Promise Me Forever: Manhattan Ruthless

I’ve been dreading today with an absolute passion. I considered calling in sick or resigning. I even considered sourcing a fake identity and moving to Costa Rica. But here I am, ready for the James and James New York office’s annual team-building day. Hooray. Go team.

It’s all being held at a swanky hotel in Long Beach, and everyone else seems thrilled about it. Free room, free food, free booze—I mean, what’s not to like? Everything else, that’s what. Like the fact that Linda from HR has given us all tasks to complete and we’re all required to give presentations about our work. Worst of all, everyone is expected to take part in “trust workshops.” What does that even mean?

I was complaining to Kimmy about it on the phone last night. “Come on,” I said. “I can’t be the only one who thinks it’s crazy.”

“I think you’re being very cynical, Amelia,” she replied, glasses clinking in the background. She was, unsurprisingly, at a bar. “It sounds to me like you’re not being a team player.”

“Maybe I’m not a team player. Maybe you wouldn’t be either if it involved spending a night in a hotel with Linda from HR.”

“We all have a Linda from HR, my love, they come with the office space. Show her some love, she’ll open up like a little flower.”

I snorted in response to that. “Yeah. One of those carnivorous flowers that eats secretaries for breakfast.”

“An Amelia flytrap?”

“Exactly,” I replied, folding a pair of socks and adding them to my overnight bag.

“Will there be men there?” she asked. “Or women, of course, if I can persuade you to be a little more open-minded.”

“It’s not about being open-minded, and you very well know it. I’m just not sexually attracted to women.”

“More’s the pity. It doubles your dating pool. And you didn’t answer my question.”

“Yes, Kimmy, there will be men there. And no, Kimmy, I’m not planning on fucking any of them. And bye, Kimmy, I’ve got to go finish packing. Or get takeout from that place that gave us horrendous food poisoning last March. That might be less painful.”

The last sound I heard was her laughter as I hung up, which did at least make me smile. I told myself Kimmy probably had the right attitude. I shouldn’t be taking this too seriously. And anyway, it might be fun.

But now I’m here. And so far, it is not fun. The name tag I was given at registration only serves to remind me of Emily’s wedding, thus tanking my already sour mood.

Our office has almost two hundred employees, and most of them seem to be milling around the bar, drinking the breakfast mimosas and chatting. The atmosphere is more like a high school reunion than a serious work event. We’re all getting split up into different groups, and I’m nervous about what might come later. I don’t enjoy public speaking or being the center of attention. Maybe it’s not too late to pretend I’ve just come down with a mild case of the Bubonic plague.

Keeping to the edges of the crowd, I spot Jacob across the lobby and give him a cheery wave, then say hi to a couple women I recognize from the break room. I know there’s an active social life among the staff, but it’s not something I’ve ever thrown myself into, no matter where I worked. Lack of money, lack of time, and lack of inclination, I suppose. I prefer to hang out with Mom or meet up with Emily or Kimmy. Making new friends requires so much effort, but as I look at all the smiling faces around me, I wonder whether I should try harder. Everyone seems to be having a great time with one another.

Even at my temp jobs, I usually had a handful of friendly acquaintances that I could grab lunch with outside the office on occasion. Thanks to being so caught up in Drake, I haven’t even managed that.

As though I’ve conjured him up … “Miss Ryder,” he says, “fancy seeing you here.” I hate how his deep, rich voice still makes me melt no matter how mad I am at him. It is so unfair.

“Mr. James. I … I didn’t expect to see you,” I say after I turn to face him. I blocked his calendar for this but assumed he’d stay back in the office and catch up on work. I certainly didn’t anticipate him choosing to be anywhere near this—or me, for that matter. “Surely you don’t have to take part in this, this, um …”

“Vitally important morale-boosting corporate retreat?”

“Yeah. That.”

“Well, I do actually. As does Nathan. Though he’s brought his wife with him, so he’ll probably be having a much better time. It wouldn’t send a very good message if the named partners didn’t turn up to their own retreat, would it? I can tell from your face that you don’t have high expectations, but give it a chance. It can be fun.”

