Confessions Of A Klutz: Confessions Series #1 Read online

  Tilting my head to the side, I stare at the safety pins—I think I could totally pull off the goth look if I put my mind to it. Not the jeans though—I don’t want to wrestle with my clothes.

  I wince as my heels cut into the back of my feet. I’ve had to keep them on all day. It’s a crime to have to keep your feet enclosed in them, but I had no choice because Mr. CEO has the air conditioner on outside of his office. It’s winter! In New York for Pete’s sake!

  Shaking my head, I’m about to pick the tablet up and finish off the last of organizing his schedule back at the hotel when he walks out of his office. I flick my gaze over to him but he’s not looking my way, instead he’s frowning down at his cell—a frown that I itch to smooth out with my fingers. Is his tan skin as soft as it looks?

  Reaching out for the tablet, I finally pull my greedy eyes away from my hunk of a boss and push it into my bag.

  “Miss Scott.” Goddamn, it should be illegal to have a voice like that.

  “Yes, Mr. Taylor?”

  I don’t look up as he steps closer, his cologne wrapping around me like a warm blanket on a winter night. The musk and earthy notes are like crack to an addict and I take an extra deep breath before glancing up at him.

  His dark-blue eyes bore into me. “I have a last-minute meeting that I need you to take notes at.”

  Goddammit all to hell! It’s 6 p.m., I’ve been here for eleven hours and all I can see right now is the bath in my suite, begging me to sit my ass in it and not move until I resemble a dried-up prune. Hold on a second... isn’t a prune already a dried fruit? Hmm, I’ll ask Google when I get back to the hotel.

  “I—” I shuffle on my feet, wincing again as they pinch.

  He’s looking back down at his cell as he says, “It’s across the city, let’s go,” before spinning around and heading toward the elevators.

  Grabbing my bag, I hobble after him, gaining me some weird looks from the other people walking around on this floor—mainly men. The women look at me knowingly, offering me pitiful smiles. It’s like we’re in a club where we all know what the pain’s like but have to endure it for… wait, why am I enduring this pain?

  The elevator doors open as soon as he stops in front of them, almost as if they knew he was coming—or maybe he has a super power? Now that would be cool. Oh my God, am I working for a superhero? Actually, he kind of looks more like a villain. Hmm… I wonder what his outfit is?

  Stepping onto the elevator, the doors close behind me, leaving only me and Mr. Villain in the metal box that could plunge us to our deaths if it was so inclined. Shit, don’t think like that, Vi. Jesus H Christ, I’m driving myself insane with all my rambling thoughts.

  Neither of us talk as it takes us down to the main floor and when the door whooshes open, we both step out. I feel something wet on the back of my heels and I stop, leaning my hand against the wall as I try to see what it is.

  “Son of a batch of cookies!”

  Why? Why oh why did I wear brand-new heels for my first day of work? They’ve shredded my feet and now all I want to do is hold them to my chest—my feet not the heels—and rock them back and forth telling them it’ll get better knowing I’m lying because these are the only pair I brought with me.

  Someone should tell those gangsters running around the streets that they don’t need to be pulling fingernails off people's hands, instead they should make people wear a brand-new pair of heels as a form of torture.

  I yank the offending things off my feet, closing my eyes and moaning as the cold floor seeps through my skin. Now that is heaven.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  I squeak at the growling voice that sounds down my ear, and when I turn my head, Mr. Taylor is standing a couple of inches away from me, his chest nearly touching my arm.

  “I’m removing the torture devices.” He frowns at me, an impatient look on his face. I hold them up between us before explaining, “They’ve cut my feet open and—”

  “Fuck me, why the hell would Della do this?” I open my mouth, about to ask what he’s talking about when he continues, “No, I know why, she’s trying to get her own back.” He runs a hand down his face as he steps back, curling his fingers around my bicep and pulling me along with him. “Sleep with a girl your senior year and more than a decade later she’s still trying to get back at me.”

  My eyes widen as I watch him talk, his tone deep and threatening. Who the hell shit in his Cocoa Puffs?

