The Intern: An MM Office Romance Read online

  I was too busy kissing him and being kissed.

  Too deep into the moment to register the catcalls and the hollers, until I heard a louder beep. Another one. Then the lights flared on in the once dark room, flicking off again seconds later. Just long enough for us to pull back in surprise, and for him to see me and for me to see him.

  Two

  Micah

  Astley Tower was an imposing megastructure in the middle of Broadway, Manhattan.

  Rumor had it that Devlin Astley, the erstwhile heir to the Astley Publishing empire, had won it in a bet with a crony from Harvard, but that was BS, even if I didn’t doubt some wager had helped the Astleys’ fortunes somewhere along their incredibly long line.

  Though wealth wasn’t new to me thanks to my father, this level of wealth was a whole different ball game.

  This was old money.

  And not just old US money like with the Rockefellers or the Vanderbilts.

  This was British money.

  Pre-colonial.

  The original mafia, I thought dryly.

  For all the Astleys were blue-blooded Brits, there’d been an Astley building here in Manhattan with an Astley manning the helm since the eighteen hundreds.

  Their legacy in the publishing industry was unsurpassable, simply because they had never sold out, been taken over, and even though the Astleys were rumored to have a privateer amid their lineage, one they considered a pirate, they never skin-flinted authors. Had always respected them to the point where writers actually wanted to work with them instead of preferring to go the self-publishing route.

  Devlin Astley, in an era where publishers were merging to survive the behemoth that was the e-reader, had moved with the times, bringing his company into the twenty-first century, making them competitive by doing what few of his ilk did—support authors, encourage them, tend to them, help them.

  Then there was the fact that the Jacquelyn Rhode was a VP there—Jacquelyn Rhode who had been a staple of my classes in my Communications degree—it was why I wanted to work there permanently after I completed my MBA.

  I’d done my research a long time ago, and the second the internship had dinged on my notifications, I’d been in there, diving straight into the application. There was no guarantee that I’d get a job with them once I had my MBA next year, but if I impressed someone somewhere in the massive building, then maybe I’d be memorable enough to hire as an assistant.

  I’d take it.

  In a heartbeat.

  As I strode into Astley Tower, my gaze darted to Rachel, the receptionist on the front desk. The top floors were dedicated to the publishing company, with sixty-percent of the others being rented out elsewhere, but Rachel served the Astleys exclusively. She was sweet, baked the nicest oatmeal cookies when she had her period, would snatch my hand off for a PBJ sandwich, and was coming to be one of my favorite people.

  I’d been here eight weeks, and whenever my manic schedule allowed it, we went out for lunch together.

  When I had to go back to school, I’d trek into the city to carry on the tradition. That was how much I liked her.

  She waved at me, smiling as she murmured something into her earpiece, her attention drifting as she looked at her computer, and I allowed myself to merge into the manic crowd surging toward the elevator.

  I hated the rat race, but that was NYC, and to live here, you had to be a part of it.

  I just wished that I didn’t love the city so much.

  Twenty people headed into the elevator with me, but most of the crowd dropped off around the lower stories. Very few remained with me to the top, some got on and got off, the endless beep and flow of the ever-moving doors had me closing my eyes as I leaned back against the wall, trying not to feel the claustrophobia I usually experienced on my journey up and down the ninety-three-story building.

  Only Rachel and the corned beef on rye at Mantelli’s induced me to leave for lunch, otherwise I’d stick to my tiny cubicle like glue.

  As I closed my eyes, I thought back to last night because it was better than worrying about the day’s tasks. With Kyrian Trevelyan’s latest book dropping in just under five weeks, mania was already overtaking the Marketing department.

  I hadn’t intended on going to VICE, but Rachel had dragged me there, and when we’d heard about the dark rooms, she’d nearly shoved me into one. Looking back, what with the lube she’d pressed into my hand, I figured she knew about the dark rooms ahead of time.

  Everyone needed a girl friend like Rachel.

