I sipped my coffee and nibbled on toast (yes, I was terrified on spending money, so I was eating cheap) and looked over the listings on the job sites. I just wanted to be a secretary. But everyone wanted me to be a secretary and something: secretary and receptionist, secretary and accounts receivable, secretary and space shuttle pilot. You get the picture. I just want to type reports, fetch coffee, work on spreadsheets, and sharpen pencils. Nothing earth-shattering. It was work I could do and work I enjoyed. No harm, no foul.
“Here we go. Scheduling appointments, typing reports, running errands, and light flirting.” I did a double take and then laughed. “Filing, Pepper,” I scolded myself. “Light filing. Not flirting.”
Contact Adam Nelson. Good. I sent my résumé via email and poured more coffee. My cell phone rang twenty minutes later. “Pepper Valentine?”
The voice was warm and deep and sent a little tingle over my back and down my spine. It had been a long time since a voice had provoked any kind of reaction other than fear. My former boss, Mr. Klitzner, had a big booming voice and, often times, a nasty disposition. “Um, yes. This is Pepper.”
“Pepper, Adam Nelson, here. I just read through your résumé. When can we get you in here?”
His voice was like warm chocolate—rich and a bit sweet—and it made me smile. I fucking love warm chocolate. “As soon as you want me.”
I froze, mouth open. Light flirting for sure. What the hell had I just said to my new potential boss? He laughed, though, and I remembered how to breathe.
His voice dropped, but I was surely imagining it. “How about you get in here by noon. We can have lunch and talk about you being my new secretary.”
“Yes, sir,” I whispered. It slipped out before I could stop it. And there was a tone in my voice I wasn’t accustomed to—a nervous kind of sultry note. I had never responded to Mr. Klitzner that way. It had always been Yes, Mr. Klitzner or even, Yes, Jerry. Never sir. Ever. A whirl of fear started low in my belly. I was going to miss my chance at this job by acting like a spaz.
He didn’t seem to notice and, for that, I was thankful. “Can you be here for lunch? I’ll order in. We can talk. You seem like the right girl for me.” His voice was like a drug, deadening my nerves and making me feel pleasantly slow and a bit sluggish.
“Sure. I can be there. Just for you.” I bit my lip. There. I had done it again. I had said something wildly inappropriate to a possible employer. God.
He laughed again, and I found myself shifting in my seat. I moved this way and that, hoping to relieve the sudden yearning in my pussy—the pulse that beat between my thighs, only from a voice. How would I be when I met Mr. Nelson? What would I do? How would I act?
I pushed the thought away as he said his goodbyes and hung up. Then I rushed up the steps to find an outfit appropriate for an interview. I had an hour or so to get myself together and stop flinging double-entendres around like a crazy woman. I walked out of the house in a taupe wrap dress, black hose held up by a black garter belt, three inch patent leather heels, and my hair in a loose, almost messy bun. I was sex in stilettos, but I fooled myself into thinking I had simply chosen clothes that said, Hire me. What I had actually chosen were clothes that said, Want me. |
