Mark My Spot Read online

  I’d told her there was nothing to pursue, that I didn’t want to jeopardize my job, especially now. A few months ago, just before I began at the firm, I had graduated from the Philadelphia University of Arts with a degree in painting, where I had taken Monet’s classic The Water Lily Pond and repainted it as though it were painted by a surrealist, taking the soft impressionistic painting and turning it into something sharper. It was now hung in the living room I shared with Phoebe, above our thrift store couch and coffee table covered with crystals. My job with the firm was meant to keep a roof over my head and my acrylic paint stock full. It didn’t pay much, but scoring an art job that wasn’t teaching was difficult and the galleries were rarely hiring.

  So, my goal was to work at the firm while still painting, build up my repertoire until I could have something more than one painting to have in my galleries.

  But I couldn’t do that if I was drooling all over my boss.

  My terribly sexy boss that I would love to drool over.

  Oh, my god. Stop. I smacked the pile of documents I was holding against my forehead and gave a muffled grunt.

  If I lose this job, I’ll probably be working multiple jobs just to keep the roof over my head, and my acrylics will go stale in their containers. With this job, I can keep normal hours, the roof, and the paints. I can’t lose this job.

  Still, with the papers against my face, I took a deep breath, hearing Phoebe’s voice in my head. In - two, three, four. Out - two, three, four. I lowered the papers and began scanning them. I could do this. I could stay focused until I painted a masterpiece.

  When I was finished with the documents, I carried the pack back to Melinda who pulled that one toward her and immediately handed me another one and back to the copy room I went. Which was how I spent the rest of my day.

  When five o’clock rolled around and I was just in the middle of switching off my computer, Melinda’s phone rang. She answered it on the first ring. My computer screen powered down and I pushed away from the desk, my rolling chair away from the small area. Just as I stood up, Melinda’s gaze popped over to me, freezing me to the spot. “What,” I mouthed at her. Her head snapped to the front.

  “Yes, of course,” Melinda said into the phone. “Yes, I’ll send her in. Of course, sir, have a good night.”

  The phone clicked against the receiver and Melinda stood, too, her back very, very straight. She gathered her planner under her arm and pivoted to me on her pumps.

  “It would seem that I will be assisting Mr. Harris with the case,” she said.

  “Oh.” I frowned at her. That was normal, she always assisted Mr. Harris with the cases personally, taking notes during their meetings, ensuring they had all of their paperwork in order. I followed up with payments, copies, answering the phone. Business as usual. I grabbed my purse. “Great, so I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “Mr. Harris would like you to act as his assistant.”

  I dropped my purse on my shoulder and stared at her profile. “What? But you’re helping-“

  “Not the senior Mr. Harris,” she told me. “The junior.”

  “Mar- Mr. Harris? Me?”

  She nodded. “So, put your purse down. We have a meeting with them. Grab a notebook and be prepared to write.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Mark

  I wasn’t sure if I would ever tire of seeing that blue dress hugging her body. Or the bewildered look on her face when she followed Melinda into the conference room for our nightly brief. I sat next to my father, who had a pile of documents before him and watched as Emily paused at the door to watch Melinda take her seat across from me, at the other seat next to my father. She looked at me curiously and I pulled out the seat beside me as an answer.

  She sashayed over to me and took her seat hesitantly.

  “Right, now…Let’s begin,” my father said when she said sat and positioned her notebook before her.

  She smelled of something that reminded me of clean, fresh beach air and something sweeter, something I hadn’t smelled in a long time. As my father began briefing them on the details of the case, I turned my head slightly and peered at Emily.

  Her hair was pushed back behind her ear, presumably so she could hear, and her hand was flying across the page as she took note after note of what my father was saying. Her handwriting was, surprisingly, messy. It spiraled outside of the lines in loops and strange angles.

  Her lower lip was naturally pouty, but as she listened to the information being shared and she continued to take note, she started chewing on her lip.

  Good god.

  The response was immediate. My cock started throbbing in my pants.

  The meeting was excruciatingly long and, when my father was finally finished and we said goodnight, I turned to her just as she was closing up her notebook.

  “Have a drink with me,” I said to her.

  My father and Melinda have left the room, leaving us alone and I see her, for a moment, lean forward just a fraction of an inch, her lips parted. I can see the outline of yes on her lips, but she pulls away.

  “No, I couldn’t possibly…”

  I held a single finger at her. “One drink,” I said. “Just one. If you hate it that much during the drink, I give you permission to throw it on my face.”

  For one brief moment, she rewarded me with a genuine smile and I feel my chest clench at her beauty. Like the first rays of sun in a storm. I reached out a hand to her and touch her arm, just with my fingertips. The knit fabric is soft and supple against my fingers and I want to peel it off of her body, see those curves beneath.

  She was looking down at my fingers on her arm and when she looks up, the smile is gone but her face is light. “Really? You promise I can do that?”

  “I swear.”

  She glanced around the room but left her arm in my hand. “One drink,” she told me, standing. “One drink and then I’m going home, okay?”

  “One drink.”

