled back, hands thrust in the pockets of his pants. The
stance accentuated how the tailored cut of his slacks caressed his muscular
thighs. Today, he’d paired a charcoal gray suit, possibly Gucci, with a soft
lilac shirt and a shiny silk tie in a deeper almost royal purple. Above his
square jaw and strong chin, his full lips pressed together as if he deeply
pondered something. He had the look of one of those brooding, sporty types
displayed in Armani or Dolce & Gabbana cologne ads.
Her breath caught in
her throat. She hoped Michael thought it was because he’d startled
her—which he had—but, in truth, her breathlessness was due more to
an unexpected kick of hormones than a frisson of fear.
“How long have you
been standing there?” She grabbed a small remote off her desk and pointed it
towards her music player to quiet Mary J. Blige.
“Long enough.” He
slid his fingers through his hair, giving it a tousled look.
Jordis’s eyes
followed
Similar Books