  To say I was nervous last night was like calling the Pope Catholic. I’d been close to crapping myself, and that wasn’t the best state when you were about to be fucked.

  Or fuck someone.

  Ever since she’d found out I was a virgin with guys, she’d been pushing me into making a move—shoving me, actually. Coming out as gay hadn’t exactly been easy for me, and my parents and I still weren’t on speaking terms because of it. One of the reasons I was so fond of New York was because, here, I’d accepted what I was.

  Not straight.

  Not even bi.

  Just gay.

  The ‘just’ came with a sigh of relief.

  That was me.

  Who I was, and I wasn’t afraid of it anymore. Except, a part of me must have been, because ever since I’d come out, a year ago, I’d never actually done anything about it. Until last night.

  Until I’d headed into that dark room, and a few minutes later, my heart pounding with nerves because I hadn’t known if I could go through with it, someone had come in.

  Someone who smelled of chocolate and cinnamon. Whose mouth tasted of champagne, and whose body was hard and muscle-packed against mine. Who kissed like he was about to take his last breath, and whose dick had felt like iron in my fist.

  I shuddered at the memory. Of those sweaty memories of adrenaline-inducing, lust-packed moments where I’d allowed myself to do what I needed, where I’d finally done what my body had been urging.

  The darkness had been practically Stygian. So overwhelming it had been like a blanket, blinding with its power. Ironically enough it hadn’t reduced my anxiety, just made it worse, and before he’d come in, the claustrophobia that had plagued me since I was a kid had almost had me darting out of there.

  I was so glad I hadn’t.

  A smile curved my lips when I thought of the surprise I’d felt when the lights had blinked on and off. It had been no more than three seconds, but was just long enough for me to take in his handsome face.

  My first time had been with a guy who made Captain America look like a seven.

  Thank you, VICE.

  His hair was dark, crisp silk I wanted to touch. His skin was olive with a hint of gold that told me he’d just vacationed somewhere hot. He had a widow’s peak that topped a forehead creased with a few furrows, but he hadn’t been Botoxed, and the rest of his hard face was free from make-up and surgery.

  His lips were hard and flat, but they felt like heaven against mine, his nose was Roman, and had been broken at one point, and his jaw had been forged from pure obsidian. Speaking of his arrogance, his strength.

  I knew why, too.

  His suit?

  Just the memory of that exquisite silk blend against my fingers was enough to tell me it was expensive. He reeked of money, and not just because I knew that his chocolate-and-cinnamon scent didn’t come from any churros he’d just eaten but from a high-end aftershave I could roll myself in like I was the fried treat in need of dousing in cinnamon sugar.

  Sculpted and beautiful, his was a face I’d never forget—

  The doors pinged open, prompting me to stop daydreaming, to stop thinking about what I’d tell Rachel about last night’s sexual odyssey—and a hook-up that epic deserved such a title—over lunch, and when I did, when I stared out onto the hall ahead, I blinked in astonishment.

  The man—

  No.

  I blinked again, trying to clear my foggy vision because I was tired after last night an
d had barely slept, but there he was.

  My dark room man.

  He was scowling down at his phone as a team of four harried assistants flittered around him like agitated butterflies. Three of them were trying to get his attention, but all I could see was the hickey I’d left on his throat.

  A throat I could still taste.

  I swallowed, nerves and need warring inside me when I thought about that moment my dick had felt its first taste of ass, his ass, before I looked at the panel above the doors to see which floor we were on so I could Google it and maybe him later.

  Only, when I looked up, I saw we were on my floor, and at the same time, his gaze drifted from his phone to the elevator.

  When he did, our eyes clashed and held.

  For a second, I thought he didn’t remember me. Why would I be memorable to him, after all? I was a nobody. A dark room fuck. He’d gone in there to be anonymous and only another twist of fate had made it so that we knew what the other looked like.

  Then I remembered the husky British voice, and wondered if the guy I’d screwed was an Astley, but those stupid nerves of mine had me ducking my head, hunching my shoulders and darting out of the elevator before he had the chance to completely blank me.

