Easy Come (Plaything Book 1), Page 2

  "Nice to meet you too, Mr. Armstrong."

  "Please, call me Trey." He released my hand after what I considered to be an extraordinarily long exchange of politeness. He motioned for me to sit in the lush, soft leather chair across from his desk. He sat too. He placed his forearms along the edge of the desk. I found myself momentarily mesmerized by the strength and sinewy muscles in his forearms. I'd always been a fan of rolled up shirt sleeves on a nice pair of arms. His were especially nice.

  "So, Georgie, what would you like to know about Plaything?"

  Chapter Four

  Trey

  Fucking hot. Those two words circled my brain, around and around like a race car passing a checkered flag. She was fucking hot, but she was working hard not to be. It took effort to hide that much beauty. I knew I was looking over my desk at a journalist who was most likely here to find out if Plaything was run by a bunch of lecherous womanizers, but it still didn't stop my gaze from dropping to the top button of her blouse. The white cotton fabric was straining across her beautiful breasts, just dying to rip open and display what I was sure was an award winning, cock hardening cleavage. Her blonde hair was conservatively knotted up behind her head. And her thick rimmed glasses, while in fashion, hid way too much of her face. They did, however, frame her amazing blue eyes. Actually, the more I thought about it, the more I realized it might just be her sweet little attempt at trying to be anything less than fucking beautiful that was making my pulse race.

  I sat back and took a discrete breath to release some of the tension building up behind my fly.

  Georgie seemed a little flustered. I hoped it had nothing to do with the way I had been ogling her like she was something tasty. (Which I was sure she was). I needed to get a grip or risk having her smear the company name in her article.

  She pulled out a notebook and pen. I arched a brow at the primitive tools in her hand. Her cheeks turned pink. And there went my pulse again, straight down to my cock.

  "I know this looks a little old-fashioned," she said quickly, "but I find when I'm interviewing someone, I miss little nuances in expressions and tones when I'm busy fidgeting with a tablet or computer. And I find a tape recorder just freezes the interviewee cold."

  I rocked back and forth slightly on the chair, finding the movement helped me concentrate on the task and not the girl. "I think you'll find it takes a lot to make me cold." When my wry response formed in my head, I hadn't meant it to be suggestive, but it sure as hell came out that way. I needed a drink.

  My sudden departure from the chair startled her.

  I pointed at her as I headed to my wet bar. "You look like a white wine type."

  "Uh, no thank you." She pushed her glasses back, and just as I pulled my gaze from her, I caught a small sharp movement of her shoulders.

  She covered her mouth. "Excuse me."

  "I've got just the cure for hiccoughs." I walked behind the bar and poured myself a scotch, then grabbed another glass for Georgie.

  "No thank you. I never drink during—" She stopped as I handed her a glass of orange juice. Her thin fingers grazed mine as she took hold of the juice. "Thank you."

  The juice sloshed in the glass as another hiccough chirped through her. She tossed it back like someone guzzling a beer. My eyes were instantly drawn to her smooth, creamy white throat, rolling with each swallow. Fuck.

  I shot back the scotch and circled around to the safe side of the desk, the side that had a six foot slab of polished walnut between it and Georgie. Georgie. Shit, could her name be any fucking hotter?

  I sat down, hoping the scotch would help smooth the edges of my reaction to the woman sitting across from me. "So, Georgie, I guess we should get down to the interview. Fire away."

  She pushed her glasses back on her nose and took a deep breath. The juice had done the trick.

  "Right." She crossed her legs at the knee and her straight, no nonsense business skirt slipped back to expose a few inches of her thigh. Stop thinking about her fucking legs, Trey, and get this done.

  "How many employees do you have?" She had her pencil poised, reminding me of a secretary from the sixties where the big gruff boss sat behind his desk and barked out memos to his young, pretty secretary, who quickly scribbled everything in shorthand. All of a sudden, I had a great idea for a role play themed box. I jotted that down on a sticky note.

