White Male Page 6

  Now I was getting my life back on track in Atlanta. Although I was over Willis, I was not yet ready to get into a relationship; but I suspected my boss was going to propose an arrangement. I just knew it. I couldn't be naive about this. He barely liked me at the office, always snapping at me. He knew nothing personal about me besides my name, yet that had not stopped him from fucking me all over the conference table. My boss was likely exploring a fetish about black women and I was his chosen test subject. I was pretty sure the talk tomorrow, would be to propose a fucking schedule with as much discreetness as possible.

  Thinking about it, I wasn't sure I'd be able to resist it, but I was certain such an arrangement would eventually end badly when my emotions got involved. Guys fucked with no strings attached all the time. But I knew myself; I wouldn't be able to do it. Or maybe it was all in my head and nothing like that was going to happen? I was confused. I finally dropped into bed just after 10pm exhausted and almost immediately fell asleep.

  Chapter Seven

  I woke up later than usual on Saturday morning. I normally tried to wake up by 7.00am to go for my weekly five mile walk-run to Piedmont Park and back, but it was past 8.30am and the heat was already stifling. I must have been extra tired from the week's drama.

  Still, I got my kit ready and made my way down to the gym instead, to put in a good workout before breakfast. By 9.30am I was sweating, breathless and ready to quit. I went back up to my apartment and prepared a poached egg with toast and coffee, while I flipped through the TV channels.

  I happened to get to a gossip channel just as they were talking about events around the city last night. They showed Jonathan standing with Isabella, the stunning model from Prague, who’d spent the evening with billionaire playboy Jonathan Carter. Apparently, they couldn't take their eyes of each other. They reported that a marriage proposal was imminent because the playboy had told unnamed close pals he’d decided to settle down. The photo was clearly posed; they’d stopped and posed for the photographer. And this man had asked me to come over to his place to talk, after kissing me passionately and denying he was with her. I was more of an idiot than I thought. Perhaps I should just switch off my phone and not show up. But that would have implications for my job too because he was still my boss and I’d have to face him on Monday.

  I was also curious about what he wanted to say, especially after he’d jumped me at the mixer on Friday night. He’d said we’d meet in the restaurant which is a public place; but I had to at least say something about his rumored imminent engagement, before I went over and made a fool out of myself.

  After I’d showered, I heard a message ping on my phone.

  “The Regent Oriental Hotel & Suites. Parking code 6759. Central Ave entrance. See you at 1pm.”

  I replied immediately.

  “Heard you had found The One.”

  He responded.

  “Fake news. With me, get used to it.”

  Get used to it. Get used to it? Why would I need to get used to it; it's not as though we were planning a long term relationship.

  Okay, I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt, I thought to myself. I’d go over and find out what he wanted to say.

  I drove into the basement parking of Jonathan’s building, and took a visitors’ spot. I made my way up the elevator to the street level of the Regent Oriental Hotel lobby, where Jonathan lived in one of the exclusive penthouses scattered around Buckhead.

  The concierge's desk for residents was at the back of the lobby, with a plush seating area. There was a lady working at the front desk with a headset, a well dressed man who I assumed was the concierge was behind her and a security officer was standing nearby. The other desks were attending to hotel customers and various uniformed hotel personnel were bustling about, with a busy doorman assisting where necessary.

  I approached the residents’ desk.

  "Good afternoon, ma'am. May I help you?" asked the concierge looking slightly puzzled.

  Perhaps he thought I was lost? I was wearing my slim-fit light-blue jeans, my ballet flats and a simple slim fit, white T-shirt. I’d deliberately dressed down to avoid making Jonathan think I’d come to make a play for him, although my butt in those jeans looked a little provocative.

  "I'm here to see Mr. Jonathan Carter," I replied firmly.

  "Your name please, ma'am?" he asked, looking at me up and down with barely concealed disdain.

  "Lena Williams."

  He looked at a printout on his desk. I spied my name on the list he was perusing.

  “Do you have any form of ID?”

  “No,” I snapped, not intending to take out my driver’s license for him to examine. My temper was hovering somewhere in the back of my mind.

  "Please take a seat ma'am and we’ll be right with you." His smile was condescending.

  I remained standing while he went off to a back office for a few minutes. The security officer and the receptionist were oddly trying not to make any eye contact with me.

  A minute later, the concierge rushed back to the desk and came up to me smiling brightly.

  "My apologies for the delay, Miss Williams. Mr. Carter will be meeting you in the residents’ restaurant on the second floor. Please follow me."

  He seemed a lot friendlier and slightly nervous. I suspected he’d called Jonathan to check if he was expecting a black woman and the conversation might not have gone well.

  We found Jonathan already seated at a table on the far side of the room, talking on his cell phone. There were two other tables occupied, but the restaurant was quite spacious and nobody was seated close to anybody else.

  As we approached, he stood up and ended his call, his penetrating gaze focused on the concierge who came to a halt ten paces away.

  "Miss Williams," the concierge nodded respectfully, indicating my presence.

  Jonathan did not nod or speak. He just gave him a look then directed his attention towards me, effectively dismissing him. The concierge hurried away quickly, short of breaking into an actual sprint.