  He pushes us through the turnstile door, heading for a black car idling at the edge of the sidewalk. He pulls open the door, waving his hand at me to get in. I do as he silently says, shuffling over on the seat before he gets in, slamming the door.

  “Reels and Dew. I need to be there in ten minutes so step on it, Jenson.”

  I lean to the right to see who he’s talking to, and when I see the driver I shout, “Hey, Jeeves!”

  “Miss Scott.” He nods, a smirk lifting the corners of his mouth.

  “Jeeves?” Mr. Taylor murmurs and when I turn toward him, I’m all up in his space. “Never mind.” He waves a hand, his thumbs flying over the screen of his cell as the silence rains around us again. I hate silence.

  Clutching the side of my skirt, I stare out the window while Jeeves weaves in and out of traffic, pulling up to another sidewalk and another metal and glass building seven minutes later.

  Mr. Taylor gets out without another word said, waiting until I’m out too, my heels in my hands. I blanch when we’re in yet another elevator and realize I’m going to have to put them back on.

  “Cock suckers,” I murmur as I bend my knees, about to bring up my foot.

  “Excuse me?”

  I roll my eyes at Mr. Taylor’s stiff tone, fed up that today isn’t over yet. I haven’t even managed to watch a minute of anything because I’ve been so busy trying to work out the system he uses and what I’ll need to be prepared for. These three weeks are going to kill me.

  I wave the heel up in the air between us, nearly hitting him in the face as I straighten up. “Do you know what it’s like to have to wear these?” He opens his mouth but I don’t let him talk. “Torture, pure torture. And now I have to put them back on while my foot is bleeding.” I grit my teeth as he watches me like I’m a crazy person. “I’m going to be leaving a trail of—what are you doing?”

  I pull my foot out of his grasp, my back hitting the elevator wall as I stumble away from his crouched position. “I’m checking your foot, I didn’t realize you were bleeding.”

  “Well you wouldn’t because you went all grrr and pulled me out of the office—”

  “Grrr?” He raises his brow, a grin spreading over his face.

  Jesus, he’s even more sexy with those lips spread wide. They’re so full and would look like perfection if they were between my legs—Shit, I went there again.

  Shaking my head, I swallow when his hand wraps around my ankle again. “Yeah, you know, all caveman—you spunktrumpet!”

  “Keep still,” he commands, his deep voice echoing around us as he assesses my foot. “Should be okay once it’s cleaned.” He lets my foot down slowly and I watch as he looks up at me from his position. His hand stays on my ankle, moving upward. I don’t even think he realizes he’s doing it.

  He makes it all the way to the back of my knee and I’m practically panting like a sex addict in a whorehouse at the sensations rolling through me. My teeth sink into my bottom lip and he zones in on them, his eyes growing darker.

  The door opens, a ping sounding, and it’s like a bucket of ice cold water being thrown over him. He pulls away, yanking his hand off me before standing up, clearing his throat and murmuring, “Leave the heels off, we won’t be long and then I’ll give you a ride back to the hotel.”

  You can give me a ride anytime.

  Chapter 3

  Confession #9: I tried to jump over a stick in skates, missed, fell over, and rolled down a hill—injuries included a chipped tooth.

  I bite down on the lid of my pen,
watching as Mr. Taylor stands up from his chair at the head of the table. He undoes his cuff links, pocketing them and rolling his sleeves up. I can’t stop staring at his movements; I’m like an old man who hasn’t gotten his dick wet in years watching a stripper.

  I can confirm that I one hundred percent have a lady boner.

  His gaze floats around everyone at the table, stopping on me briefly. His straight face and guarded eyes giving nothing away, but yet I still squirm in my seat. Jeez Louise, I need to calm myself down.

  Today is day two, and there hasn’t been a word said between us since he dropped me off at the hotel last night. I don’t mind though because sometimes people are awesome to look at but douchebags to talk to—maybe he’s one of those kinds of guys?

  I need at least forty-eight hours to confirm or deny that.

