
Imperfect Intentions (Beauty in Imperfection, Book 1)
Read Chapter One!
Chapter One
Leon
Nobody looks up from their computer screens as the young woman wheels a trolley with cleaning products through the swing doors into the basement. To them, she may as well be invisible, but to me, the clack of the doors that announces her arrival is like a blaring alarm.
She comes on at six every weekday and leaves after midnight. The nightshift allows her to clean when the employees clock out for the day. After six, the desks are supposed to be vacant, and she can make noise with the vacuum cleaner without disturbing the programmers and break their concentration. The only people left at this hour are the workaholics, which is just about the entire floor.
She strains under the weight of the trolley, leaning her slender frame into it and weaving with a slight limp around the desks in the open plan space. Today, she wears ripped jeans and a pink T-shirt. The denim hugs her shapely ass, and the cotton of the T-shirt molds snugly over her breasts. The curves of her feminine shape are neither big, nor small. Her body is perfectly proportioned, except for her right leg thatâs a few centimeters shorter than her left. If not for that unique characteristic, she wouldâve been a doll, and dolls are plastic. Reality has flaws, but thatâs what makes it real. Real in all its raw, authentic beauty is much more attractive.
With every movement, her muscles shift under her clothes. Each pose is flawless from every angle. Sheâs not skinny, but thereâs not an ounce of fat on her body. Like the rest of her, her smooth, honey-colored skin begs to be touched. Her oval-shaped face gives her a soft, delicate look while the determined set of her full lips hints at self-assurance. Her eyes are the most unusual color of blue, a deep violet that reminds me of lavender. Long brown hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun. A few tendrils that escaped stick to her temples and nape despite the AC that works on full blast down here. Perspiration shines on her forehead. That means sheâs already been cleaning upstairs. Her fatherâmy bossâsometimes makes her come in early to clean the kitchen and meeting room on the ground floor.
The trolley creaks under the burden of a bucket filled with water. Drops slosh over the sides as she pulls on the handlebar to stop the momentum of the wheels. She leaves the trolley in the corner and walks with an uneven gait through the doors. A moment later, she returns with a vacuum cleaner. She pops in ear pods, takes her phone from her back pocket, and swipes a finger over the screen. Not sparing any of the twelve men in the room a glance, she switches on the vacuum cleaner and steers the power nozzle over the varnished concrete floor.
My coworkers continue with their work. Weâre all on a deadline. More accurately, weâre all chasing a promotion, and even in a clandestine software company like Gus Starleyâs, a pay raise and private office must be earned.
Taking my empty mug, I push to my feet and head toward the coffee maker. I go the long way around, passing by her so closely I can smell the faint scent of caramel and clean, female sweat on her skin. She hums to herself, her husky voice making my scalp tingle in a pleasurable way like when my hairdresser cuts my hair. Itâs not a tune I know. I memorize it as I fill my mug with burnt coffee from the glass flask on the hot plate. After adding creamer, which doesnât change the color of the coffee much, I stall by taking a sip while watching her through my lashes.
Done with the vacuuming, she kills the noise and carries the vacuum cleaner away. By the time Iâm back at my desk, she reappears through the doors and makes her way with some difficulty but no less determination to the trolley. Her actions are as fluid and natural as those of someone who doesnât realize sheâs being observed.
She needs to be more careful.
When she lifts the bucket to the floor, the effort sketches her arm muscles in a stunning portrait of human perfection. After dunking the mop in the bucket, she squeezes out the excess water and starts to wash the floor. The dance of her body is rhythmic as she paints the concrete with wet brushstrokes of soapy water. Itâs hypnotic.
I must be staring for too long, the usual clacking of my keyboard silent, because Iâm attracting attention. My nape pricks with awareness of being watched. I feel my neighborâs eyes on me before I turn my head and catch him looking.
Elliot Starleyâs lips curve into a smile as he slides his gaze from me to Violet. The bossâs son or not, I feel like punching that smirk off his face.
âDo you have a problem?â I ask.
