Find Me Alastar

I smile and lean my head back against the headrest as I think. Yeah, I might just do that. You never

know until you try, I suppose. I have always loved writing. Hmm, maybe London is having an artistic

effect on me?

“Oh, look there’s Julian.” She jumps out of the car and waves to her boss as she walks towards him.

He smiles as he approaches her and they talk for a moment. She laughs freely and pulls her hand through

her hair. He seems to study her face as he talks. I narrow my eyes as I watch them. Oh my God, are you

kidding me? They are flirting. I sit, stunned as I watch them, until finally she turns and comes back to the

car, but my eyes stay on Julian, and as she walks away his eyes drop to her behind.

Oh. My. God. He’s checking her out. She bounces into the car, all effervescent and dreamy until my

horrified eyes meet hers.

“What?”

“Are you for real?” I snap.

“What?”

“He’s forty-something.”

“He’s thirty- eight.”

“You like him?” I can’t hide my mortification.

“No!” she snaps.Nôvel(D)rama.Org's content.

“Well, he definitely likes you.”

“He does not.”

“He was checking your ass out as you walked away.”

“Really?” She smiles excitedly.

“Oh my God, this is a disaster. I bought you here to get away from that dickhead and now you’re

falling for old men.”

She raises her eyebrows. “I’m not falling for anyone, and you have bigger worries on your plate with

your boss, that artist, and the fact that they know each other to be worrying yourself about me.”

“Uch. I’m becoming a nun.”

She smiles. “You won’t become a nun. You love sex too much.”

I blow out a deep breath. “Not that I would remember.”

She smirks. “So, London is making you artistic and me as horny as hell.”

“This is a nightmare.” I shake my head. “If you sleep with your boss, I’m going to kill you.”

She smirks. “I’m not going to sleep with him, but you do have to admit he’s kind of hot.”

My eyes find him out on the field and I smile. “I suppose he is… in a rich, old man kind of way.”

I have been summoned to Mark’s Office and I am dreading it like the plague. I have worked with him for

three days now, and here it is, Wednesday afternoon, and I don’t even want to talk to him at work, let

alone socialize with him after hours. His eyes are lingering on me longer than they should and I know he

has more on his mind than friends. I have to tell him it’s a no go, but how?

This is why you don’t fuck with bosses, Emerson, you stupid idiot. I didn’t think this through at all.

I walk up to his office door. Knock, knock.

“Yes!” he calls seductively.

I walk in and stand silently next to his desk. “Take a seat,” he orders as he looks at some

spreadsheets.

I swallow the lump in my throat and drop into the seat.

“How have you been going with the good news stories?” he asks.

“Um, okay. I really only started it today.”

His eyes shoot up. “Why are you only starting now?”

“I had other things I had to get finished before I started on this,” I murmur nervously. “Filing and

stuff.”

“Could you get on with it today, please?” he asks with a sexy smile.

“Yes.” I drop my head in shame. I feel bad for what I am feeling, or lack of the way I’m feeling, and

the only way to make this up to him is if I do the best work I can possibly do on this project. I want to be

friends with Mark. He’s a descent guy who really does deserve a chance. That’s it. I’m making a

conscious decision to not think about that street kisser and those beautiful lips. My heart drops at the

thought, though. Gosh, those lips. I wish they were on me now. Stop it, you stupid woman! I stand with

renewed purpose and head back to my desk. The job that I have been assigned to do is to create a good

news story folder for future reference. I have to contact past clients and interview them about our service.

It sounds easy enough, however, I am not so sure how it will go or if I will be able to do it. I open the

folder of names and contact details and I go to the first name on the list.

Bartholomew Anslow. Jeez, he sounds like a stuffy old sod. I look up his details and dial the number.

“Hello,” a posh voice answers, sounding just as I imagined.

“Hello, Mr. Anslow? This is Emerson Mathews and I work for Chesters Auction House. I understand

you purchased some art from us eighteen months ago.

“Ahh.” He thinks. “Yes. Yes, I did.”

I quickly scroll through his file with my finger. Three pieces. “Our records show that you purchased

three paintings, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. We are just doing a service follow up to see how the artwork is going and to ask if you

were happy with the company’s service.”