  "We have fifteen people running the business end and forty in the warehouse and shipping side."

  "Mostly women?"

  Her question confused me. "We do have women working here. But mostly women? I guess a few more women than men."

  "So you prefer to have women walking around the office?" She hadn't lifted her eyes to me since the first question. It seemed she was determined to find something to make us look unsavory. Damn that Chase.

  "No, I prefer to have women working around the office."

  Her hand scratched wildly over the paper. She knew shorthand.

  I continued, feeling both a bit pissed and a whole lot turned on. I wanted to teach this reporter a lesson in more ways than one. "I've found women are more focused and have better attention to detail. And frankly, since our goal is to make our women clients think about fucking day and night, just like men, it makes sense to have female employees."

  Her face shot up. She'd gone a little pale. Her blue eyes were like jewels behind the lenses of her glasses. "Are you trying to shock me, Mr. Armstrong?"

  "Uh oh, back to Mr. Armstrong. I might be trying to shock you. Is it working?"

  "No." She nervously clicked her pen and pushed back her glasses, a gesture I was already falling hard for. "Maybe a little."

  I leaned back in my chair and looked at her. "Do you know anything about the company?"

  She lifted her chin. "I did some research." She'd recovered from my comment about women thinking about fucking. She was a true professional, and it seemed my attempt to throw her off balance had failed. "I know it's a subscription service where each month a new box of pleasure goodies is delivered to the client."

  "Yes, that's right." I sat forward and rolled my chair closer to my desk. That tiny mother of pearl button was still working impossibly hard to keep her blouse shut. "But each box has a theme. We test every product ourselves, and since most of the products are for the woman's pleasure, the women who work for Plaything are the product testers. And, I can assure you, they love that part of the job."

  It seemed she'd forgotten she was supposed to take notes. She jarred herself out of her thoughts and quickly wrote down what I said. "Is there some room where they test the products?" Her tone was a little less confident. I was sure I noticed a blush rising from her hidden cleavage and up along her slender neck.

  I rested my arms on my desk and stared at her. "Do you mean like a room with a one way mirror where my partners and I can watch as our female employees strip naked and test the products?"

  Her face darkened as the blush continued to spread. Maybe I'd thrown her off balance after all. Her lips parted. I studied them for a moment. They were smooth and plump, the kind you had to bite lightly at the end of a kiss.

  Georgie was speechless and shocked, and I was starting to feel bad for messing with her.

  "There's no such room. They take the products home and try them out in the privacy of their bedrooms. Then they come back and give us the thumbs up or thumbs down. Occasionally, the experiment carries over to the work day. I'll show you." I picked up the phone and dialed. "Hey, Diane, could you come to my office for a second? Thanks."

  I'd flustered the hot little reporter. She scratched out something she'd written. "Do the women"—she cleared her throat—"the employees—are they required to wear"—she glanced down at her notepad—"are they required to dress a certain way here at Plaything?"

  Just then Diane knocked on the door. I invited her in. Diane was a statuesque, smart, all business woman who helped run the marketing department with my partner, Zane. She was stellar at her job. She had been trying out a corset to see if i
t was comfortable and fun enough to include in next month's box.

  "Hey, Diane, this is a reporter from Contemporary Life magazine. Georgie Dempsey this is Diane Connor, our marketing guru." She dropped her pen as Diane stepped into view.

  Georgie stuck out her hand. "Nice to meet you."

  "Di, do I require you to wear a corset and mini skirt around the office?"

  She laughed. "Funny man. By the way, I think it'll be a thumbs down on this thing. It keeps pinching my sides."

  Georgie crossed something else off her notepad.

  "You know what, Georgie, I'm going to make this easier on you so you don't have to keep crossing stuff off your list." I looked up at Diane, who seemed a little confused about her office invite and rightfully so. "Di, Georgie is writing an article about Plaything, and I think if you could answer some quick questions, it might give her a better insight into how we run things."

  Diane adjusted the corset. "I'll try. Fire away."

  "Do you like working here?"

