Mr. Hotshot CEO Read online

  “Really?”

  “I’ve ordered a glass of house wine, but a bottle? No.”

  When I go out with my family, we don’t order alcohol. It’s different when it’s just me and my sister, but I rarely order more than one drink. With my friends, we’re more likely to get a pitcher of sangria.

  And dates? Well, I don’t date.

  The waitress returns with our red wine. She opens the bottle and pours a small amount for Julian. After he tastes it and nods his approval, she pours us each a glass.

  I feel so grown-up right now.

  He lifts his glass, and I realize he’s waiting for me to do the same.

  “Cheers,” he says, his gaze connecting with mine.

  This evening is almost surreal. I’m with Julian Fong on the rooftop patio of a fancy restaurant, sharing a bottle of wine.

  I try the wine. “Oh my God. This is practically good enough to give me an orgasm.”

  He raises his eyebrows, and I clamp my hand over my mouth. I can’t believe I said that.

  “I mean,” I say hurriedly, “it’s very good and you have excellent taste. I don’t know anything about wine, as I told you before, but I know I like this very much, and please don’t ask if I can detect notes of black currants or anything like that.”

  “I won’t,” he says, humor in his voice. Then he gives me a heated look, just for a moment, before sipping his wine.

  I have to admit, I kind of wish he’d offer to give me an orgasm, even though I’d have to decline.

  I finally decide what I want to eat, and we place our order. Our first two dishes arrive fairly quickly. Labneh and lamb ribs. I break off a piece of flatbread and swipe it through the labneh—yogurt cheese—and pop it into my mouth.

  Like the wine, it has a nearly orgasmic effect on me, but this time, I choose my words more carefully. “It’s delicious.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” Julian says, as though my enjoyment of the food is the most important thing in the world.

  The lamb ribs are exquisite, too, and I think they go perfectly with the wine.

  It’s is the best meal I’ve ever had.

  “Courtney,” he says a few minutes later, “you really have to stop making those noises when you eat.”

  “What noises?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.” He gives me a look. “The noises that make it sound like someone is pleasuring you.”

  I don’t stop.

  * * *

  It’s a quarter to seven. We’ve finished eating and Julian has paid the bill. He refused to let me see it, so I’m not sure how much it cost.

  “I’m going to the washroom,” he says. “Then we’ll head out.”

  He walks away and I have the last of my wine, but this time, it doesn’t taste glorious. This time, I hardly taste anything at all.

  I take a deep breath, and when I exhale, there’s a heaviness in my chest.

  This happens to me every now and then. I call it a “depression attack”—I don’t know if there’s a technical term for it.

  I’ll be having a good time and all of a sudden, it feels like I’m moving through molasses and I can’t experience anything properly anymore. It’ll start happening more often—and last longer—as I approach my once-every-five-years episode of severe depression, and then it’ll become all I know.

  I don’t know what depression is like for other people, but this is what it’s like for me.

  I take a few more deep breaths, look around, then try to focus on what I can see and hear. Sometimes this stops my thoughts from spiraling, even if I can’t fully appreciate my surroundings. Just acknowledging the existence of the outside world is helpful.

  I focus on the line of pruned shrubs at the edge of the balcony. The clink of a utensil against a glass. The purple of the tablecloth.

  Perhaps it was the alcohol. Usually, alcohol agrees with me just fine, but occasionally, if I have multiple drinks, it has a depressive effect.

  The traffic on Cumberland Street below. The smell of lamb and spices...

  “Courtney?” Julian says, returning to the table. “Are you ready to go?”

  “Yes, I’m just fine,” I say, though that wasn’t the question he asked.

  * * *

  We enter Julian’s penthouse. I’m back to feeling normal now, and I’m very much aware of the man standing next to me.

  “Thank you,” he says. “I had a good time.”

  “Me, too.”

  Silence stretches between us.

  He looks at his watch. “It’s not even seven thirty. We could watch a movie?”

