Saving the CEO Read online

  Well, if fucking Carl was going to take down Winter Enterprises, at least Miss Lemon on the Side had given him something else to think about tonight.

  Chapter Two

  When Jack arrived at the bar the next night, the bartender was deep in conversation with a…teenager? She was huddled with a girl who couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen, their attention both drawn by something on the bar.

  “Ants, Cassie! Ants! Are they trying to alienate me?”

  Cassie—that must be her name—waved a bar towel dismissively. “Ants, trains, whatever, it’s all the same. You just have to think about it the same way you always do.”

  The scrape of his stool drew her attention. A flash of surprise flitted across her face, but it was quickly replaced by a grin. When she smiled she crunched up her nose, which, lightly sprinkled with freckles as it was, made for a seriously adorable picture. “Hey! You’re back!” She glanced out at the restaurant proper, toward the far corner where he usually sat.

  “Yeah, it’s easier to spread out here at the bar, I found. And I’ve got a crapload of work to get done.” It was not untrue. His head swam when he thought of it. The reality, though, was that he was going to need a bar the size of his boardroom table to sort everything out. But he couldn’t do this work in the office. He huffed a disgusted laugh. Hell, he probably couldn’t do this work at all—that was the terrible irony.

  She ducked for a moment, disappearing behind the bar. When she shot up, she was grinning and holding the jug of distilled water. She plunked it down in front of him. “The scotch supplier was here today and we have a bunch of new bottles—they’re still in back. I’m gonna go grab them.” Before he could protest that anything was fine—he wasn’t feeling picky—she was off, hips swaying in her black miniskirt.

  He didn’t realize how openly he was staring until he swung his attention back to the bar to find the teenager eyeing him with no less subtlety. In her jeans and too-tight T-shirt, she looked out of place in the dark bar, which was usually filled with stockbrokers and young beautiful people with money to burn.

  “You Cassie’s boyfriend?”

  He shot her what he hoped was a quelling look. “No.” Then he pulled up the March invoices. Jesus Christ, he was only to March. He’d hoped to have this sorted out before the Wexler deal got underway, but it didn’t look like it was going to happen. He knocked his head momentarily against his fist, as if he could knock some goddamn sense into his head.

  “Problem?” The girl was still looking at him.

  “You could say that.”

  “Well, you’re not the only one. Listen to this. Two ants are at a common point in time. The first ant starts crawling along a straight line at the rate of one meter per minute. Three minutes later, the second ant starts crawling in a direction perpendicular to that of the first, at a rate of one point three meters per minute. How fast is the distance between them changing when the first ant has traveled seven meters?”

  His blank stare must have spoken for him because she pounded the bar and said, “Exactly. There’s also the part where we’re talking about ants! Ants! When, I ask you, am I ever going to need to calculate the rate of change of the distance between two ants?”

  “I think it’s safe to say probably never?”

  “Never say never.” Cassie had snuck up on them. She was carrying too much, hugging an armful of bottles. Carefully, slowly, she let them slide down her chest, until they thunked onto the polished cherrywood of the bar. He had a sudden vision of her doing the same thing naked. The bottles would compress her ample breasts, and as they slid down her body, those breasts would bounce back to their pertly rounded shape. Jesus. Stop it.

  “The point is not the ants.” Cassie spoke to the girl even as she lined up the half dozen bottles and began turning them so the labels faced him. “The point is not even the ‘will I ever have to do this exact equation in real life?’ question. It’s about learning how to think mathematically. To problem solve.”

  She looked at him and then back at the girl. No one spoke.

  “Oh, I’m sorry! Alana, meet Mr. ah…” She bit her lip.

  “Winter,” he supplied. “Jack Winter.”

  “Mr. Winter”—Cassie shot him a smile—“Meet Ms. Alana Jamieson.”

  “As in Edward Jamieson?” he asked, referencing the owner of the eponymous restaurant.

  Alana’s version of the universal eye roll of teenagers everywhere confirmed her paternity.