“Fun?” I repeat, staring up at him. He’s dressed in what is, for him, casual wear—a short-sleeved navy-blue shirt that makes his biceps pop and tailored black pants that hug his muscular thighs. He looks like sex would look if it had a body and walked around. “Since when have you been interested in fun?”

He lifts his eyebrows and points to his name badge. I’m surprised it only says Drake James and not God.

“Remind you of anything?” he asks, his tone neutral.

“No,” I say firmly. “Nothing at all. What do you … Look, why are you talking to me like this? Is it part of a trust exercise? Because if it is, you’ve failed.”

A flicker of something crosses his face, but I can’t quite decipher it. Most likely anger. I probably shouldn’t have said any of that, but he caught me unaware, and my usual facade isn’t in place. Besides, according to the HR memos, one of the whole points of holding this event on neutral territory is that it leads to “open and transparent communication” across departments. If he doesn’t like me being open and transparent, he’ll have to take it up with Linda.

“You don’t trust me?” he says quietly, his eyes intense on mine. He’s standing way too close for comfort, and he has way too much skin on display. I shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans because I don’t want them to reach out and touch those powerful forearms. I don’t even want to be in the same room as them.

“Look, Mr. James⁠—”

“I’m Drake today, and you’re Amelia. Unless you want to be Scarlet again?”

Oh sweet lord, what is he doing? His gaze rakes over my body and lingers on my hair, which is tied up in a tidy ribbon on the top of my head. I erred on the side of caution in case I was forced to bungee jump or abseil down the side of a building to prove my loyalty to the firm.

“I have no intention of ever being Scarlet again. At least not with you. You’re flirting with me, Mr. James, and it’s freaking me out. Because no, I don’t trust you, not anymore. You’ve spent the last two weeks freezing me out and shutting me down. You’ve barely spoken ten words to me in person outside of ‘that will be all, Miss Ryder.’” I lay down a real thick pompous accent for that part.

“Basically, you’ve been an asshole. And you know what? That’s okay. I understand your reasons, and if it’s possible for assholery to come from a good place, I get that yours is. I appreciate the fact that, as far as you’re concerned, you are being fair by letting me keep my job while you keep your distance. But you can’t suddenly expect me to not be confused when you go from that to this … Whatever the hell this is.” I realize that my voice has gone up a few decibels and glance around nervously. Luckily, the noise level in here is similar to an airplane runway, so nobody seems to have noticed.

He grabs hold of my elbow and guides me, not especially gently, toward a quiet spot in the hallway. He pushes open a door and reveals a storage room containing stacks of fold-up chairs.

“I’m sorry,” I say hastily as he bundles me in front of him, his face like thunder. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”

Being alone with him makes me feel suddenly vulnerable. He’s a big man, and his proximity has me scared and turned on at the same time, which is so screwed up. Why has he brought me here? What does he intend to do that he can’t do in public? Strangle me, perhaps? Kiss me? Kick me out of his life?

He closes the door behind him, and I back away as far as I can, only stopping when my ass hits the wall.

“No, you should have spoken to me like that,” he replies, looming over me, his eyes scanning my face like he’s trying to memorize it. “I deserved it, and I’m the one who’s sorry.”

He places a hand flat against the wall next to my head and stares at the topknot of my hair. He’s so close I can barely breathe, and it would be so easy to reach out, lay my palms on his hips, and pull him toward me. I can smell his cologne, and it goes straight to my core. Dammit, even when he’s harassing me in a storage closet, this man makes my panties wet.

“Stu Parker called,” he says, every touch of his eyes feeling intimate and erotic. “He told me what you said. And he told me what he thought of me. He was right. I’ve been acting like a dick to you, and I apologize. Nothing has changed—we still can’t …” His hand drifts to my hair, and his pupils dilate as he gently tugs on the ribbon I had it all tied up with. I gasp at the contact, and he groans as my hair tumbles down over my shoulders. His fingers run through a few strands, and I automatically lean into his touch. My hips rock forward as though they have a mind of their own, and my eyes go wide when I feel how hard he is.

He skims his fingers down my cheek to my jaw and tilts my face up. His almost-black eyes bore into me.

