The First Time I Met a Rich Older Man I Actually Wanted to Sleep With: Part 2

One Sat­ur­day morn­ing, I was seated at my desk in the front lobby of my office. I was com­pletely engrossed in the lat­est romance novel on my read­ing list and didn’t bother to pay atten­tion to the fact that the other week­end recep­tion­ist was talk­ing to some­one. I con­tin­ued to read, a steamy scene was play­ing out so every­thing around me was secondary.

And this is our new week­end sec­re­tary, Lena.” Joanne, the other recep­tion­ist, said right behind me. The minute I heard my name, I put the book down embar­rassed and looked straight up to see a man in thick framed glasses and sus­penders grin­ning at me. I was floored…

Well, hi there, Lena. I’m Bran­don.” He had a deep bari­tone voice. I was always a sucker for a man with a deep voice and this man, notably older, had the one I imag­ined every sto­ry­book hero to have. It was no exag­ger­a­tion. This man, this Bran­don, had that kind of voice that made me want to drop my pants at the snap of his fin­gers. Try­ing to get over the wave of embar­rass­ment and shy­ness that came over me, I straight­ened up smil­ing politely.

Hi.” My voice squeaked. I wasn’t nor­mally out­spo­ken to new peo­ple and my voice tended to be affected accord­ingly. To my dis­ap­point­ment, I sounded meek and timid, not at all like the sexy vixen I was try­ing to con­jure up at that moment.

Bran­don imme­di­ately screamed the appear­ance of a rebel with his slicked back hair, strong jaw, and cocky grin. He exuded con­fi­dence min­gled with a sense of man­ners and when he looked at me, it was as if he was used to mak­ing young women blush. He didn’t look any older than 35. And you could tell just by look­ing at Bran­don that he enter­tained him­self with lift­ing weights. With broad shoul­ders and his white col­lared shirt tight­en­ing around his biceps, there was no doubt that he had a physique worth uncloth­ing. “God, he is sexy. But older—so let’s just throw that idea out the door, Lena,” I thought to myself.

My thoughts and awk­ward exchange between Bran­don were soon inter­rupted by a raven-haired woman who came up to the counter to stand by Bran­don. For­get­ting that Joanne was behind me, I was star­tled again and looked at her as she intro­duced the woman.

Oh Lena, this is Becky. Becky, this is Lena, our new sec­re­tary. She’s—uh, oh what’s her name? Um, Me… Melis… no, Melinda! She’s Melinda’s rel­a­tive.” Joanne had a habit of mess­ing up and not remem­ber­ing names. But she was sweet and reminded me of my grand­mother, so I let it slide that she mis­un­der­stood the fact that Melinda and I weren’t exactly related.

Becky looked at me, seem­ing to size me up as she looked me over from head to toe. I had stood up after real­iz­ing Joanne was behind me and slid my book—with a shirt­less man on the cover—under some paper­work on my desk. Bran­don had walked away from the counter and headed to the cof­fee pot in our lobby.

Oh you’re so young,” empha­siz­ing that last word. “How old are you? Do you go to school?” I was used to peo­ple ask­ing me my age.

I’m 19, almost 20.” I’m not sure why I had included that last part. I usu­ally had a habit of round­ing up my age, but I really think the rea­son was the man behind Becky, seem­ing pre­oc­cu­pied with pour­ing him­self cof­fee. As it turns out, he had heard the con­ver­sa­tion, and he had his own opin­ions about my age.