  Just then one of the servers came by, the one he thought of as the least annoying. “Two glasses of merlot.” Cassie nodded and pulled down two balloon glasses. “And, Cassie, nine bucks on a one hundred and seventy dollar check—what’s that?”

  “Just over five percent,” said Cassie.

  “Goddamn, what do these rich fuckers think? That I’m here for shits and giggles?” Then the server reached out and tousled Alana’s hair. “Sorry, sugar. Getting stiffed makes me cranky.”

  Cassie gave a little cough and inclined her head ever so slightly toward Jack. The server’s eyes followed Cassie’s and landed on him. She obviously hadn’t seen him sitting in the corner, but she didn’t even bother disguising her eye roll. What was it about him today that was inspiring feminine eye rolls? “Present company excluded, of course,” she drawled before grabbing her now-filled wine glasses and speeding off.

  “Cassie!” said Alana, drawing out the final syllable. “The ants!”

  “Hold on! Give me a sec to do the job I’m actually paid for, will you?” She turned to him. “You sure you don’t want to flee to your usual spot? Sitting here in the loony bin, you’re not exactly getting the fine dining experience Edward prides himself on.”

  “I’m good here,” he said.

  The smile she gave him did something to his throat.

  “Well then.” She spread her arms with a theatrical flourish, circling them over the bottles like Vanna White. “What will it be?”

  “Surprise me.”

  “Really?” She clapped her hands. “Price range?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Well, if I were feeling flush, I would try this one.” She tapped a bottle of Balvenie 30.

  “Have you tried it?”

  “God, no. Too rich for my blood. I’m a Red Label girl—by circumstance rather than by inclination, mind you. Edward’s supplier sometimes sneaks me sips when he’s wooing Edward with a new bottle, but I haven’t had the pleasure with this one.”

  He tapped the bottle. “I’ll have two glasses of this, then.”

  “You want a double?”

  “No, I want two glasses.”

  “I’ll never understand you rich people, either.” The jibe was delivered with a smile as she pulled down a pair of tumblers.

  After she’d poured two glasses, he reached for the water jug that was still sitting on the bar. “Allow me.”

  “By all means.”

  He eyeballed the glasses, filling each with a splash of water. Then he slid one toward Cassie.

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, wow, thanks, but I really can’t.” She’d turned a little pink.

  “Here’s your chance,” he said, looking around. “No one’s paying attention, and I won’t tell.”

  “It’s not that.” A lock of hair had escaped her bun, and she tucked it behind her ear. “I just…I have rules.”

  Her too? A woman with rules—interesting. “You have a rule against drinking the finest scotch the world has to offer?”

  “No, I have a rule against drinking at work. Once you start doing that, you’re a…”

  “Lush?”

  “No. A lifer.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “A lifer. It means you’re going to be working in restaurants your whole life. Not that I have anything against that,” she said quickly, waving her hands energetically in front of her like she was fending off an attack. “But if you’re here for life, you need coping mechanisms. Again—there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s just that I
don’t…”

  “You don’t want that to be you.” Hmmm. The bartender had hidden depths. Ambition.

  “Something like that.” She pushed the glass back toward him. “So thanks anyway. I’ll comp you this one.”

  He refrained from saying that he didn’t think Edward would appreciate her comping him a forty dollar glass of scotch. “Well, it’ll be here if you change your mind.”

  “You know what you want to eat?” she asked.

  He looked down the bar at Alana, who was texting so fast her fingers were a blur. “Why don’t you go do a shift on ant patrol, and I’ll decide by the time you come back?”

  When she returned, the bar was filling up, both with customers and with servers placing and fetching drink orders. Because Cassie was busy—and so was he, he reminded himself—he ordered quickly and tried to lose himself in his work.

  She didn’t interrupt him, just slid his dinner into an empty spot among his papers and smiled in response to his thanks. She appeared a moment later with a wine bottle. “May I recommend a medium-bodied Pinot with your meal? It’s a limited edition.”

  “Thank you,” he said, appreciating her ability to pour the perfect amount freestyle, just as she had yesterday with the water for his scotch. He glanced down to the other end of the bar, which Alana had long since vacated. “Ants all sorted out?”

