Drawn to Mr. King (The Men Series Book 3)

IT’S BEEN THREE DAYS since I sent Megan that ginger ale. Three days since I went to her office after work, and almost lost all sense of my self-control. God, I wanted to push that tight little skirt up her perfect legs and drop to my knees and worship her right there on that prick’s desk. It was the fire in her eyes when I asked how well she knew Phil that did it. Of course, I know a woman like Megan would see nothing in a guy like that. I’ve seen the way he leers at Tina and the other women when he thinks no one is watching.

I don’t know what the hell got into me. I know I sounded like a jerk, but the idea of her with any other man is enough to make me want to tear someone’s head off. Then the way she looked at me when I held her chin like she was daring me to take it further. God, I could so easily have screwed this up even more than I have already. I need to keep away. She’s young, bright, and talented. She’s better off without me coming along and fucking her life up.

I kill the engine of my Jaguar and look up at Mum’s house. She’s lived in the same house since my brother and I were kids. I love that it’s full of memories from my childhood. But for that same reason, I also hate it. I feel twelve years old again whenever I go inside.

I get out of the car and head up to the door, pressing the bell.

“Jaxon!” Mum beams, her silver bob catching the morning sun as she answers the door. She’s wearing a violet blouse—Dad’s favourite colour.

“Hi, Mum.” I smile, leaning in to give her a kiss on the cheek and smelling her rose perfume. “Are you ready?”

She looks at me for a moment, and I know she wants to invite me inside. It’s the same every year. I prefer to get going straight away and not put it off.

“Yes, I am,” she replies, picking up her handbag and a small potted flowering plant from the table inside the hallway.

She locks the door, and I walk down the path first, opening the passenger door for her when we reach my car.

We drive the fifteen minutes in companionable silence as Mum looks out the window. She knows I like it this way. I’m not much of a talker most days, but especially today. What is there to say? It’s shit, and I wish I were anywhere else right now.

We pull up at the crematorium memorial gardens, and I help Mum out of the car. I’m glad that the sun is shining. It makes it slightly less depressing than coming here when it’s pissing down with rain.

We walk around the manicured gardens, the same route we always take. I could probably do it in my sleep or blindfolded.

One hundred and thirty-eight steps.

That’s the number of steps it takes from my car. That’s how many steps it takes to transport me back to being a scared, twelve-year-old boy who lost his father. ‘You’re the man of the house now’, some well-meaning neighbours had told me. My brother was only six, so it couldn’t be him.

It had to be me.

“Oh, how lovely,” Mum says brightly as she places the plant down next to Dad’s memorial stone and bends to admire some flowers that have been left there already. They’re gladioli. My brother always brings gladioli. He had some big work thing on today. Otherwise, he would be with us too. I crouch down and place the bunch of forget-me-nots next to them.

“Happy Birthday, Dad.” I smile at the plaque fixed to the granite stone as I polish it with my handkerchief until it shines again.

Mum places her hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. I reach up and wrap her fingers inside mine as I drop my head.

We stay there for a while, not speaking. What is there left to say?

I take Mum for lunch afterwards at her favourite restaurant, which she swears serves the best gnocchi outside of Italy.

I tell her all about work and the project. She asks after Christopher and Penelope, even though I know she speaks to Christopher almost as often as I do. She was there so much for him growing up; we couldn’t have done it without her. She was like a second Mum to him.

I thought she was going to be upset when I told her Penelope, and I were separating six years ago, but she wasn’t. She didn’t even seem surprised. She said we’d done a wonderful job raising Christopher together, and now it was time we both put our needs first again.

I can’t help wondering if she’s disappointed that Penelope is the only one of us who has moved on and found love.

“Come visit again soon, won’t you, Jaxon?” Mum smiles at me as I drop her off and walk her to the door. “I’m going to visit Christopher soon. You could join me?”

“I’ll check what’s happening at work, but that sounds great.”

She embraces me in one of her crushing hugs, rubbing my back before she pulls away and studies my face. “Look after yourself, love. You look like you need an early night,” she says, as though that’s the answer to everything.

If only it was that simple.

“Yes, Mum.” I smile, then head down the path, waving goodbye once I’m in the car.

I don’t even know why, but after driving for a while, I look up, and I’m in front of the Articulate building. So much for keeping my distance. I don’t even know why I drove here, today of all days. Distraction maybe?

I may as well poke my head in now I’m here and see how they’re getting on. She may not even be here, anyway.

Although as I sign it at reception and head up in the lift to the design floor, I know I’m kidding myself.

Of course, she will be here.

The lift doors open, and I stride out and up the hallway towards the open-plan office area. I should turn right just before I get there, towards the boardroom and the temporary office Tina has set up for when she’s working over here.

But I don’t.

My feet have a mind of their own as they carry me into the busy office. Each designer has their own desk area. They’re big spaces as they each have large idea boards and easels holding up whatever it is they’re working on next to their desks, so each one maintains some privacy.

