From a Distance 2

Chapter 2

Why would you do that?”

“Because you seemed to be a bit slow there, and I figured it might be caffeine deprivation. It is 7:30 a.m., after all.” Half his mouth turned up in a grin as his brow furrowed. “Then again, maybe I interrupted you at the wrong time during your reading.” Biting his upper lip, Mr. Asshole Matt Jones had the balls to hide a laugh. As if she were supposed to be embarrassed reading Fifty Shades. As if she cared what he thought. As if she were Anastasia Steele. As if –

“Let me clear a few things up for you, Matt,” she announced. Finally. There she was. The real Lydia, the one who didn't take s**t like this. Attagirl. “First of all, I don't care what HR did with the parking situation. I won't take your word for it, because for all I know you're some creepy guy pulling a scam on me and if I get out of my car you'll take me to your dug out hole and lower lotion to me in a bucket, and three months from now you'll mail dehydrated parts of my body to my mother.”

She took a deep breath and continued. “Second, if you really are the Director of Social Media, kicking your direct report out of her parking spot when you haven't even started your first day of work shows such extraordinarily terrible business instinct that I suspect you won't be around long enough to qualify for the matching 401k funding through your precious head office.”

Eyebrows arched, now he did lean away. And cross his arms. Staring her down? She stared right back, working too hard to control her breath, trying not to let him see how rattled she was. He looked like a young Anderson Cooper. But straight.

Oh please let him be straight, she thought, then mentally slapped herself. Where did that come from?

He leaned in the window and reached for a strand of her hair. “Sorry, babe. Chianti and fava beans aren't on the menu. And if I were going to turn you into something edible, I wouldn't choose a dehydrator as my electronic item of choice.” His eyes surveyed her body, not with wanton lust or the gaudy need of a complete jerk, but with a practiced eye, taking his time as if he were the king of the world. As if he owned her.

As if he owned his time. And boy did he take it, seeming to document her full breasts, her nipped waist, the tight skirt that stretched across her knees in her seat, shoes kicked off and hose covering her pedicured toes. She could feel him note the seam of her panties, like a collector of fine wines, or of horses, as if she were a specimen. The V between her breasts pinkened, her lungs filled with the scent of his skin, as if eager to inhale his dust, the lines between his eyes, the light freckles on his cheeks, the intelligence in his irises.

He was cataloging her. Taking inventory.

Until her own, defiant gaze caught his and she realized he wasn't objectifying her. She was letting herself think that, but what this guy, this Matt Jones, this interloper and usurper of jobs, was really doing was appreciating her.

And that was way, way more threatening than being demeaned.

“See you at the office – and don't forget to wash your hands when you're done with that.” He let go of her lock and pointed at the book. Turning on one heel, he sauntered off, his tight ass evoking a swoon in her that nearly made her growl with impotent rage and lust.

The day was not going well at all as she stewed in her Red Car of Pain. And then she scrambled out as soon as the doors closed on Mr. Job Stealer, because she needed to get upstairs and see what his next move was.

No one ever came into work as early as Lydia. Her daily 7 a.m.arrival was something that helped preserve her sanity. Just having that extra hour, hour and a half, before people trickled in meant that she could get her work done, could browse the web, take care of her personal issues like bills or ordering things online and generally carve out a tiny little piece of time that was just for her. And that included reading.

Playing it cool, she stood in front of the fleet of elevators, pressing the button for the one that covered her floor, and wondered where he was. By the time she got to her cubicle she realized he wasn't there yet, probably in Human Resources torturing one of those women with his arrogance. He carried it like a stick, poking people with it.

Stockinged feet propped up on her desk, leaning back on her ergonomically-correct chair and using it improperly, with the first volume of Fifty Shades of Grey opened wide in her hands, she let herself sink into the plot. Uh, yeah – the plot. It's not that the book was particularly compelling, or that it was particularly well-written, it was the hottest trigger in publishing in ages, and she needed to practically memorize it for a huge project she was working on – one that might get her promoted out of admin hell and into, well, this guy's job.

Damn it.

A muffled tap tap tap announced his presence as he pseudo-knocked on the cloth-covered wall of her cubicle. He was the most charming asshole she'd seen in the past two years. And the only reason she knew it had been two years was because two years ago, right after she'd been hired, she had actually met the CEO of the company, Michael Bournham.

This guy looked just enough like him to make her recall the encounter she'd had, though the new guy looked much younger. Where Bournham was known as the “silver fox” for having gone completely silver sometime in his early thirties, this guy had dark brown hair, green eyes (unlike Bournham's famous sparkling sapphires) and a look of arrogance that was slightly watered-down compared to the CEO.