  “Yeah,” she laughed. “She’s the owner’s daughter. I help her with math sometimes.”

  And then she was back to work. She looked like a dancer, executing each movement, whether it be opening a bottle of wine, wiping up a spill, or making an elaborate girlie drink with a dozen ingredients with efficiency and grace. Orders and requests came steadily at her, but she never lost track of what she was doing. It was a different view of the restaurant from here. There was a vibrancy, bordering on frenzy, at the bar that one didn’t see in the dining room. And Cassie was the eye of the storm, pivoting, pouring, smiling.

  The buzz had an oddly calming effect. Or maybe that was the scotch—it really had been superb. Either way, he found himself able to tackle the rows of numbers in front of him with a focus he usually lacked. Working steadily, he made it halfway through April—he thought. Well, only eight and a half more months to go. And, Jesus, that was just this year. When he thought of it like that, instead of breaking it down into finite tasks he needed to perform, he got that clawing panicky feeling. It started in his stomach, just like it always had. He could close his eyes and be back in third grade, clutching a piece of chalk and staring at a blackboard that might as well have been covered in Chinese for all the sense he could make of it.

  “Can I bring you anything else?” Cassie’s appearance pulled him back to the present. The bar was empty. The din he’d noticed earlier had fallen off dramatically. He glanced down at his watch. Nearly eleven thirty—more time had passed than he’d realized.

  “I’m not keeping you here, am I?” he asked. “But, no, because you just up and leave when you’re ready, right?” he teased, thinking of last night, when she’d left seemingly in the middle of a shift.

  She looked embarrassed—she was easy to tease. “You’re referring to my untimely departure last night.” He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “I had a final exam this morning. I’d arranged with Edward to take off early last night. He’s good that way.”

  Not a lifer. “What are you studying?”

  “Math. At the University of Toronto.”

  “Ah, the ants.” Damn. A mathematician. A hot mathematician. Rules, he reminded himself.

  “Yeah! Well, at the rate I’m going, I feel like an ant myself.”

  He raised his eyebrows, hoping to encourage her to continue.

  “Let’s just say it’s taking me a long time to get through school. I can only go part time. Extremely part time. I’m practically a senior citizen compared to some of my classmates.”

  She didn’t seem that old to him. Not an eighteen-year-old fresh from high school, no, but she had an air of innocence about her he suspected most university students—even those younger than she—did not.

  “Well, good for you.” He eyed her as he gathered up his papers. She did look tired. Not that she looked bad, far from it, just that more of her hair was out of her bun than in it, and her white shirt was stained. Disheveled was the word, really. She looked like she’d worked hard tonight, like she needed a foot rub and a stiff drink. An image flashed unbidden in front of his eyes—why did this keep happening?—of her reclining on his bed, eyes closed in ecstasy, sipping a scotch while he kneaded the soles of her feet.

  He pushed the untouched second glass of scotch toward her. “Change your mind?”

  She snapped her eyes to his, a little shocked, as if he had suggested something far, far wickeder. As if she could read his mind. They stared at each other in silence for a few heartbeats. Then he thought of that button, that straining button, and damned if his cock didn’t start to stir. He looked into her flashing eyes—flecked with blue, green and amber, they seemed to be made up of little splinters of every color imaginable—and told himself not to be a jerk.

  He dropped his gaze. It was an asshole move, but he didn’t have control over himself, that fucking button did. His eyes found it right away. It was just a plain, small, white button. Nothing special. It was the way it was pulled, so that instead of lying flat, the edge pointed toward him. She shifted a little, almost infinitesimally, and the button quivered. So did his cock. God, she was magnificent under there, wasn’t she?

  The next thing he knew, a small hand inserted itself into his field of vision. Nicely shaped nails, fingers sprinkled with a few freckles. Did she have freckles everywhere?

  The hand clasped around the sweating scotch glass and began lifting it.