  I for sure thought there’d be gossip about him that would allow me to determine it sooner rather than later but there’s nothing. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Maybe he dazzles everyone with his strong jaw and dimpled chin and they’re put under some kind of spell that has them not saying a bad word against him?

  Oh! Maybe he has those kinds of skills all the hip vampires and werewolves have these days. Talking about vampires, anyone else gutted that Damon and Stefan won’t be on our screens anymore?

  “—Scott.” My eyes widen as my gaze clashes with Mr. Taylor’s. I open my mouth, about to ask him to repeat himself when he continues on. “She’ll be filling in for Sheila until Christmas. Jayla?” His attention is on the woman sitting three seats down on his right. “Do you have applications for the position filled in yet?”

  “Yes, Mr. Taylor.” She bats her eyelashes and I raise a brow, wondering if she’ll take flight like a butterfly with how much she’s going at it. Someone should tell her she’s as obvious as a flashing red sign advertising an adult store. “Get your dildos here!”

  “Good, I want the position filled as soon as possible.” He moves his gaze to mine, something flashing in its depths that has me scrunching up my nose. He zones in on the action, his hand clenching into a fist at his side.

  I look away, not able to keep the contact going for long. He’s just too… intense.

  He continues on, walking toward the wall of windows as he talks about the latest ventures in business. I get lost after the third sentence and flip to an open page on my notebook.

  My pen is moving at lightning speed as my mind runs away with me, and before I know it, I’m stopping and tilting my head at my drawing.

  There are many different kinds of artists out there, all using different forms and tools. Me? I like to use ballpoint pens. I may not be able to use oil paints or watercolors, but I can draw the shit out of people. Realistic is something I love to do, but my absolute passion is to draw caricatures. Not too out there, I still want people to recognize who they are.

  I suppose you’d call what I do comic strips; I call them my fun moments. Anyone else laugh at themselves all the time? Because I do, and I’ll say, I’m freaking hilarious.

  The pad of my finger grazes over the head of Mr. Taylor—the one I drew, not the real one.

  He’s standing twice the size as the rest of the people around the table, all of them with speech bubbles coming from their mouths. I snort at what I’ve written above Jayla, “Would you like a blow—”

  I squeak when a hand lands on my notepad, tips of fingers grazing over my knuckles. My eyes widen when I see the forearm. Shit! I’d recognize that forearm anywhere.

  Looking around, I see a guy toward the bottom of the table talking, everyone’s attention on him. Slowly, I turn my head, meeting Mr. Taylor’s gaze. He raises a brow, his blue-eyed gaze looking from me to the paper.

  Swallowing, I open my mouth, about to say… what? I don’t freaking know! But he’s looking right at his caricature face and reading above it where there’s a thought bubble saying, “I’ll use my cheekbones to cut through this glass and escape these kiss asses,” as he looks out of the window.

  He shakes his head at me, a small movement, before he pulls his hand off mine, his pointer finger dragging over the top of my hand, making me shiver. Jesus, I read about that in those soppy romance books, but I never thought it would actually happen. Am I in an alternate universe?

  He backs away, letting me take a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Slamming my book closed, I pay attention as the guy continues to talk. I can’t stop my gaze skirting over to Mr. Taylor as he walks back to the head of the table.

  I stutter a breath when I find his eyes fixated on me, his gaze batting down to my lips. I can’t look away, the dark-blue orbs catching me in their web. Why the hell can’t I look away?

  “So, I think it would be very lucrative,” the unnamed guy says, not only bringing me out of my head, but Mr. Taylor’s too.

  He snaps his attention to him, opening his mouth but closing it again when his cell goes off. He flicks his gaze back to me briefly, only there isn’t an ounce of what was there mere seconds ago. Did I imagine the whole thing?

  Of course you imagined it! He wouldn’t be staring at your lips like they were a piece of medium-rare steak—best way to cook it by the way. I don’t want my steak to be a piece of rubber, thank you very much.

  He huffs out a breath as he pulls his cell out of his pocket. “I have to take this, we’ll talk more in the department head meeting on Friday.”