“I am sorry, Amelia. I’ve been a jackass. I … I’m a mess when I’m around you, and I’ve been so busy trying to hide it that I forgot your feelings. But like I said, nothing has changed. This is still wrong. This is still a bad idea.”

It might be a bad idea, but gosh do I want it. The feel of his erection pressing into me leaves me in no doubt that he does too. My nipples are ready to pop through my bra, my pussy is clenching and shaking, and my hands have somehow found their way to his ass. This doesn’t feel very professional at all. It feels absolutely delicious, and I know I’d let him strip me down right now if he tried. I clearly have a lot more lust than I have self-respect.

A knock comes on the door, jolting us both out of the moment. “Mr. James?” a voice calls. “Are you in there?”

Shit. It’s Linda. We both freeze, and I clamp my hand over my mouth to stop myself from laughing. A few seconds pass, and we hear her say, “I don’t know where he is, Susan. Someone said they saw him going in here, which is obviously nonsense. I swear, that man drives me crazy. He might look good, but I wouldn’t object if he went back to Chicago and …”

Her voice fades as she moves away, and we finally give in to the laughter. He puts some distance between us, and I very deliberately don’t look at his groin. “Linda fancies you,” I say, straightening my hair.

“She does,” he replies. “I’m a lucky man. Though a little heartbroken that she wants me to go back to Chicago.”

“Well, personally, I think you should put in a complaint with HR. You shouldn’t have to tolerate being objectified like that.”

I’m arranging my hair back into its ties and ribbon, and he’s watching every move I make. “Leave it down.”

I raise my eyebrows at him and see that he means it. “Um, no. Thank you for the apology, Mr. James, but you don’t get to tell me what to do. You may be the boss of me at work, but this is a team-building day, right? So, let me communicate with you, openly and transparently—I’ll wear my hair however I like it.”

His lips twitch with a hint of a smirk while his dark eyes narrow. He’s both pissed and amused—a dangerous combination. I roll back my shoulders. This is going to be a long day.

It turns out that Drake is hosting my group’s first session, and predictably enough, he does a great job. We all made our way into a large meeting room, the atmosphere still lighthearted and jovial, and after yet another round of refreshments, he took to a small podium at the front. He made a few jokes about the corporate world, spoke with genuine passion about the company and its ethos, and then basically told everyone that they should forget who he is for the next several hours because this day isn’t about him, it’s about us.

It could have sounded corny, but the way he delivered it left the crowd in no doubt that he genuinely believes in what he’s saying. He truly believes in James and James and that we are all an essential part of it. I know he’s a lawyer and he’s used to performing, but I still buy into it, and from the sound of the applause echoing around the room, so does everybody else.

He calls people up by name and invites them to take their spot at the podium and share a little information about themselves and their role in the firm. There’s a huge variation in how everyone manages this part of the proceedings—some simply stutter their names and job titles and clearly can’t wait to escape, and others come complete with PowerPoint presentations and slides. One guy—the never-to-be-forgotten Drew, executive manager of catering services—even had his own theme song. He shimmied up to the podium to the sound of Kelis singing “Milkshake,” then told us all about how many tons of fruit and how many gallons of milk it takes to provide us all with our smoothies, shakes, and lattes each year. It made us all laugh, but it also caused me to consider how much work goes on behind the scenes to make the small things happen—which I suppose is part of the point of a day like today.

Eventually, Drake looks down at his notes and smiles. “Now,” he says, “as most of you know, I’ve been running the Chicago office for several years. That means that today is the first opportunity I’ve had to meet a lot of you in person. Our final team member, though, is one I know well. Really well. Please put your hands together for my assistant, Amelia Ryder.”

He makes eye contact with me as I shuffle along my row of chairs and walk nervously toward the front of the room. He quirks one eyebrow, and to anybody else at all, it would mean nothing. Just a boss acknowledging his employee. But I am hypersensitive to everything this man does, and that simple quirk of an eyebrow, along with his mischievous smile, is enough to make my heart hammer harder. I was already nervous, and now I have him telling the whole room that he knows me “really well.” Nobody else will suspect that he knows me so well he knows how my orgasms taste. But still … I know. And he knows. And that’s enough to knock me further off-balance.

