The Carrero Effect - Falling for the Boss (Billionaire CEO) novel Chapter 22

“Emma?” his deep tone catches my attention.

“Jake.” I smile, opening my eyes again in a fluttery devilish way.

Oops, busted. He found me.

“Emma are you drunk?” his voice sounds husky with amusement and I laugh in answer as he moves toward me, stands over me looking down.

Oh boy, is it a breathtaking view!

His tie is off and draped casually round his shoulders, his white shirt open at the collar, his jacket discarded somewhere already.

Why did I never notice just how fuckable my boss is?

I hiccup, and it feels funny in my throat, sounds so weird to me that it makes me giggle again.

I like being drunk, I’m lighter and more fun; it makes me think Jake is sex worthy and that’s pretty hilarious. I don’t find men a turn on at all, so that’s even funnier … Well, except Jake! He’s the exception to the rule in that everything he does is panty warming and alluring, even standing staring at me as he is now.

I’m hit with a strange sound. It’s me. I’m laughing; I guess I find myself amusing and I sound so detached and not here.

I must be really drunk.

“Emma, I think you better get in bed. Come on.” He leans down to catch my hand from across my stomach, but I leave it floppy and weighted, so he gets nowhere pulling at it.

I don’t want to hold hands today, Carrero. You’re looking a tad too Casanova tonight.

When he picks it up again, he tugs, but I refuse to cooperate. Deliberately going limp and weighing myself down.

Nope, I’m not going to hold hands with my hot boss while he’s swooning around looking all sexy on me.

I giggle again. Too heavy and too comfy to move. I want to sleep on my fluffy floor. It’s nice here. It feels good.

“Wan sssstay right here,” I slur, I can hear it now and it amuses me even more. I’ve never heard myself slur before, never allowed myself to drink to the point of slurring.

I spot my hand held in front of me and prod dementedly at the air as if I’m trying to make a point, fascinated at the uncoordinated motion of my own limb as it waves above me. Everything feels dreamlike and warm and these are someone else’s hands.

He frowns at me and I have the urge to poke him between the eyebrows. They are too even and straight to be real.

“You prefer the hotel rug to a bed?” he can’t speak without smiling, so I guess he is finding me entertaining this way.

He has a beautiful smile. No! A gorgeous smile!

“Hmmm mmm hmmmm.” That was almost an answer, I think.

God, why did I drink so much brandy?

Everything is swaying and soft. If I close my eyes, maybe I’ll hear something soothing like the ocean, like I’m on the ocean.

Oh, yeah, the sperm donor and all those tidal waves of emotions I was trying to drown.

“Right, that’s it.” He scoops down and slips his hands under me, hoists me up effortlessly as though I weigh nothing. I’m too drunk to fight, or squeal, and I’m being carried like a baby towards my room. Freaky Lisa comes to mind, and I wonder if this is part of her fetish fancies, it makes me giggle some more.

God, I feel amazing; why can’t I always feel like this?

“No! Don’t want to go to bed.” I sound petulant, like a child, and start struggling. If I go to bed, I’ll stop feeling this way. I may lose this warm feeling and blank mind euphoria; I may start fixating on shitty fathers who abandon their kids in infancy. Pricks who only see dollar signs instead of the damage they have caused.

“Emma, hold still.” He fusses, struggling to hold me.

“No. Nope, nope.” I shake my head and he finally stops and puts my writhing body on my own bare feet outside my door before he drops me, but upright isn’t good. It really disorientates me as everything sways.

You’re my dreamy boss. I like you.

“No … Yes … No … Who?” I forget the question while trying to give an answer, and he shakes his head at me. I’m perplexed, but I don’t know why, and I’m sure he’s holding onto me a little too closely suddenly. It’s awfully warm now.

I wonder where Felicity has gone. I hope she’s not the jealous type, not that she should be … I don’t do sex … Or feelings … Jake sees me as he would a sister, or a platonic friend, I guess. That thought annoys me a little. He is sex-able tonight.

“Emma, I really think you need some sleep, or coffee?” he loses the frown, and a little seriousness clouds his tone.

“I don’t like coffee.” The stuff stinks and tastes worse. I don’t know why Jake drinks so much of it; I prefer brandy. I giggle as he pulls me toward the couch and maneuvers me onto the cool soft seat, lifting my feet up to the next space to me, laying me flat on my back.

Smooth move, Carrero.

The motion makes me laugh again and I like how it sounds. I never giggle like this. It feels very unlike me in every way. I’ve turned into a giggler with zero control over it.

“You stay like that while I make you a drink … Tea? Water?” he asks.

“Brandy!” I never liked the stuff at all, it burns going down, but it did start to taste good after the third one and the side effects are positively awesome.

“No, Emma. No more alcohol.” He sounds stern, bossy, and paternal … Like a father should. It brings sperm donor back to the forefront of my swirling thoughts.

“Why didn’t he want me, Jake?” I query sadly. I talk to the ceiling, it feels a bit like I’m lying on a shrink’s couch, like in the movies when sad people talk to psychiatrists in stark offices on green couches and stare at boring ceilings. I note the ceiling no longer looks smooth and creamy; it looks shitty.

Maybe Jake could be my shrink.

“Because he’s an idiot. Not all men are cut out to be fathers.”

I catch the sound of the clink of glasses or mugs.