Same gorgeous bod, with that cobra-like back that can only come from hard manual labor or intensive personal training workouts. This guy was probably a laborer. He walked in like he owned the place, and yet the clothing was off the rack. More than off the rack, probably cheap T.J. Maxx or Marshalls cast-offs. Dark-blue dockers fit nicely in all the right places, a cheap white polo shirt. Shoes from Lands' End. The essence of business casual for the middle managers who worked like interchangeable drones in the corporation where she currently sat, in her own hive, and now was being stared at – no, make that stared down – by someone she'd never met before, but who acted like he was in charge.

“Excuse me?” he said, as if she had violated some sort of norm that she was unaware of. She was none-too-happy to be called out as if she had somehow broken a rule. Lydia put the book down, careful to make sure that the cover was facing away from him, and yet also noting the smirk on his face as he followed her movements and stared at the book's back.

“Excuse me,” she replied, hands on hips, standing as tall as she could considering her stockinged feet and her obvious surprise at being interrupted by him again. She squashed the impulse to say “Can I help you?” because right now she was not exactly feeling helpful and this guy was glaring her down as if she were the transgressor – and not he.

“It's my first day here, so I thought I'd come in early and get the lay of the land. Do you have a key to my office?” he asked, as if she had any idea what he was talking about. Parking spot stealer, job stealer, and now he expected her to help him through the first day on the job? Oh, hell no. HR wiped butts. Not her.

She stiffened, stared him down, working very hard to control the impulse to be friendly, and said, “How do I know you're the new Director of Social Media and not some guy who randomly tries to steal parking spots?”

He studied her, eyes roving across her face, down to her chest, taking in her curves with a look of possessiveness and a lazy, leisurely approach that made her body flush hot, heart race, and skin tingle in the most unprofessional of ways. Some nerve! Lydia stared at his eyes, willing him to give up and look at her anywhere but, oh, there. And there. And to stop making her think about her own –

He finally smiled, a grin of exasperation more than of openness or of acknowledgment that he was being evasive or confusing. “I told you. I'm Matt Jones. I'm the new Director of Social Media. Obviously my arrival hasn't been announced to all the employees. And who are you?”

“Anastasia Steele. Nice to meet you.” Her tone said it was anything but.

Oh, how he wished he were Christian Grey right now. Inside that woman's head, in her hands, the object of her rapt attention and her breathless s****l fantasies. Inside her head and inside her panties. Of all the times not to be a billionaire. He remembered her, alright. Lydia. Lydia something. He met her – when was it? Almost two years ago.

It was at some new employee orientation program, and Human Resources had told him it would be good for employee morale if he attended. Nothing more than some boring, corporate moment that endless workers and countless organizations over the years had participated in, at the orientation he had been bored to tears – with one exception. Her. A fresh faced, slightly-exotic-looking, cheerleader type, and Mike had been happy to attend if it meant he got to stare at her from across the room.

The woman he had been dating at the time made Snooki look like a genius, and he could tell from Lydia’s bored expression that the mindless, numbing procedures carefully outlined by the Human Resources professional who genuinely thought that if she spoke to everyone like Miss Molly from Romper Room they’d understand better, had driven the poor young woman to a point of complete and utter underwhelm.

Her lidded eyes, her obvious contempt for the presentation and more so for the treatment that she received at the hands of his own employees made him follow up, very briefly, after the session and chat with her. She looked like something out of a cliche, no – a stereotype – of a high school cheerleader combined with a plus-size, dark-haired Barbie. And yet this one was smart, so when he had asked her what her new position was at Bournham Industries, she paled and stammered, “I’m an administrative assistant here.”

“That’s it?” he had replied, shocked that someone so intelligent would be in such a low position in his company.

Wrong question. Her face changed instantly, and now he was the target of her contempt.

“Well, we can’t all be the CEO, now can we?” she’d answered, a tentative smirk on her face fighting with a look of horror at her own smart mouth.

He was taken aback but not offended. More amused than anything. Lately, he had found himself depressed by being surrounded by ‘yes men’ who seemed eager to please but also equally desperate to avoid conflict. This one – she had some bite. Why on earth had human resources hired her as some administrative assistant?

“No, you’re right, we can’t all be the CEO of Bournham Industries. Sorry, that job's already taken.” Big grin. “But what I’m asking is why someone obviously so intelligent, like you, is in an entry-level position.”

Her eyes flashed with an emotion he couldn’t discern. “Why don’t you ask your own HR department that question, Mr. Bournham?” And with that she turned on her heel and walked away, her brown locks bouncing behind her against the middle of her back, her pencil skirt flapping at the backs of her knees, her long, thick calves tight in her perfectly professional high heels.

That ass. Shapely and lush, all curves and softness, he'd been mesmerized as she strode away, temporarily oblivious to the fact that she'd bested him.