I walk over to Megan’s work area, where she is bent over a sketchbook, her eyes focussing on one small area she’s shading.

Her red curls are piled on top of her head with a pencil poking out from them. It’s her face that makes my heart hammer in my chest, though. Her eyes are serene, and she’s got a faraway, dreamy look on her face, a small smile on her lips.

Watching her work like this, it’s breathtaking. She looks like she’s in another world, one where everything is perfect.

Now I’m about to ruin it with my unplanned visit.

“Has it helped?” I ask, my eyes settling on the glass of familiar golden-hued ginger ale that’s half-drunk on her desk.

At least she’s trying it, and it hasn’t gone straight in the rubbish bin.

She jumps and drops her pencil, frowning as it leaves a faint mark on the paper where it lands. As her gaze turns to me, she flips the top of her notebook over and pushes it to one side.

“Jaxon?”

The corners of her perfect lips turn down. She doesn’t look pleased to see me. But then I wouldn’t either if I were her.

I know she must think I’m a jerk. I never called her after that night. Then I show up at her workplace, and she gets thrown into working with my company. Then I basically ask if she’s shagging her boss and almost kiss her in his office.

Talk about mixed signals. Hell, I’d be pissed off too.

“Megan.” I draw out her name, remembering how it sounded on my lips when I was groaning it, her legs wrapped around my ears.

“If you’re looking for Phil, he’s out,” she says, crossing her arms.

I glance down. From this angle, I can see right down the front of her blue shirt to the cream lace bra she’s wearing. Her full breasts rise as she takes a breath.

God, give me strength.

I snap my eyes back up to her face. “I just dropped by for Tina,” I lie.

Megan narrows her eyes at me. “She’s not working here today.”

I clear my throat.

She’s testing me.

She knows full well I’m aware Tina’s schedule places her at our offices today, not here.

“I know that. She asked me to collect something from her office.” Another lie.

Megan raises a brow but says nothing.

“So, did it work?” I ask again, nodding towards the glass on her desk.

Her eyes follow my gaze, and her cheeks glow pink, her face softening. “Oh, yes, it is helping. I’ve meant to thank you. I tried the other night when you were—” she trails off, her teeth pulling her bottom lip into her mouth.

I stare at their sweet pink softness, and more than anything, I want to reach forward and kiss them. Grab her chin and angle her face so that I can slide my tongue into her mouth and taste her.

Quench this insatiable thirst I have to make her mine.

I would give anything to have her again, watch her unravel in my arms beneath me,—just like that night.

My dick stirs in my pants, and I clench my teeth. Why the fuck do I feel as though I have no control when she’s around?

She looks back at my face before I can swipe the intense scowl that’s settled there away. She studies me for a moment before sighing. If she was thinking about saying something about the other night in Phil’s office, then she’s obviously changed her mind.

“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to my work,” she says, turning back to her desk.

I should leave it at that. Walk away now. But I can’t.

I’m a fucking selfish idiot.

She looks at me sideways when I make no attempt to move. “What do—”

She’s cut off as a mailroom guy comes to her desk.

“Another one for you, Meg.” He hands her a parcel with a wink, and she flashes him a smile as she thanks him.

He grins in response, and I glare at his back as he walks off.

“What did you send me this time?” Megan cuts into my stupid jealous thoughts over why the mail guy is calling her Meg and winking at her and tears the tape off the box as she looks at me, her forehead wrinkled.

The fact she’s asking means she obviously isn’t in the habit of receiving gifts from other men, which pleases me. But my smug smirk soon freezes on my face. Instead, it’s replaced with a sourness in my mouth as she pulls out red tissue paper, followed by a box with a picture of a giant pink rabbit-shaped wand on the side.

What the fuck?

Megan’s eyes widen, and she lets out a small shriek as she stuffs the toy back down under the tissue and throws the entire package underneath her desk, where it lands with a thud.

Her cheeks are pink, and she’s wringing her hands in her lap, glancing up at me. It isn’t from me, so who the fuck is sending her things? A boyfriend I don’t know about? A vibrator, for fuck’s sake!

I suck a breath in, my nostrils flaring as I clench and unclench my hands by my sides, counting to ten in my head. But it’s no use. I’d have to count to a fucking million to calm down enough.

“Another appropriate use of work time,” I fire at her.

She recoils as though stung, her face draining of colour.

There is no need for me to be so harsh, and I regret the tone of my voice the moment the words leave my lips. But it’s too late; the damage is done. I watch as she drops her eyes away from mine, picking up her bag from under her desk.

“Excuse me, please,” she says as she stands, avoiding looking me in the face.

“Megan—”

But she doesn’t stop.

I watch her back as she walks off in the direction of the lifts.

I should go after her, apologise.

Do something.

But I don’t.

I stand rooted to the spot, thinking maybe it’s better this way after all.