  He followed it with his eyes. She licked her lips. Slowly. Jesus. Then she tipped her head back and drank. For a moment he thought she was going to drain the whole glass in one swig. But, no, she was a lover of scotch. He watched her neck—she took two swallows. She kept her eyes closed as she righted her head and gave a low hum of appreciation that echoed in his chest.

  Plunking the glass down on the bar, she looked at him and said, “I guess rules were made to be broken.”

  …

  The cold night air was a relief when it hit Cassie’s overheated face. She hadn’t buttoned up her coat, and after she got out of the immediate circle of light cast by the streetlamps outside Edward’s, she turned her head to the sky, looking for stars that the city lights and tall buildings always obscured. Why did she even try? In this city, the stars could all burn out and no one would notice.

  As the wind hit her neck, she took a deep breath. Holy cannoli, what a night. If this thing with Ebenezer sitting at the bar was going to be a thing, life was going to get a heck of a lot more interesting. And more lucrative. She patted the pocket where she’d stuffed her tips—Ebenezer’s made up two-thirds of her take for the night.

  There was no denying the guy was hot. Not her usual type maybe, but really, what was her usual type? Sensitive, stylish boys whose love of *NSYNC should have, in retrospect, been a red flag that they were complete closet cases? Jovial jocks who, though they were well meaning, probably scored higher in a hockey season than they did in IQ? Because that was the grand sum of her romantic experience. First had been Danny, the high school boyfriend, still her best friend now that he was comfortably out of the closet—but only because they both still loved *NSYNC. And then there was Mark, the only boyfriend she’d had in the approximately eight hundred million years she’d been at university. Set up by friends, she’d gone with the flow, and before she knew it she had a hockey star boyfriend who was…nice. She’d been surprised, then, when he dumped her, showing uncharacteristic signs of wisdom when he said they “just didn’t have that spark.” They’d vowed to stay friends, but without a shared devotion to a 1990s boy band to cement their relationship, they drifted apart.

  But this guy. Ebenezer. Jack Winter. Mr. Richie Rich Real Estate Man. Whoever the heck
he was. He was something else. He was hot, yes, in a conventional sort of way. Tall, good-looking, and all that. Smart—must be, given that he was so rich, and he always seemed to be poring over accounts. But aside from all that, there was something roiling just below the surface, barely contained. The sense that he was perpetually treading a tightrope of some sort. Like he was capable of exploding at any moment, but had simply chosen, through an act of will, not to. And, oh man, when he’d stared at her boobs so blatantly. She should have been offended, she supposed, but as he openly and unapologetically looked his fill, she’d just been turned on. Like crazy turned on.

  She was still staring in vain at the sky when she heard him. “I was thinking about what you said.”

  She shrieked and jumped about a foot.

  “Sorry,” he smirked. “Did I startle you?”

  Ugh. There it was again. Apparently all he had to do was speak, aim that low, knowing voice in her direction, and something spiked through her center. Something that had been conspicuously absent with Mr. Hockey and Mr. *NSYNC.

  She hoped he would interpret the time she took answering as a sign of nonchalance. Instead of, say, lust. Because there was no getting around it. She wanted him. But she didn’t want him to know she wanted him. Her insides were turning to mush, and he probably just wanted to ask her something about Edward’s scotch collection. But, fake it till you make it, right? She sent him what she hoped was a skeptical look. “You were thinking about what I said? Remind me what I said?”

  He waited a beat before he spoke, and in the pause she stared at his lips. Forget nonchalant, as he stuck his tongue out to lick his lips, there was no way not to stare.

  “You said rules are meant to be broken.”

  There wasn’t even time to gasp before his mouth was on hers—his mouth, tasting of scotch, and his hands. He was everywhere as he pressed her against the brick wall of the building.

  He tore his mouth from hers and she did gasp then, greedily sucking in air to fill the vacuum the intense kiss had created. He pressed against the soft flesh of her belly. His desire was unmistakable. “Do you feel that?” he bit out, his voice as raspy as his face—she hadn’t really noticed his five o’clock shadow until it was being rubbed against her cheek. “Do you?”