  "Like winning the job lotto." Diane looked down at Georgie as she quickly wrote on the notepad. "I work twenty-five hour weeks, which allow me time to do homework for my master's degree. Plaything pays college tuition and I earn six figures. I've got great benefits and I own a percentage of the company. Respect and trust are two core values at Plaything. And about the only rule that is strictly enforced is never heat up fish in the lunch room microwave."

  Georgie grinned as she wrote down Diane's response. "Good rule. Well, thank you, Diane. I don't want to take up any more of your time. I'm sure you're busy."

  "Nice meeting you." Diane walked out.

  As she left, Olivia, my assistant walked in. "Hey, Di. So how is that thing? Torture?"

  "Not torture but not exactly pleasure," Diane commented as she walked out.

  Olivia was wearing gray sweatpants and a football jersey. She insisted she was more productive if she was dressed for a day on the couch binge watching a Walking Dead marathon, so this was her usual attire.

  "Liv, this is Georgie, the reporter."

  "Hello." Olivia smiled. "Just came in to let you know your lunch meeting was cancelled."

  "Great, thanks for letting me know."

  Olivia headed out.

  "Oh, Liv, could you get me a cup of coffee, black, please."

  Olivia burst out laughing, the reaction I'd expected but not the one Georgie had. Again, her blue eyes blinked with surprise.

  "You should see her on casual Friday," I said. "So, Ms. Dempsey, now that I've shown you how we run this place, let's go to lunch and discuss an angle on your story that I think will satisfy your craven boss, help you sell millions of magazines and give Plaything some great publicity."

  Chapter Five

  Georgie

  I'd been invited to lunch, and before I had time to breathe my response, I was being swept to a local restaurant in a navy blue Tesla. Trey wasn't your typical high power executive. He was charming, direct and, oddly enough, seemed pretty down to earth.

  Trey walked around to the passenger side and opened the door for me. "Hope you like comfort food."

  I climbed out. "Well, I like comfort and I like food, so it works for me." He was much taller than I realized, and now that I was walking next to him, I noticed that he smelled nice too. Guess that wasn't a surprise. What was a surprise was finding out just how nicely the company was run. Something told me I could bug the place or hide in corners for a week and never find fodder for a damaging article. Meredith was going to be pissed, but I wasn't going to make something up and risk my credentials as a journalist just to feed her carnivorous appetite. Trey had mentioned that he had an idea for a story, but I just couldn't figure out how that was possible.

  We walked inside and attracted more than just a little bit of attention from the other diners, most of whom looked retired or on their way through town on a road trip. There was no ritzy, white linen and crystal water glasses at the end of our quick drive through the city, but rather, a mom and pop style restaurant, complete with corny decor and laminate tables.

  The hostess, a stout woman with red apple cheeks and a mop of bleached blond hair waved from behind the register. "Hello, Trey, honey, just take any seat."

  Trey placed his hand behind my elbow. It was a light touch, but I could feel the heat of his fingers through my blouse. We walked to a booth at the back and a young man, not more than twenty, dropped menus in front of us.

  "I'm Kyle, and I'll be your server. Can I get you started with something to drink?"

  We ordered iced teas and Kyle lumbered off, looking as if he'd rather be anywhere but serving food in a mom and pop restaurant.

  Trey's long legs stretched out beneath the table. His toe touched my foot. I wasn't completely sure it was accidental. The way his intense gaze seemed to be assessing me made me fidget with the place setting. The knife fell on the floor, producing enough clamor to grab everyone's attention for a second before they returned to their meals and conversations. Trey leaned down to pick up the knife and took his time about it.

  His head popped up, and he placed the knife on the corner of the table. "Nice legs."

  The comment caused me to lower my hands and yank down the hem of my skirt, even though it was already plenty long enough and no one could see my legs through the table. My defensive response made him smile. It was a great smile. Of course.

  I leaned forward and put my elbow on the table and then remembered my mom's admonishment to never put my elbow on the dinner table and pulled it off. I rested my hands on my lap to avoid pushing another piece of silverware to the floor. "Do you eat here often?"

  "When I feel like a home cooked meal. Sometimes the high brow restaurants with their tiny, artsy portions just don't cut it. I save those lunches for—"

  "Important people and not frazzled reporters looking for tabloid fodder?" My nerves were settling, and I was feeling a bit more myself.

  "No not at all. I leave snooty restaurants for snooty people. A lot of people assume that I was always rich and that the guys and I just used a chunk of our trust funds to start a company. But that's not the case." He paused as Kyle lowered the teas in front of us. I ordered a quiche and Trey ordered a burger.

  "Up until just two years ago, Zane, Chase and I were sharing a crummy two room apartment and Aidan was living in his sister's garage."

  I sipped some tea. "Please continue. I'm far more interested in hearing about your success story than how you run the company. In fact, before Meredith took her father's place at the magazine, I wrote human interest stories."

  "I know. I did some quick research on you before Chase walked you into my office. Impressive resume. I read that you won some prestigious journalism awards."

  My face dropped to hide the blush.

  "It's a shame the magazine is changing its format. They are wasting your talent."

  I was never good at accepting compliments, and when they were doubled up, it was extra hard. "You were telling me about starting the company," I interjected quickly for a topic change.

  "The four of us grew up together in a crummy neighborhood where there were more empty strip malls than open businesses. Our first money making venture was starting a garage band, which failed after we realized that none of us were musical. Each one of us had our family problems. I grew up with a single mom, and I had to help take care of my younger brother, Quinn. My dad left when I was three so I barely knew him. My mom had to work two jobs to keep shoes on our feet. And at the rate the two of us grew, that wasn't easy. After high school, the guys and I all parted ways, trying to find our paths in life. Only those paths brought us all back together at a friend's wedding. We were all still looking for our futures. The one thing we all had in common was we loved women and sex. Seems like a shallow reason to start a business, but once the ideas started flowing, the thing took off like a rocket. Turned out a lot of other people had the same thing in common with us."

  A group of young women came in, laughing and texting and tossing
back long, shiny hair. Kyle practically ran across the room to give them menus.

  "You mentioned you had a story idea? Something that would benefit all parties? Is it the rags to riches plotline? I love the idea, but I don't think Meredith will bite. And I use the term bite freely when it comes to that woman."

  "I agree. From what Chase has told me about her, I don't think she'll bite either. I have another idea, but you need to keep an open mind."

  "I always have an open mind." I pulled the notebook out of my bag.

  "Just listen first. You won't need notes because this story is going to be about you."

  "That's funny."

  "I'm not joking." Trey pushed his sleeves back farther, exposing a circle of barbed wire tattooed around his arm. It might have looked barbaric on someone else, but on him, it just looked . . . good. "Let's start with your sex life."

  "And we're done here." I slid out of the booth. His fingers wrapped around my arm, there was a firmness to his grasp that should have worried me. Instead, it sent an unexpected surge of heat through me.

  "Sit and hear me out. Then, if you hate the idea you can just walk away."

  I sat back down. "Fine."

  Trey titled his head and looked at me, waiting for me to answer his question.

  I fidgeted with the collar on my blouse and noticed, for the hundredth time since I’d met the man, that his eyes were focused on the top button. "At the moment, my sex life is—well, it's non-existent. I was seeing someone for a few years, but we broke up."

  "Why is that?"

  "Peanut butter sandwiches."

  His smooth brow arched up. "Peanut butter sandwiches?"

  "Yes. When I was ten, my mom got a job working nights, so she put my older sister, Jean, in charge of making our school lunches. Well, Jean was sixteen, so a big chunk of her morning was taken up with the flat iron and mascara bottle. The only thing she had time for was to slap peanut butter on a piece of bread. For that entire school year, I trudged to the cafeteria with my crappy peanut butter sandwich. That's what it felt like with Mark, a peanut butter sandwich for lunch every damn day."