He applauds as I walk toward him and gestures for me to take his spot. With every other guest, he’s stood off to the side or behind them. With me, he changes it up, taking a seat in the front row so he can see me.

I stare down at him, my throat dry and my hands clammy, wondering what on earth to say. The room is packed with people looking up at me, but he’s the only one I can see. He meets my eyes and actually winks. Damn him. He’s messing with my head, and he knows it. Well, two can play at that game. It’s definitely time to be more Scarlet. I take a deep breath. I can do this. Or at least she can.

“Hi!” I say brightly to the assembled group. “Can I get anyone a coffee? Would you like me to run to the deli for you? Should I order your wife some flowers or order your mistress some diamonds? Does your dry cleaning need picking up? Would it help if I answered your phone so I can blow off the people you can’t be bothered talking to? And then can I get you some more coffee?”

There are chuckles around the room, and I see some people nodding. I’m guessing the ones who have similar roles to mine. Drake looks momentarily taken aback, especially at the word “mistress,” but then he settles back in his chair with an amused look on his face.

“I’m guessing most of you don’t have secretaries or assistants, or whatever you want to call them. Most of you probably learned long ago how to get your own coffee, buy your own lunch, and remember your own wife’s birthday. As for the mistresses, I’ll leave that well enough alone, it’s none of my business. But one of the perks of being truly successful, not only at James and James but at most companies, is that you get to basically unlearn all that stuff. You get someone else to do it for you. You get a babysitter. Mr. James says he knows me really well, and to some extent that’s true—but how well does he actually know me? Shall we see?”

There’s a chorus of cheers and people yelling “Yeah!” and other words of encouragement. I put my hand on my hip and tilt my head as I look at Drake. “Are you up to the challenge, sir?”

He narrows his eyes at me, and I know I’m playing with fire here. But he started this. He cornered me in a storage room and messed with my hair. He winked at me, goddamn it!

“Sure,” he shouts back up at me. “Go for it.” That earns him a round of applause too, and I grin at him. He smiles back, and I’m glad nobody else can see that smile, because it is downright wicked.

“All right. Mr. James, what star sign am I?”

“I have no clue at all, but your birthday is September Ninth.”

I’m genuinely surprised he knows that, but I suppose it is in my employee file. “Correct. That makes me a Virgo, by the way.”

“Good to know. Make sure to order yourself some flowers from me. Or diamonds, if that’s what you prefer.”

The room erupts into wolf whistles and cheers at that one, and I join in with the laughter. I can’t believe I’m standing up here in front of all these people, verbally jousting with Drake. He’s kind of flirting but doing it so publicly that it almost doesn’t count—the room full of witnesses makes it harmless banter. At least to them. His knowing smile almost melts my panties off, but they don’t know that.

“Okay. Next question. Am I a dog person or a cat person?”

He chortles and says, “Trick question. You like dogs and cats, but when you were a kid, you kept rabbits.”

Wow. He’s totally right, but I genuinely don’t remember telling him that. It’s hardly sexy pillow talk, but I suppose it must have crept out at some point on the night of the wedding—it definitely wasn’t on my job application. “Very good, Mr. James. You must have been paying attention in class.”

“Well, you’re an excellent teacher, Miss Ryder. Next question?”

“Right. Okay … What’s my middle name?”

This is also a trick question. My middle name is actually Amelia, which I’ve always been known as. My first name is Nora, after my long-gone grandmother. Mom gave me the name as a gesture of love toward her own mother, but she said it didn’t really suit me and raised me very much as an Amelia. I have no clue if Drake is aware of this or not.

“Ah. Well, that one’s easy,” he replies, giving me that lopsided grin that always makes my tummy flutter. “Your middle name is Scarlet.”

Without breaking eye contact, he runs his hands along his thick thighs and leans forward. He’s undone the top button of his shirt, and even that tiny flash of exposed flesh is enough to make me lick my lips. I remember so vividly the first moment I laid eyes on him, sitting at that table at the wedding. He was so good-looking that I could barely speak, and although we’ve come a long way since then, he still takes my breath away.