  He clicks on his cell, walking toward the back of the room as everyone files out like bats out of hell, not allowing me to push back my chair. Jayla sneers at me as she walks past and I raise my brow in return. What the hell is butterfly’s problem?

  By the time the stampede stops, there’s only me and Mr. Taylor left in the room.

  I swallow, pushing back my chair before I stand up, smoothing down the light-blue blouse tucked into my skinny, ankle grazer pants. I have to say, my ass looks awesome in them, but it’s the kind of awesome where if you sit down too fast, you could rip them—kind of like with my skirt yesterday that’s now sitting in my suitcase waiting for me to try to fix it. Try being the optimum word. Sewing and I don’t go together, but it’s not like I can afford to throw it out and replace it.

  “Miss Scott?” I nearly moan at the way Mr. Taylor says my name.

  “Yes?” I ask, keeping my attention focused on him, watching as he rolls down his sleeves methodically, his thumb and finger grasping his cuff link as he attaches it to the cuff of his shirt.

  “I’d really appreciate if you paid attention in my meetings.” He moves on to the next sleeve. “It is your job after all.”

  “I…” Swallowing against my dry throat, I take a small step back when he walks forward.

  He tilts his head, stopping a foot in front of me. Holding my breath, I flick my gaze up to him, noting how tall he is. Jeez, why is everyone huge in New York? Or is that just because of my own height? Being a tiny human sucks sometimes.

  He holds his hand out to me, and I frown down at it. What does he—

  “The tablet, Miss Scott.”

  “Oh! Right, yes.” I scramble to pass it over to him, hitting him in the stomach in the process. He grunts, his eyes closing briefly and I panic.

  Shit! I just assaulted my new boss! I haven’t been here two days and I’m already in deep doo doo.

  “I’m sor—”

  “Don’t.” He holds his hand up, straightening and swiping on the screen, his nostrils flaring as his breathing deepens. He’s so close that if I was to reach out I’d be touching— “I see you’ve not been taking notes.”

  My eyes widen. “I have, they’re not on there.” I hold up my notepad, waving it in the air like a flag. “They’re on—hey!”

  I don’t let the notepad out of my grip as he grabs it. I pull it back, to which he pulls toward him. I yank on the pad again, to which he counters, causing me to stumble a little.

  “It’s… private,” I tell him. He raises a brow, his other hand wrapping around my wrist, the pads of his fingers caressing the skin as he skims down to my fin
gers, relieving my grip on the notepad one finger at a time. “Please…”

  He doesn’t listen as he flips it open, seeing my notes written in shorthand before stopping on the airplane I sketched while I was at LAX.

  “What’s this?”

  “Nothing.” I make a grab for it but he holds it out of reach, flipping the page back one and seeing the Harley I drew on Saturday, along with Jon Snow sitting on top of the beast. I grin at the image because he looks total badass.

  “Hmmm, doesn’t look like nothing.”

  I grab for it again, only this time I manage to grip the edge and pull it out of his grasp.

  “Like I said, they’re private, Mr. Taylor. I don’t come into your… your... hotel and ask to see your… erm…” I bite my bottom lip. “Your…”

  “My?”

  “Your… ugh.” I spin around, walking out of the room, whispering, “You can be such an—”

  “Remember I’m your boss, Miss Scott.” Fuckstickles, he heard me. I turn around, about to apologize, but the slight quirk of his lips catches me off guard. “You may go back to your desk.” His other brow lifts, like he’s waiting for me to say something to him, but I’m completely lost and totally frazzled he’s seen something I’ve never let anybody but Ella look at.

  My drawings are mine, not for anybody else’s eyes.

  In every other aspect of my life, I’m a complete nightmare to be around, but as soon as I have a pen in my hand and a fresh piece of paper, something clears almost like when the clouds break apart and let a stream of sunshine peek through. I’m the sunshine in that analogy, in case you’re wondering.

  I spin around, taking a step out of the meeting room when he calls, “My nose is a little off by the way.”

  Shit.

  * * *

  I look up from my notepad and the drawing of a crazy woman talking to her plants. Smirking as I note that I basically drew myself. I close it, looking up at the barman as he stops in front of me.