  “Sure.”

  “I have a fancy system.” He gestures to the screen on the wall. “But I rarely get to use it.”

  He decides we should watch Ocean’s Eleven. He pours himself a scotch, but I decline his offer of a drink—I probably shouldn’t drink more alcohol tonight. We sit on his sectional couch, leaving enough space for another person between us, and start the movie.

  The gap between us doesn’t last long, however. Soon, he pulls me toward him. He doesn’t kiss me, just puts his arm around me and holds me close.

  I’ve missed being touched. Not only sexually, but simple touches like this. It’s been a decade since a man wrapped his arms around me while we watched a movie together, and it seems like more of a luxury than Julian’s expensive home entertainment system. I lean my head on his shoulder and try to pay attention to the screen. Luckily, I’ve seen this one a few times, so it doesn’t require my full attention.

  A few minutes later, I hear a noise unrelated to the movie.

  Julian is snoring softly.

  I smile as I watch this big, important man sleeping like a puppy. Then I extract myself from his embrace, turn off the movie, and bring him a blanket and pillow.

  When I get into bed, I imagine his arms around me once more.

  Chapter 11

  Julian

  I open my eyes and look at my alarm clock.

  9:00 am.

  That can’t be right. I haven’t slept this late in years.

  I check my phone.

  It’s definitely nine in the morning.

  Last night, Courtney and I had an early dinner, and then we started Ocean’s Eleven, the 2001 version. Unable to help myself, I pulled Courtney into my arms...and I must have fallen asleep. I only saw about fifteen minutes of the movie. I have a vague recollection of getting up in the middle of the night and moving from the couch to my bed, but other than that, I’ve been asleep since eight o’clock last night.

  Thirteen hours. That’s two or three nights’ worth of sleep.

  I immediately feel guilty. Then I remind myself that I have two weeks off and this is the sort of thing I’m supposed to be doing. I’m supposed to relax and catch up on sleep.

  Yesterday was quite successful. I enjoyed wandering around the city with Courtney and seeing the world through her eyes. Appreciating the little things I don’t usually have time to appreciate.

  I wish she was in my bed now. I want to spend a lazy morning with her, learning every inch of her body. Learning whether she makes the same sounds when she’s being touched as she makes when she’s eating labneh and drinking good wine, or whether her noises would be even more erotic.

  Good God, I can’t even imagine.

  Somehow, I have to live with her for the next two weeks, a situation entirely of my own making. I don’t think I can tolerate two weeks of extreme sexual frustration, especially when she keeps making comments about phallic plants and orgasms in that endearing, slightly awkward way of hers.

  Because, fuck, I want to bury myself inside her and coax screams out of her pretty lips, and I have no interest in any other woman, not now.

  I still hold out hope that she’ll change her mind eventually.

  Only so I can take her to bed, though. If I were someone else, perhaps it could be more than a few nights of sex. But unfortunately, that’s all I can offer, even if I’m attracted to her more than just physically.


  I’ve tried to have more before, tried it with many different women.

  It never works.

  I get out of bed and find Courtney in the kitchen, staring at my espresso maker with a bewildered expression. She’s wearing shorts and a loose T-shirt, the kind of clothing I imagine she wears around her apartment, and I’m glad she’s making herself at home here, even though her presence drives me crazy.

  “I’m trying to make a latte,” she says, “but I have no idea what I’m doing.”

  “Let me do it for you.”

  “No, I want you to teach me, in case you’re still asleep when I leave for work tomorrow.”

  I use this as an excuse to touch her, my hands moving over hers as I show her what to do, what buttons to press. A few minutes later, she has a latte in a clear glass mug.

  “I love your dishes,” she says. “Lattes look so pretty in a glass, don’t you think?”

  “I can’t take credit for my dishes. That was Elena.”

  She wrinkles her nose. It pleases me that she doesn’t like thinking of another woman choosing my dishes, but...

  “Elena is my housekeeper.” I pause. “What do you want to do today?”

  “The question is, what do you want to do? Don’t think of what you ought to want to do. Just listen to yourself and tell me the first thing that comes to mind.”

  The first thing that comes to mind is sex, but I don’t tell her that. Instead, I say the second thing, which is totally random.

  “Soup dumplings. I want soup dumplings.” My mouth starts watering. It’s been ages since I’ve had soup dumplings.

  “Should we learn how to make them?”

  “No. They’re probably fussy to make, and I want them now.”

  She laughs.

  I’m already reaching for my phone and clicking on the number of a Chinese dumpling place, which, happily, is open on Sunday mornings.

  “What about you?” I ask after I end the call. “What do you want?”

  “I hope you ordered enough soup dumplings to share.”

  “Well...” I pretend to ponder this for a while. “Maybe.”

  “Julian!” She hits me playfully on the shoulder. “Order me some dim sum, then. Be sure to get cheong fan.”

  I make another phone call.

  “Wow,” she says. “You really think we can eat all that?”

  “I’m hungry.” Even though I haven’t worked out yet today, apparently thirteen hours of sleep is good for one’s appetite. Now that I think of it, it’s been ages since I’ve been truly ravenous like this. My appetite hasn’t been the greatest lately.

  Courtney looks at me over her latte. “How many languages do you speak?”

  Right. She heard me speak English, Cantonese, and Mandarin in the last three minutes.

  “I speak five fluently. French and Toisanese, in addition to what you already heard.”

  “What did you speak at home?”

  “English, usually. Both my parents were born here. Some Toisanese, but that was mostly with my grandparents.”

  My brothers don’t speak any Chinese languages fluently, although they know a little, but languages were always easy for me.

  “What about other languages?” she asks. “You said you speak five fluently.”

  “Spanish, Japanese, and German.”

  She looks at me, wide-eyed. “You make me feel like a failure. I speak Cantonese, but my French is shit and my Mandarin is even worse.”

  “You have a PhD. Not many people go that far in school. I don’t have a PhD.”

  “Maybe not, Mr. Moneybags, but I’m sure you’re smart enough to get one if that’s what you wanted. But, no, you’re too busy running the world.”

  The last thing I want is to make her feel inferior. “You are—”

  “Forget I said that.” She waves her hand away from her. “It’s all good. I’m happy with my life.” A shadow briefly passes over her face, but I know she won’t tell me what it’s about, even though I want to know all about her.

  Forty-five minutes later, I set out plates and chopsticks, and Courtney opens up all the food that was delivered.

  “This smells amazing,” she says.

  It tastes amazing, too. Even the cheong fan is good, though rice noodle rolls aren’t my favorite. But the soup dumplings are certainly the best.

  Or maybe the best part is that Courtney is sitting across from me.

  * * *

  We’re reading in lounge chairs on my rooftop patio. About two-thirds of the rooftop is available for anyone in the building to enjoy, but the rest of it is mine, although I rarely come up here. Courtney was aghast when she learned this and insisted we make good use of it. Since I’d finished Como agua para chocolate, she dragged me to the bookstore and ordered me to pick out a book without first doing research and reading reviews. An attempt to make me more spontaneous, I guess. I had to choose a book based only on the cover and blurb—the horror!

  The thriller I selected is pretty good so far, although I’ve only read six pages because I keep looking at Courtney. She’s sitting across from me, her legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. She’s wearing a pink sundress that goes down to her knees, and if she uncrossed her legs...

  I can’t stop thinking about it.

  Anyway, I’m supposed to be reading, not ogling her.

  We read in silence for an hour, and it’s comfortable just being with her like this. Together, but not feeling the need to entertain each other. I’d be able to read twice as fast if she weren’t here, but I wouldn’t wish it any other way. I feel a sense of peace when I’m with her, even if I want to lick every inch of her body. Unlike usual, I don’t feel the need to push myself and be as efficient as possible. It’s rather nice.

