Page 24 of His for Christmas
He gave me a dark look. “I had every right.”
“You can’t fire me. I’m not your employee anymore.”
His expression softened. “And why would I fire you?”
I stared at him. “Because I lied.”
“Angel… your juvenile record was sealed. That’s why we didn’t find it during the background check. And that means you don’t have to disclose it.”
My gaze narrowed. “What?”
And more importantly, how the hell did he know that?
The question must have shone in my eyes because he gave me a half smile. “I do numbers for a living. I could work out the dates here between your birthday, your GED, and your associates degree. And the date you submitted this application.”
That much made sense, but… “How do you know about not having to disclose juvenile records?”
“I’m a business owner,” he said lightly as if his business wasn’t a billion-dollar conglomerate. “It’s my responsibility to understand basic hiring laws.” His cheeks darkened. “Plus I may have called my lawyer to confirm that this morning.”
Blood had started to pound thickly in my ears. I felt close to crying, and that somehow seemed the worst travesty of this whole thing—crying in front of the man I wanted, the one I’d never deserve to have. “Why didn’t I know about that?”
“You should have. Your parole officer should have gone over all this.”
I just shook my head, remembering the flyer of homeless shelters and the offer to make money on my back. I’d known then that it wasn’t how things were supposed to be done, but a lot of rules got broken in prison. And not all of them by the inmates.
He stepped forward, his finger raising my chin. “You don’t have to worry anymore.”
Worry? I had plenty to worry about. He didn’t understand that in his thousand-dollar suit and his supreme self-assurance.
I shook my head. “I can’t even blame my criminal record. It’s not like I was so freaking successful before I got arrested. The truth is, I can’t cut it, okay?”
“Never going to cut it?”
Why was he making me spell this out? God, it was so obvious. And so depressing. “I’m never going to make a bunch of money, got it? Never going to be one of those fancy people in a business suit. Never going to take the elevator to the top of the glass building.”
“Well, we can’t all be Willy Wonka.”
Don’t smile, you’ll only encourage him. But I couldn’t help it. I was glad he’d told me about the disclosure thing, and a deep sense of relief filled me. It meant I hadn’t broken any rules getting that temp job. It also meant I could probably find another job, without a criminal history—and possibly with a positive recommendation. “You are such an asshole.”
Or maybe without the recommendation.
He didn’t seem bothered. “I’ve heard that before.”
“Well, I’m not very original.”
“Do not start with the smart stuff again. You’re smart.” When I snorted, he pressed on. “Very smart. The smartest woman I’ve ever met.”
I glared at him. “Stop.”
“It’s true,” he insisted. “I wish I had half your skill with people. I generally have to take over someone’s company to get them to listen to me. Sometimes it feels like overkill.”
“Only sometimes?” I asked wryly.
“But you, you just smile in that open way and say something sweet, and people are eating out of the palm of your hand.” Something fell, then, in his eyes—a wall. A barrier. He took it down and let me see the truth of his words. “It worked for me, anyway.”
My chest felt tight. “Not smart enough to get a job. The real kind. Not pouring stale coffee.”
“You had a rough start,” he countered. “You survived on the streets. And now look at you. Do you think I don’t know how far you’ve come? Do you think I don’t realize how hard you had to work to get to this point without a family, without a home?”
Yeah, kinda. “You’re rich.”
His expression softened. “I wasn’t always rich. But you’re right. I was never homeless either. So let me help you.”
“What?”
“Let me give you money,” he said bluntly.
Ah, there was the Big Bad. It was almost comforting that he woudn’t be cheesy or romantic about this. He was giving it to me straight.
“I’m not visiting your office, Gage. Not at night. Not at any time of the day.”
“That’s not what I’m asking for. I seem to recall you telling me I deserve more. That’s what I want. From you. I want you with me when I go home. I want a reason to actually go home.”
“And I’d be what? Your kept woman? Your mistress?”
“I was thinking girlfriend.”
I fought against the wave of inappropriate happiness inside me. “This isn’t right. The money. The imbalance. It’s like you paying a woman to come to your office. That’s not how it’s supposed to work.”
He took my hands and pulled me close. “Angel… I want to be with you. Near you. Is that wrong?”
