Inked by Anne Marsh

Author:Anne Marsh
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2018-01-10T16:16:14+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

Harper

MEN THINK ABOUT sex a lot. Researchers have spent thousands of man-hours studying the issue, and it’s a hard one, all puns intended. And so while it might be a stereotype that men think about sex 24/7, they definitely do it often.

And so do women.

Especially this woman.

Turns out I’m an overachiever in the thinking-about-sex department, particularly when it comes to Vik. Professionalism flies out the window, and when I work on his dad’s portfolio, I daydream about having sex with him. Vik that is—not his dad. Freud would have a field day with that one. My week goes something like this: research investments for Mr. Ilin Senior, contemplate sweeping Vik away to Bora Bora, Paris or the top-floor penthouse at the Bellagio, and telling him he has no choice but to indulge in all my dirty fantasies because I’ve just earned his dad a million bucks. Drag my head back to the numbers on the computer screen in front of me. Rinse and repeat.

Don’t judge. It’s no more twisted (or likely) than all those billionaires-buying-virgins schemes that top the bestseller lists.

In reality, I put together a kick-ass portfolio for his dad, and then I do the same thing for ten other new clients. Yes, I’ve been a busy girl. So busy that on Friday, one of the senior partners stops by to congratulate me and let me know that they’ve got their eyes on me. I can practically smell the promotion.

Better yet, I outperform all my colleagues, which means that I win the Friday prize, a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. Senior management sees the prize-giving as a chance to foster a little friendly competition between us junior firm members, while doling out cheap pats on the back for another successful sixty-hour work week. The champagne’s a fun bonus, but it’s not the real prize and everyone knows it. There are five of us junior planners, and we’re cheerfully cutthroat about the business of getting ahead. No one’s going to kneecap me in a parking structure or poach my idea, but everyone wants to be The One, the junior employee who gets the golden invitation to join the big boys and girl at the next level. In this spirit, my coworkers hand me a package of straws to go with my new bottle of fizz, so that I can better suck up. I laugh so hard I almost pee myself.

I may not have scored me a badass biker, but my Friday drunky is now a sure thing. I grab my bottle and my things and head home. Home. My new condo still feels unfamiliar and sterile, like I’m camped out in a super-chic office or Airbnb. Instead of tackling the sadly small mountain of moving boxes (honestly it’s more hill than mountain), I fill up my kitchen sink with ice cubes and submerge my champagne. I’m light on glasses thanks to the Douche’s self-serving division of our household goods, so after I change into my pajamas, I end up drinking out of a juice glass decorated with red cherries.

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