  Twenty minutes later, we were seated at a hightop table in a small bar near the firm. The staff was kind, discreet, and the hostess greeted us kindly and ushered us to the table. I let Emily go first, resting my hand on her back as she hostess wove us between tables. It was busy at the bar, with many offices having just closed, and businessmen and women began filling the crowded space. At our table, the hostess was quickly replaced by a cocktail waitress who took our orders and disappeared into the crowd.

  I was alone with Emily and we were staring at each other, silent.

  “I hope you like this place,” I told her, leaning my head closer to the table as the sound of many voices crowded the bar. She looked around her gaze lingering on the walls, the eccentric collection of paintings in garish golden frames.

  “It’s interesting,” she said. “I’ve never been here.”

  “It’s a local spot,” I responded. “It used to be this terrible dive bar, but it was bought out by the current owner and he completely transformed the place. If you smell hard enough in some places, you can still smell the lingering cigarettes in the air.”

  “Really?”

  She pivoted in her seat, spinning slightly so she could look around. She sat with her back straight, and the wrap of her dress made her waist look so…grab-able. She was a full-bodied woman. I wanted to wrap my arms around her curvy body, hoist her onto the table and memorize her shape with my hands and tongue.

  “Well, it definitely smells like cigarettes in that corner,” she said, breaking my line of thought, and I followed her finger to see a dark corner between the bathroom and the dark back office. I smiled at her as she spun back around to face me.

  “Definitely does over there.”

  The waitress returned with our drinks. Bourbon on the rocks for me, a Manhattan for her. The cherry bobbed in the liquid, barely visible against the rich, ruddy color, and sank to the bottom of the martini glass. I watched as she tasted it gently, taking only a small sip.

  “How is it,” I asked her, swirling my own drink around the singl
e block of ice.

  She nodded. “It’s good for one drink.”

  I smiled. “One drink. You have to admit, it’s not too bad, right?”

  She set the Manhattan down and rested her elbow on the table, where she leaned forward and rested her chin into her hand to look at me. Her dress tugged against the knot at her waist and her neckline slipped a bit to show the top curve of her full chest. I followed my gaze up her slender neck and found her staring at me, her eyes very blue, very curious.

  “Why did you ask me to be your assistant for the case?” she asked, suddenly.

  “Honestly?” I tossed back some bourbon, let the liquor sting my thought for a moment, before looking back at her.

  She nods. “Honestly.”

  “I have wanted to ask you for a drink since you first started working there.”

  There was a brief moment of surprised silence from her and she twirled her stirrer around with her finger. A strange, almost suspicious look in her eyes appeared for a moment and she asked, slowly, “Why today and not my first day.”

  “Because we ran into each other in the hall,” I said. “I’m not sure if you’re aware of this or not, but that’s the first time we really spoke.”

  “Oh, I’m aware.”

  “I enjoyed myself. I didn’t want it to end. That’s why I requested you to be my assistant for the case, so we could spend more time together.” I threw another sip of bourbon back. “Plus, you look stunning in that dress.”

  She smiled again and took another sip of her drink, casting a glance around the room. “Well, I’m glad you requested me,” she admitted after a moment. “Though I’ll admit, I’m surprised you’re even doing law.”

  I felt my body freeze, locking into place in shock. The glass was cold against my fingertips and I looked up at her. Her face closed for a moment, surprised, and she set the glass on the table. I spoke first before she could apologize, which was evident given the shocked look in her eyes.

  “What do you mean, you’re surprised I’m doing law?”

  “You just….You never look like you enjoy it. Sure you win cases left and right, but you don’t look happy. Your father doesn’t look happy. It’s just surprising that you put so much into being a lawyer when it doesn’t make you happy.”

  I tilted my head at her, curious. “Are you happy with your work?”

  She shrugs, twisting the stirrer around her finger again. “No. I mean, it’s fine for now, but it’s not what I want to do for the rest of my life.”

  “What do you want to do, then?”

  “Well…I like painting. I’m a decent painter.”

  “Painting, really?” I tried to picture her as a painter, surrounded by colors and brushes. She continued, shyly.

  “Yes, I like working with acrylics the most. I've finished one painting that I'm particularly proud of and I'd like to have it displayed at some point. I’d also like to own a gallery one day, but for now, this job allows me to paint in my free time…but we’re not talking about my happiness, are we? We’re talking about yours.”

  I had so many more questions, but I leaned forward instead, and asked, “And what would make me happy, then?”

  A delicious blush crept up her neck and into her cheeks, the same color as the cherry floating in the bottom of the glass. Another sip and the cherry at the bottom was barely breaking through the surface of the beverage. Her lips were turning red from the drink.

  “I don’t know what makes you happy,” she said, her gaze dropping.

  “I can tell you what’s made me happy in that firm,” I murmured. “Seeing you every day has made me happy.”

  We were leaning towards each other again, our heads dipping steadily closer and closer together. In the brief moment, I counted eight freckles across her nose, in a star-shaped pattern, like a constellation. I lifted my hand up and drew my fingers across her jaw. Her breath was hot on my lips and smelled of cherries and bourbon.

  She leaned back suddenly, grabbed the rest of her drink, and threw it back in one gulp, catching the cherry between her lips. She bit into it and a little juice dampened her lips and she smiled at me, standing from the chair.