  "Hello, Lena," he said in his deep clear voice, looking at me intently.

  Inexplicably, I felt shy like a little, high school girl. I had my fingers knotted in front of me, feeling anxious.

  "Hello, Mr. Carter,"

  "Jonathan."

  "Jonathan," I repeated.

  "Please, take a seat."

  He pulled out a chair for me, pushing it in as I buckled my knees to sit.

  I watched him walk around to sit opposite me. He was dressed in casual clothes, wearing long, navy shorts, loafers and a grey V-neck T-shirt. It was odd to see that the boss was human and wore ordinary clothes, though they looked extraordinary on his delectable body. I glanced at his firm, taut ass and his muscular arms as he pulled out his own chair. Evidently, he worked out and kept his physique well toned.

  “I hope George the concierge wasn’t too rude?” he said, his face a little grim.

  “Perhaps he was just doing his job,” I shrugged.

  “If he was, I apologize. I occasionally have a few unsolicited visitors so they screen everybody the same way,” he said, looking a little embarrassed.

  “No problem, I understand,” I responded. I guess I should know that anyone on the most eligible bachelors list would have women trying their luck.

  "Shall we have lunch?" He didn’t wait for my response as he signaled to a waiter who’d been trying to look like he was minding his own business.

  "Sure," I answered as the waiter handed me a short, single card menu and took our drinks orders. I opted for an apple cider and Jonathan ordered freshly squeezed orange juice.

  "Being a restaurant only for the residents, the choice isn't extensive. But I've tasted everything and it's all great. What would you like?" he asked scanning the short menu.

  I didn't want any of it. I was too nervous to eat.

  "Perhaps I'll try the Fettuccine?" I asked, hoping it was a safe choice to try.

  "Great choice; same for me."

  He l
ooked up and the waiter immediately rushed over to take our orders.

  After we’d ordered, he looked at me again, his arms on the table. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze was searching.

  "So, Lena," he began. "Tell me about yourself."

  "Well, what do you want to know?"

  "Everything."

  I laughed.

  "That's a lot to want to know."

  "Do you have family?"

  "Yes, father and mother divorced."

  “Do you have siblings?”

  “No, I’m an only child.”

  I already knew a little about his family so didn't ask.

  "I know you’re from LA. What made you come to Atlanta?"

  "My mom lives here."

  “So she’s always lived here?”

  “She was born here in Georgia, but after she met my dad they moved to LA, then after their divorce she moved back here. I came here to reconnect with her.”

  I wasn't telling him about the heartbreak. It was too personal and sharing such information with one's boss might not be appropriate. I laughed at the thought. He had his tongue on me and now I couldn't tell him something personal?

  "I also just needed to start afresh after a heartbreak."

  He reached for his juice and took a sip.

  "Who broke your heart?"

  "It doesn't matter anymore," I shrugged. "I'm done with my past. I really love Atlanta though. I've made a life here." Marketing training had taught me to created quick diversions. As a marketer himself, he was quick to pick up on it.

  "You obviously don't want to discuss your heartbreak so I'll leave it at that," he smiled.

  "Well, nobody likes to talk about their past heartbreaks; has nobody ever broken yours?"

  Immediately, his smile was replaced with a mask that was unreadable. He was very good at hiding his emotions.

  "Ah, saved by the food," he said as the waiter arrived with our plates of pasta.

  We ate in silence for a few minutes.

  "Enjoying the food?" he asked pausing from his plate.

  "It’s great," I mumbled without looking up to see him watching me.

  We chatted about mundane things going on in Atlanta including an upcoming concert by a popular artist; we chatted about the weather, crime and other topics. I found myself feeling pretty relaxed in his presence. The asshole I knew from the office was nowhere to be seen, replaced by this warm, friendly, gorgeous man who was too down to earth to be a business mogul from one of the richest Southern families in the country.

  After our plates were cleared, he asked if I wanted anything else and I declined.

  "Do you mind if we go up to my penthouse?"

  I’d made a pact with myself that I wasn't going up to his apartment on penalty of death. I didn't trust being alone with him. He sensed my discomfort.

  "The maintenance team needs to repair something in this section," he began, with a straight face. "They’d informed residents that we have to be out for the afternoon." He got up and came to pull out my chair.

  "Mmhm." I answered incredulously, not quite believing him. He smiled at my response then took my hand and led me to the elevator. Jonathan Carter was holding my hand. Shit. I felt those wretched butterflies doing somersaults inside me as I walked hand in hand with Jonathan towards the elevators. We walked to a single, smaller elevator and Jonathan pressed his thumb on a glass panel on the wall just above a keypad of numbers.

  The elevator opened and we entered; then he used his thumbprint over another glass panel. Immediately, the lift went up several floors and slowed down, then came to a stop.

  We got out directly into what appeared to be a large living room. It was a vast open plan space with several seating areas. The furniture had obviously been selected by a professional decorator in earth tones with accents of color. Just behind the elevator, there was a glass, spiral staircase with glass panels as railing. Jonathan led the way towards one of the seating areas with large comfortable chairs. I took note of the partially visible kitchen area around the curved wall to the right and a balcony opposite me, with glass doors leading towards it from the living room. A large part of the double volume living room wall was ground to ceiling glass with an amazing view of Atlanta’s greenery and the Buckhead area. Downtown Atlanta was glistening on the horizon.