  Unfortunately, as I moved down the hall toward the Marketing section where I worked, I could feel his eyes on my back. The burning urge to turn around, to see if I was making that shit up or if he was really looking at me filled me, but I wasn’t a fool. If I did turn back and he wasn’t watching, I’d be disappointed, and if he was, then I’d be flustered and would probably end up walking into a wall.

  No win either way.

  As I headed into my department, I moved over to Cassandra’s desk. She was Jacquelyn Rhode’s executive assistant, and while she wasn’t a bitch, neither was she nice. She had a habit of dumping shit onto me that wasn’t really my pay grade and then claimed credit for herself. No bueno.

  Still, I was picking up on more this way, learning from the inside out. If I was doing what an ordinary intern would, I’d probably be bored.

  Rhode, which was how she liked to be called, was a little like Miranda Priestley on steroids.

  One of the major reasons I wanted to work here was her. She was renowned in the industry for her ability to take a new author and to overnight them into the big leagues. She was also one of the ‘New York’ Rhodes so, old money. The regular kind. Not the Astley kind. But refusing to answer to Jacquelyn was her way of shoving her lineage in people’s faces.

  She wore the highest stilettos she couldn’t walk in, had a temper meaner than a starving pit bull, and eyed me up as if I was a chocolate sundae.

  And if a sundae had passed her lips since 1992, then I’d gladly shave off my hair. Carbs? She needed them. Desperately. Her brain was loopy from ketosis. Having worked with her for two months, I’d seen her genius at work and half wondered if that was behind it…

  Didn’t they say madness and genius were two sides of the same coin?

  Cassandra saw my approach and watched me move toward her.

  They said men objectified women? It happened to me all the time in this damn department. I was one of the few guys in this section, and they eyed me like I was a Butterfinger they wanted to bite.

  Cheeks tinging with pink at her scrutiny, I muttered, “Morning, Cassandra.”

  As usual, she didn’t greet me, just barked, “She’s asking for coffee. Then, when you’re done with that, there’s a pile of reports I need you to go through—the designers are bitching about the promotional graphics we’ve requested for the Juniper Mills collection. Then there are some issues with the press release for the new Trevelyan book.”

  Kyrian Trevelyan was one of Astley Publishing’s most famous authors. Every book he released hit the NYT bestseller list at the coveted top spot, but this one was catering to a different targeted audience and, as such, the Marketing staff were rolling out the promo as if he was a newbie author.

  Kyrian was a renowned gay man with LGBT activist leanings but normally, he wrote suspense and thrillers, not MM romance. Twisted Love was his first foray into that genre, and as much as I was proud to be working on the campaign, pleased, even, Cassandra kept dumping the mother lode of work on my shoulders.

  Not only was it not fair, it was stressful as hell. I wanted Twisted Love to do well, and for that to happen, it needed more input from the VP’s EA than the intern who was faking it ‘til he made it.

  Because the Juniper Mills collection sounded interesting, and because it was a change of pace from the usual ‘pedal to the metal’ franticness, I retreated to the small break room with a nod rather than argue as I might have done if she’d given me more in-depth work on the Trevelyan campaign. Rhode, though the Marketing VP, had half the Communications department terrified of her, so they always got approval before they sent anything out first.

  Plotting my mental to-do list, I went to make Rhode’s weird coffee.

  She had a bulletproof espresso blitzed with butter, and topped up with fresh cream and cinnamon. Every time I made the concoction, seeing it split and the fat slick on top, I almost gagged.

  I hadn’t last night though...

  A small smile curved my lips as I maneuvered around the break room, crafting the coffee from hell. Seeing who I’d sucked off just made it all the sweeter.

  Wondering if I could find out which Astley was in New York right now, because there were several, I decided Googling the family would be the easiest option—there was no forgetting a face like that.