“Close enough, Mr. James, close enough. Though I let you off easy. I didn’t get into any of the really tricky stuff, like what Hogwarts house I am or what my favorite karaoke song is.”

He stands up and walks toward me. His eyes are on mine, and despite the chatter of the watching crowd, it still feels like we’re the only two people in the room.

“Well, I look forward to finding out more about you, Miss Ryder. But for now, would you mind getting me a coffee?”

He earns some laughter and jeers for that, and I smile and wave to everyone as I walk back to my seat. Now that the adrenaline rush has passed, I feel weak at the knees and amazed at what I just did. I didn’t only stand in front of a packed room and speak; I called Drake out in public. He played along, but he didn’t really have much choice, and I wonder if he’ll make me pay for that later. Part of me hopes he does. The idea of being punished by Drake is more than a little exciting. What the hell is wrong with me?

The rest of the morning passes in a blur of meetings, games, and a surprisingly amusing scavenger hunt around the hotel. I’m aware of Drake, of course, and our paths cross frequently throughout the day. He’s polite each time, friendly and approachable—the polar opposite of the way he’s been treating me recently.

My feelings for Drake are complicated, and I’m not sure I entirely understand them myself. I know I feel more physically drawn to him than I’ve ever felt to anyone and that when things are going well between us, I enjoy his company. And I know that he can be kind, funny, and easy to talk to. But I also know that he can be unpredictable, cold, and dismissive. It’s the not knowing which one I’m going to encounter that makes him dangerous, this constant game of “will the real Drake James please stand up?”

Today has been good. I got a version of Drake James that I like and who seemed to like me back. Tomorrow? Who knows. For now, though, I put him out of my mind for a few moments while I sit outside in the gardens. It’s a beautiful summer day, and the blue sky and birdsong are the perfect accompaniment to my break-time coffee. I’m messaging my mom, trying to persuade her to come to the movies with me this weekend. One of the theaters in Times Square is showing a back-to-back Indiana Jones marathon, and Harrison Ford is her all-time favorite actor. So far she’s a definite no, which is disappointing.

“Amelia? Are you okay?”

I look up and see Drake himself standing before me. I shield my eyes against the sunlight. “Yes, I’m fine, why?”

“You looked kind of sad. May I?” He gestures at the bench, and I nod. He sits next to me, and I shuffle away when I realize he’s close enough for our thighs to touch.

“I’ve been trying to convince my mom to come out with me. To go see a movie. She used to love that, but now she’s more or less housebound, says she finds it too overwhelming to be out and around too many people. So I suppose I am sad, yeah. I want her to enjoy life again, you know?”

“Of course you do. What kind of movies does she like?”

“Oh, all of them. She’ll give anything a chance. Big blockbusters, little art-house flicks, rom-coms, thrillers—she has very eclectic taste. But she especially loves Harrison Ford, so I was trying to tempt her with some Raiders of the Lost Ark action. No go, sadly.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, his tone sympathetic. “It’s so hard to see them reduced, isn’t it?”

“Reduced. That’s a good way of putting it. And yeah, I hate it.”

He gazes off into the distance, and I guess his mind is drifting back to his own past. “My mom fought like hell against the cancer that eventually claimed her. She had a warrior spirit, and she tried so damn hard not to let it defeat her. But near the end, she was in so much pain—and loaded up with so many drugs—that she just wasn’t herself. This proud, magnificent woman was confused, saying things she never would have said normally. She was, well, reduced. Realizing she wasn’t superhuman after all came as a shock to all of us. I suppose with your mom, all you can do is what you are doing—keep trying and always be there for her. Make the most of every minute you have together.”

He doesn’t add “because you never know which might be your last.” He doesn’t have to. The thought is lurking there between us, and his eyes are full of pain and regret. I reach out and touch his hand. He gazes down at my consoling fingers and squeezes them briefly in his.

Then he stands up and gestures back to the hotel entrance. “Come on, Nora. We’d better get back in. We can’t let Linda catch us holding hands. Plus, it’s time for the trust exercises.”

“Nora? You knew that all along?”

“Sure I did. I’m not the kind of guy to leave a personnel file unread.”

I pull a face behind his back but follow him inside.