minutes late and counting.
Was she doing this deliberately? Didn’t she understand what a ‘good reference’ meant? Yes, she might have got caught up in traffic or missed the bus, or train, or whatever transport situation she had to contend with, but at the very least she could have texted me that she’d be late. That would have been the courteous thing to do. Then again, when had Poppy ever been courteous?
Never. Not even the first day she’d arrived at our house. I’d been all set to welcome her, to try to be the kind of big brother figure my own brothers had been for me—someone she could count on to protect her, to take care of her. But she’d responded to all my attempts at friendly conversation with silence. Her chin had been set, her gaze hostile, and nothing I said or did had made any difference.
She seemed hell-bent on hating me right from the get-go.
If she knew what you’d done she’d hate you even more.
The thought insinuated itself in my head, snide and sharp. I ignored it.
Pacing over to the windows, I glanced at my watch yet again.
Nine o’clock.
Half an hour. She was fucking half an hour late.
I was on the point of reaching for my phone to call her and demand where the hell she was, when I heard my office door open.
There was only one person who entered without knocking and that was Ajax, and I wasn’t due for a meeting with him.
I turned round sharply to find Poppy sauntering in, leaving the door wide open behind her.
‘Hey,’ she said casually, coming to a stop in front of my desk. ‘Well, here I am.’
For a second words failed me. Because not only was she half an hour late, she was in black skinny jeans with rips in the knee, a tight-fitting black shirt that strained the button right between her beautiful tits and a pair of black basketball boots.
She looked like a high school student ready to go to class, not a twenty-five-year-old woman about to start a new corporate job.
Jesus. Did she really think that what she was wearing was appropriate? Or had she done that deliberately to annoy the shit out of me?
‘Sit down,’ I ordered, my tolerance for games at an all-time low.
Instantly her straight dark brows arrowed down. ‘You don’t need to—’
‘Sit. Down.’
A flare of anger turned her golden-brown eyes molten. Her mouth opened and I readied myself for a fight. But then she suddenly shut it again and smirked instead, wandering over to the chair opposite my desk and making a big production of sitting in it. Then she leaned back like she was sitting on the sofa at home, crossing her ankles and generally pretending not to be fazed by my order in the slightest.
Little witch.
I didn’t speak immediately, letting her sit there as I strode to the door and shut it. Then I came back to my desk, but didn’t sit. Instead I stood in front of it, crossing my arms, staring down at Poppy. Letting her see in no uncertain terms just how pissed off I was.
‘You’re late,’ I said flatly. ‘I told you to be here on time.’
She shrugged. ‘I had a problem with—’
‘And your clothes are inappropriate.’
‘Yeah, well, I don’t—’
‘One chance, Poppy.’ I kept my voice cold. ‘One chance is all you get and already you’re blowing it.’
The smooth golden skin of her cheeks reddened. ‘If you’d let me finish, then maybe I could give you an explanation.’
I didn’t want to hear her explanation. Not that I could focus on it anyway because that damn button on her shirt kept pulling every time she breathed in, drawing my attention inexorably to the shape of her breasts. To the fullness of them. To the delicious curve of them under the faded black cotton.
‘I was late because Mum ran out of her meds and I had to go to the pharmacy to get her prescription.’ She took another breath, that damn button pulling tighter. Some of the threads had broken. Christ, it wouldn’t take much for it to simply pop off.
You should probably not be looking at it.
No, I probably shouldn’t.
With an effort I dragged my gaze from her shirt to her face. ‘Your mother can’t get her own prescription?’
‘My mother can’t organise her own bank accounts let alone go and get her own medicine. Not that I’d trust her to do it herself anyway.’
It was true that my father had done everything for Lily before he’d gone to prison, and she’d let him. I’d thought it was because Dad was a control freak, but maybe it hadn’t been that. Maybe Lily had been more than happy for him to do everything for her.
Knowing that didn’t lessen my annoyance and frustration one iota, however.
‘You should have texted me,’ I said curtly. ‘I won’t tolerate lateness, which you should know since I’ve already told you that at least twice.’
Poppy opened her mouth, no doubt to protest, but I hadn’t finished.
‘Your clothes, though, are unacceptable, not to mention inappropriate for a corporate environment,’ I went on. ‘You’re going to have to go home and change.’
‘Seriously?’ She stared at me as though she’d never heard of anything so preposterous. ‘If you want me in pencil skirts and nice little blouses with pussy bows you’re shit out of luck. I don’t have any.’
‘Then go and buy some. There are plenty of shops out there that stock them.’
Her smirk disappeared and something else sparked in her gaze. ‘You specified that I wasn’t to be late. You said nothing about what I had to wear.’
‘I also specified that you were to fulfil any tasks I set you and if I want you to go out and buy some appropriate clothing then that’s what you’re going to do.’
That lovely mouth hardened, anger glittering in her eyes. ‘If my clothing is so important I’ll find something else for tomorrow, but today you’re going to have to suck it up.’
My own anger began to rise, thick and hot, unwelcome and unwanted. At her for arguing with me about something so pointless and at myself for being unable to let it go. For being unable to tear my attention from that fascinating button between her breasts.
The shirt was faded, the fabric cheap and the button hanging by a thread should have made her look tacky and slutty. Not my type at all. I liked a cool, poised woman. A woman who dressed well, who could hold a rational conversation without descending into sarcasm and snark. A woman who didn’t argue with me in the bedroom, who let me run the show the way I liked to.
The complete opposite of Poppy, in