  Armed with the gross coffee, I returned to Cassandra’s desk because she liked to take it in to her boss for brownie points. Unfortunately for me, she wasn’t there and I heard Rhode call out, “Cassandra, where the hell is my drink?”

  This was a morning for ‘no win’ situations.

  If I didn’t take it in, then Rhode would be furious. If I did, then Cassandra would sulk.

  The melodrama was irksome, but I preferred Cassandra’s wrath to the bitch boss so I plastered on a smile and walked into the grand office.

  One day, I wanted to work somewhere like this. She had the corner office, windows on each side, overlooking a bunch of other buildings, but still, this was prime corporate real estate and she knew it.

  The other walls were loaded down with the books she’d made famous, and she had a thing for African art that was just bewildering when you paired the glass furnishings with ethnic tribal masks.

  “Ah, Micah,” she crooned when she peered away from her computer, a sultry smile on her lips. “Good morning.”

  My return smile was awkward. She never failed to make me feel gauche. “Morning, Rhode.”

  Rhode’s eyes narrowed on me as I placed her cup on the corner of her desk, on one of the coasters that were made out of tiny shells, unable to hide from the fact she was looking at different material pertaining to the book of the moment. Twisted Love.

  Her nails tapped against the shiny paper. “Fucking Trevelyan. He’s a pain in the ass, still bitching about the cover. What is it with those faggots? So goddamn difficult,” she grumbled with a sniff, before tipping her head to the side and studying me as if I was a New York Times’ crossword she couldn’t solve.

  Though her remark was inflammatory, it wasn’t the first she’d made about gays in my presence. To be honest, I’d stopped being shocked by it. And to be quite frank, my father had said worse when I’d come out to him. Neither of that made her homophobia okay, but what was I supposed to do?

  Who was I supposed to complain to?

  HR might listen if I was complaining about Terry in Accounts, but Rhode? The Rhode? Yeah, they wouldn’t do shit. I’d just end up tossed out on my ass, and I needed this internship on my resumé too much to make waves.

  Seemingly unaware of my disapproval, or not even caring that her words were offensive in the extreme, she inquired, “Late night? You look like you had a little too much fun.”

  For a second, I wondered how the hell she’d know that, then I registered
where her gaze was—the bruise on my throat.

  I’d contemplated covering it up this morning, but I knew from my ex-girlfriend’s bitching that foundation never really did the job anyway so I’d left it, and had hoped my stubble would cover it some.

  Apparently not.

  “It was a regular night.” I wished. “Thank you for asking,” I tacked on politely.

  She hummed under her breath, eying me over the reading glasses she wore perched on her nose—I’d swear she didn’t need them and that they were clear, but I couldn’t prove it when she never took them off—and replied, “I’m always interested in my staff and what they do for fun.”

  I doubted that. Cassandra both hated Rhode and was terrified of her.

  The second you got on the wrong side of her, that was the moment your career nose-dived for good. Talk about a reminder that you should never meet your idols.

  With that thought in mind, I murmured, “Plenty of fun to be had in Manhattan.” I poked my thumb at the door. “If you need me, I’ll be in my cubicle.” I started my retreat, smiling at her with a rictus that made my cheeks ache. When she didn’t reply, just watched me like a snake would a mouse their owner had plopped into its tank, I twisted around at the last minute and darted out the door.

  A predator didn’t have to be a man, and whenever I looked at her, she gave me the chills.

  She was used to buying whatever she wanted. Be it with her name or her wealth, used to commanding respect for her position here, and she wore that power around her like a mantel.

  She thought she was untouchable, and the bitch of it was, she was probably right.

  Shuddering, I headed toward my cubicle unsurprised when Cassandra hissed at me, “You should have left it on my desk. I only went out for two seconds.”

  “She called for it,” I mumbled as I moved past and took solace in my tiny workspace.

  When I got there, I saw the reports that were nearly as tall as my computer, and grimaced... but instead of reaching for the folder on top which would be filled with mock ups, and instead of checking my email which was likely full to bursting as well, I went to Google and typed in: