Imperfect Match (Elixir Bachelor Billionaires #1)

BLIND DATE WITH A KIDNAPPER

DAISY

“I’m off to a meeting at Elixir.” Charles’ voice pulls me away from the monitor.

His towering six-foot-two frame dominates the space. Standing, my four-inch heels offer my poor five-feet height some reprieve, but seated, I’m completely dwarfed.

My gaze wanders upward, taking in his tailored Tom Ford slacks and sleek leather belt. Like every other day, he’s wearing the cufflinks bearing the Hawthorne family crest. His crisp white shirt, tailored to perfection, and the Windsor-knotted blue tie peek out from under his impeccably fitted suit jacket, and my eyes draw up to his long, elegant neck. Charles’ dark blond hair is neatly cut and styled back. In all my years of working alongside him, I’ve never seen him as anything less than perfect.

My heart, ever the stickler for color coordination, doesn’t lament the sea of black and gray suits, because Charles looks so utterly delectable.

And since I’m in charge of managing his wardrobe deliveries and security sweeps for any hidden cameras and microphones, I know everything is just as expensive as it looks.

Is my boss a tad paranoid?

Well, I used to think so, until about two years ago when there was the final negotiation round during an acquisition deal at Elixir Inc. The security team overlooked inspecting a champagne bottle brought into the room for the after-party. The next day, Elixir lost the deal, and upon inspection, a hidden microphone was discovered in the bottle. Ever since that incident, everything within Charles’ two-millimeter radius undergoes my thorough pat down and scan.

As a side benefit of the activity, I know that beneath his dark suit, my boss is wearing a pair of XL gray boxers right now. He always buys the same brand, color, and fabric—soft silk cotton that glides like a dream in my hand and probably feels just as smooth against his tight a—

“Why is your face all red? You feeling sick?” He leans in, reaching out with the back of his hand, and instinctively, I roll my chair back, the wheels coming in handy.

“Daisy?” He quirks that cocky eyebrow. As much as I hate to admit it, he looks super sexy doing that, especially with his furrowed forehead.

Stop thinking about him and sexy in the same sentence.

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” I get up from the chair and immediately realize my mistake when a grin spreads on Charles’ face.

“I sometimes forget how tiny you are.” He doesn’t have to bend much to look down at my feet, clad in silly plush slippers. “Are those raccoons?”

“I’m not tiny. I’m five feet tall.” Barely. “And that’s a normal height for women. You’re just a giant!”

“Of course, Daisy.”

The way my name rolls over his lips gives me goose bumps. How does he do that? Say the same word but evoke a different feeling depending on his mood and our surroundings.

“Don’t make fun of things you don’t understand, Charles A. Hawthorne. You don’t even know the pain of running around in four-inch heels.” For some unknown reason, I’m suddenly too sensitive.

Liar. You know well. It’s because of the text you received half an hour ago.

Charles’ smile drops.

“Hey, seriously, you okay?” His gaze flicks to my desk, littered with numerous Post-its. “You plan to do all of this today?”

“Not all.” I throw a glance at the wall clock. “I need to finalize contracts for Vincent’s company and then contact the town hall about reserving the Hawthorne Heritage Room for next week.”

“I’ll ask Steve to drop you home.” Charles knocks on my desk. “It’s freezing outside, and I’m not going to have you sick next week.”

All the humor leaves his face, and I catch the sheen of fear that surfaces whenever there’s a possibility of Charles being in a crowd. His aversion to the media confuses me. Charles is not a weak person. In fact, he has the power to make men cry in the boardroom with just an icy stare. So what happens when it comes to crowded places?

“I’ll drag you from your bed, cough, snot, sweat, and everything included, but I’m not going to that fucking interview alone.” His words bring my attention back.

“Thank you for painting such a beautiful picture and making me feel so special.”

When he doesn’t smile or comment that I look like a lunatic as I bat my eyelashes, I sigh.

“I won’t be needing the driver tonight. Sh—” I interrupt by extending my hand, capturing his serious gaze. “I’m going out for dinner.”

Charles’ forehead creases once again, and he bites the inside of his cheek once, a tiny indication of his disapproval. “Going out? Now?”