  She glances up and catches me looking at her, and I don’t hide what I’ve been doing.

  I smile at her lazily. “I’m enjoying the view.”

  She rolls her eyes.

  “What?” I say. “It’s true.”

  “You’re such a charmer.”

  “Not really. That’s Vince.”

  She tilts her head to the side. “No, I think it’s you.” Then she mutters, under her breath, “At least that’s what you do to me.” She returns her attention to her book, but I’m not ready to let it go, not quite yet.

  I put down my novel. “Is that so? Tell me more about what I do to you. I’m curious.”

  “I think you’re fully aware of your effect on women. You’re smart, rich, and good-looking, and you have an intensity that’s irresistible.”

  “You seem to be doing a pretty good job of resisting. And I don’t care about my effect on other women, only on you.”

  “You can be very good at flattery when you want to be.”

  I slide to the edge of my chair. I pick up one of her feet and start to massage it.

  She moans. “That feels so good.”

  I keep going. I want to spoil her. “Would you like a pedicure? I can arrange that.”

  “Are you offering to give me one yourself?”

  “No, I’m offering to throw my money around again.”

  “How about this. I’ll get a mani-pedi if you get one, too. We can go together.” She grins. “Some men do them, you know. You don’t have to have your nails painted red—you can skip that part. Yes! We should definitely do this.”

  Courtney is dangerous. She has me seriously considering a pedicure. Vince would laugh his head off.

  “I’ll think about it,” I say, putting down her foot and picking up the other. She groans as I press my thumb into her arch.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “I said I’d think about it.”

  “Good enough for me,” she says.

  I glare at her, and she laughs.

  This woman will be the death of me.

  * * *

  Courtney holds the wooden spoon up to my lips.

  “No,” I say. “I’ll eat my cookies once they’ve been in the oven, thank you very much.”
>
  We’re baking chocolate chip cookies. Her idea, not mine. I can cook a little but I’ve never baked before. I’m kind of grossed out by all the butter we put in the dough, though that’s not the issue right now.

  “There’s raw egg in the cookie dough.”

  “Live dangerously for once,” she says.

  “Salmonella is very unpleasant.”

  “I’m aware of the existence of salmonella, but it’s rare, and kids have been eating chocolate chip cookie dough for generations. I bet nothing bad will happen. I did this many times when I was little.”

  “Your mother baked a lot?

  “Sometimes.”

  “Mine never did.” I examine the spoon. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  She puts her hand on her hip. “If you had a compromised immune system, I’d agree, but you’re young and healthy, aren’t you?”

  I nod. “I’m still not doing this.”

  “Suit yourself.” She brings the spoon to her own lips.

  I don’t want to eat cookie dough, but that doesn’t mean I want her to eat it instead.

  I yank the spoon away from Courtney as images of her getting a foodborne illness flash through my mind. Before she can stop me, I’ve licked every last bit of dough off the wooden spoon.

  “Good, isn’t it?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I admit, “it is.”

  “You got the spoon, so I’ll take the bowl.” She swipes her finger through dough clinging to the edge of the ceramic bowl, but I wrap my hand around her wrist before she can bring it to her mouth.

  I do it because I’m afraid of her getting ill. And because the cookie dough really is good and I want more.

  But mostly, I do it because I want her finger in my mouth.

  I swirl my tongue over her finger then suck on it.

  She gasps.

  “Not fair,” she says. It comes out as a whisper. “That was my cookie dough.”

  “Fine. You can have some, too, since you’re so insistent.”

  I swipe up the last of the dough, including a chocolate chip, on my finger and hold it to her lips. She sucks on my finger, which makes me think all sorts of delicious thoughts. When I pull back my hand, I’m breathing hard.

  I can’t stop myself from dipping my head, but I pause when my lips are a finger’s breadth from hers. She nods, and I take her mouth in mine.