  "Beautiful view," I said looking out over the city of Atlanta.

  "Yeah," he agreed. "Can I offer you a drink? Glass of wine?"

  "Yes, thank you."

  “Red? White?”

  “Dry white, if you have it.”

  He went towards the kitchen area and I followed, perching myself on a stool while he opened the well stocked wine cooler and grabbed a couple of glasses from the cupboard.

  I couldn’t help admiring the way his shorts hung low on his hips and his sexy, muscular, diamond-shaped calves as he bent down to choose the wine on the bottom shelf. He was lightly tanned and could have been a male model if he wanted to be one.

  Delicious, I thought, before I could stop myself. I shook my head trying to bring my thoughts under control and took a deep breath.

  "So you've always lived by yourself?"

  "In this penthouse, yes," he answered, grabbing a cork-screw.

  "You haven't always lived here?"

  "No; I've been here for a year."

  “Nice kitchen; do you cook?”

  “Not really. You?”

  “Most of the time.”

  I was silent for a moment trying to find something to talk about. I normally didn't have trouble making small talk, but being in my hot boss' $10 million dollar penthouse was giving me a head trip. I watched him screwing the corkscrew into the bottle, the sinew in his arms rippling. His beautiful rugged face was handsome and relaxed, with his signature five o’clock shadow completing the sexy look. He popped open the cork and poured me a glass.

  "There you go."

  "Thanks." I smiled and he smiled back, lifting his glass in a toast before taking a sip.

  "What are we drinking to?"

  "You."

  I laughed. "I'll drink to that."

  "Come," he invited me walking back towards the living room and offering me a seat. I’d never seen my boss this carefree and relaxed before. He still hadn't brought up why he'd called me. We sat down in the living room. He set his glass down and grabbed an iPad, then began to scroll through it.

  “It’s really quiet in here, what kind of music do you listen to?”

  I smiled at him. “I don’t think you have my kind of music,” I replied.

  He smiled back. “You’d be surprised you know. We cater for all tastes around here.”

  “Do you have anything by Anita Baker?”

  She was one of my favorite artists; when I was little before my parents divorced, that’s all my mother used to listen to and I still had fond memories of singing the songs with her.

  He scrolled rapidly through his tablet.

  “We have everything by Anita Baker,” he said.

  “Oh, really? What’s your favorite song by her?” I could see him downloading all her albums on iTunes and knew he’d probably never heard of her until now.

  “Mmmm…” he hesitated, rapidly tapping through his song list. I watched him circle a finger, hovering over the screen, then randomly tap a song.

  “That one,” he said, as the soothing chords “Priceless” began to play throughout the penthouse, coming through unseen speakers.

  He turned the music lower then grabbed his glass of wine and took a sip, watching me.

  I couldn’t help admiring his fit, muscular body and wondered what he did to maintain his physique.

  “So what do you do for fitness?” I asked, trying not to eye-fuck him.

  “When I have time, kickboxing three times a week with my trainer, weight-training twice a week.”

  It showed; I was impressed.

  “That’s seriously hectic. I try and do a little weights and some running a few times a week myself; but I can’t
seem to shift weight off certain areas.”

  “Where?”

  “Ummm… just certain areas,” I replied, wishing I hadn’t brought it up.

  “You mean your butt?”

  I blushed furiously, remembering what he’d said about my juicy ass.

  “Well, yeah. Nothing works on that area,” I replied, trying to remain composed and casual.

  “It’s perfect; you’re perfect,” he said, looking at me up and down his eyes glowing, as if he was recalling an exceptionally pleasurable experience.

  An awkward silence followed as I wondered what to make of his compliment.

  He took a large gulp of his wine then excused himself and went up the glass spiral staircase, taking two steps at a time.

  I looked around, enjoying the gentle music of Anita Baker playing throughout the penthouse. Besides the beautiful furniture pieces perfectly place around the room, the walls were adorned with several large, abstract paintings. On the glass coffee table in front of me, there was an odd sculpture that looked like the mangled roots of a petrified tree. There were also three, thick, hardcover books on the table and that day's Atlanta Journal newspaper, carelessly thrown on top of the books.

  I reached for it and scanned the headlines, humming quietly to the music. Soon, he came walking down the stairs again. He’d removed his T-shirt and shoes, dressed only in his shorts hanging low on his hips. I could see a delicious V taper, formed by the tight lacing of his abdominal muscles. His hair was damp and slicked back as though he’d run wet hands through it.

  "Hot day," he commented by way of explanation. I gaped at him in shock and felt lust and want creeping into my thoughts. Was my boss trying to seduce me? It was my turn to look at him with raised eyebrows. He saw my suspicious gaze and went for nonchalance.

  "Another glass?" He asked, reaching for the bottle.

  I felt we needed to get to why I was here before I did something I regretted. But I couldn’t talk to him right now; not while he was looking so desirable and we were alone in his penthouse.