  I leaned back. “Can I buy you another?”

  I realized that I still had half of a glass on mine left.

  She held up one finger at me. “You said just the one.”

  “Indulge me.”

  “You’ve been indulged enough, Mr. Harris.”

  “Mark.” I threw back the remaining bourbon in one long gulp where it settled in my stomach, a pool of fire.

  “Mr. Harris.”

  She was cute when she was stubborn. Sexy all the time, but cute as hell.

  “Let me buy you dinner.”

  “What happened to the one drink rule?” She was shouldering her purse and she hadn’t moved away from her chair. “I mean, you should be lucky that you’re not wearing your bourbon.”

  I spread my hands wide. Over Emily’s shoulder, the cocktail waitress was making her way towards us and I signaled for the check, digging my wallet from my jacket pocket.

  “Well, I felt so lucky that you didn’t throw your drink on me that I felt like I had to try and ask you to dinner.”

  I handed the card to the waitress who disappeared once more to run it. Emily shook her head and took a step away from the table. “No, I really can’t, I have to get home. My roommate Phoebe is expecting me.”

  I nodded. “In that case…” As I stood, she stuck out her hand to shake mine. I took her hand in mine and squeezed it. Before she could withdraw it, I lifted her knuckles to my lips and pressed a kiss to her cool skin.

  “Can I call you a ride back to your car?” I asked with my lips still on her skin and she nodded, giving me another smile.

  CHAPTER 5

  Emily

  “Oh, my god.”

  It was someone else’s turn to act flabbergasted and say oh, my god and Phoebe filled the role beautifully. We were folded into the couch, me in oversized sweat pants, her in her elastic-like yoga leggings, and she was listening with growing excitement as she heard about my night, her mouth dropping more and more with the details. She had been in her room folding laundry when I came home, admittedly tipsy from the single drink, and she dropped everything to join me on the couch for details. Soft music drifted through her open door.

  “I’ve been telling you this was going to happen,” she said when I was finished. I rolled my eyes at her and she nodded, her high dark ponytail drifting around her face as she moved. “I’m serious, was I not the one encouraging you to go after him?”

  “I didn’t go after him, I just…”

  “Went after him.”

  “Accepted a drink.”

  Phoebe shrugged. “That’s the same thing in this age.”

  I frowned at her. “That can’t be true.”

  She waved a hand, dismissing the conversation there. “Nuance. So, when are you seeing him again?”

  I plucked a fuzz from our couch and cast it over the back. “I’ll see him tomorrow at work.”

  Though I wasn’t looking at her, I could tell she rolled her eyes. “No, Em, when are you seeing him again? In a less-than-lawful setting?”

  “Oh, um….Yeah, never.” Even as I said that I felt my heart clench at the memory of him sitting across from me in that bar, his suit just budging over muscles that looked juicy enough to sink my teeth into. I felt my cheeks flush at the thought.

  Phoebe hit the back of the couch cushion dramatically, feigning intense disappointment. “That’s boring! You should ask him to dinner tomorrow night to thank him for the drink.”

  “That’s not going to happen and you know why,” I told her, my gaze drifting above her to the painting, my single completed piece of work. “I don’t want to mess anything up with this job.”

  She’d heard this spiel before and I knew she was fighting the urge to roll her eyes at me. Phoebe, my long term friend, and confidant throughout college, just wanted happiness for me. She also wanted me to
get laid, something she was very vocal about. “Curve like yours should not be left hanging out to dry,” she’d told me one day during breakfast. I hadn’t been much for dating in college and, as a result, Phoebe had decided that her mission in life, other than being a yogic guru to the city of Philadelphia, was to get me a boyfriend. Or at least a consistent fuck buddy. I wasn’t really sure anymore.

  Across from me, Phoebe unwound herself from her folded position on the couch. “I understand your plan, Em, but look at how excited you got from just telling me about your day with him. When was the last time you felt that excited over a painting?”

  “I-“

  She held up a hand to stop me. “When was the last time you even painted?”

  I shut my mouth. She was right. I hadn’t really been painting lately, not since completing my final project. Since finishing it, I felt like I was on a creative sabbatical or, at least, creativity was on sabbatical from me. I wasn’t sure anymore.

  “I think you need to enjoy something passionate,” Phoebe said. She stood from the couch and walked back to her room. “Who knows? It might lead you back to your creative passion.”

  “Yeah…Maybe,” I responded weakly.

  “Try it out. What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

  The next day felt like business as usual until Mark came into the office.

  I had traded my blue dress for a sleek, forest green one with beige heels and a gold chain necklace. It was a hot day in Philly and, before I left the apartment, I scooped my hair into a ponytail that swished from side to side on my bare neck when I walked. My approach for the day was to focus, solely, on work but that all went right out the window when Mark walked in.

  His suit was a pale gray today. The lighter the suit, the more his muscles bulged. This jacket had a slimmer cut than the one from the previous day and it showed off his trim waist. I eyed the white shirt beneath his jacket discreetly. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t fallen asleep last night thinking of the body that lay beneath the suits. God, I felt my cheek flushing just thinking about it.