You know the stories where the strong, brawny man struts into a room with his head high, his chest puffed, and his stocky shoulders pulled back—he’s the king of the jungle, the big man on campus, the one who quivers girls’ knees. He carries an air of unwarranted superiority for the pure fact that he has a dick, and he knows it. He expects the girl to go tongue-tied and agree to his every demand.
Well, I am living that story right now.
The man settles into a seat at the head of the conference table (instead of the chair nearest me) and just stares in my direction.
Maybe he thinks I’m going to be that stupefied girl. That I will cower beneath his deep gray eyes and his combed dishwater blond hair. He’s twenty-eight, stained with Hollywood elitism and self-righteousness. When I first talked to him, he name-dropped actors and producers and directors, waiting for me to go slack-jawed and dopey. “I know so-and-so. I did a project with what’s-his-face.”
My boyfriend had to grab the phone out of my hand before I cursed at the Hollywood exec for irritating the shit out of me.
He finally speaks. “Do you have the contracts?” His chair screeches as he leans back.
I pull out the stack of papers from my handbag.
“Bring them here.” He motions to me with two fingers.
“You could have sat beside me,” I retort, standing on two chunky heels with brass buttons, military-inspired and part of the new Calloway Couture collection.
“But I didn’t,” he says easily. “Come here.”
My heels clink across the hardwood, and I make the perilous catwalk up to Scott Van Wright.
He props one ankle on his thigh, his finger to his cheek as he unabashedly peruses my body. From my slender legs to the hem of my black pleated dress with sheer quarter-sleeves, and to the high collar that frames my stiff neck. He traces my dark-glossed lips, my rose-blushed cheeks, and bypasses right over my pissed-off eyes, spending an extra moment fixated on my chest.
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