âNo.â He smiles wider and resumes his typing. âNo problem.â
Fuck.
I donât care that he caught me ogling his sister. What I do care about is that I can no longer watch her unobserved. Once she knows, sheâll no longer be unguarded.
Clenching my jaw, I focus on the long string of coding in front of me. From my peripheral vision, I notice Elliot get up. He stretches and, following my example, takes the mug that sits on the Johannesburg Country Club coaster next to his keyboard. His steps are lazy as he walks to the back. Just before he gets to the table with the coffee maker, he rounds one of the geekâs desks, putting himself in Violetâs path. The bucket makes a thump as he collides with it, kicking it over. The water rushes out and runs in every direction.
Violet gives a start.
A soap bubble floats on the water and pops where the puddle pools under the geekâs desk.
She fixes her eyes on her brother, slicing him up with her gaze while her knuckles turn white on the handle of the mop.
âSorry,â he says with a grin. âI didnât watch where I was going.â
The lie is mocking.
The office has gone quiet. Everyone is watching.
A muscle ticks in her delicate jaw.
Turning his back on her, Elliot continues casually on his way, walking water all over the clean floor.
Iâm on my feet in a blink. I swear Iâll slam his face so hard on the floor Iâll flatten his nose and drown him in one millimeter of water and his own blood. Iâm already halfway around my desk when the office door on the right opens and the boss steps out.
Not slowing my stride, I head straight for my target whoâs filling his mug with coffee. Instinctively, I assess the room. Experience has taught me to take stock of a situation and evaluate the danger with a single glance. Gus isnât moving. Heâs not going for the gun in his desk drawer or calling his guard. Heâs leaning in his doorframe with his hands shoved into his pockets, his expression amused.
My footsteps fall hard on the floor. Elliot catches on. He turns and freezes with his mug halfway to his mouth. Iâm five steps away from crushing his windpipe when a soft hand falls on my arm.
The shock of it stops me. Watching is one thing. Touching is another. Her hand is dry and warm. The touch is innocent and light, yet the impact is momentous. Up until a minute ago, I was content to watch her, to quietly enjoy my private obsession. Now? We crossed a line. Thereâs no going back. Sheâs taken notice of me. I can no longer enjoy her from the sidelines like sheâs my favorite show. The game has fast-forwarded.
I fix my gaze on where her slender fingers are wrapped around my bicep. I like the way it looksâher golden skin against my darker tan and her smallness against my bulk. I like the way it feels, the heat of her palm on my naked skin.
Tearing my gaze from her touch, I look at her face. Her lavender eyes are big for her small face. Long, dark lashes create a pretty frame for their unusual expressiveness. Does she know she carries her heart on her sleeve?
She needs to pay more attention.
Sheâs an easy prey for a man like me.
Her fingers tighten on my arm as she gives a slight shake of her head. When I lean toward her, she lets go.
Putting us cheek to cheek, I say softly enough for only her to hear, âHe deserves to have his face bashed in. Then he can go down on his knees, say sorry like he means it, and clean up this mess.â
She turns her face to catch my gaze. âI can fight my own battles.â
âThis is about principle.â
âYouâre making it worse.â
I shut my mouth at that and study her, paying closer attention. Standing this near, the fine stress lines around her eyes are visible. Beneath the defiance, anxiety glistens like twinkling stars in those violet-blue depths. I know panic when I see it.
She schools her features and clears her throat. âWe have an audience. Please.â
It takes me a moment to back down. I step toward my desk, not because I want to but because she wants me to.
âBack to work, everyone,â Gus says.
Shooting me a look, he straightens and reenters his office. The door slams behind him.
Elliot walks straight past me when he goes back to his desk. I have to ball my hands not to grab him by his collar and throw him facedown on the floor. While I take my place at my station, Violet mops up the water.
The show is over. Everyone returns to their programming.
I clench and unclench my fingers, still fighting the urge to break Elliotâs nose. Gus wonât hold it against me. He approves of a fair fight. In his business, no one gets preferential treatment, not even family, which is why Elliot had to work his way up from filing papers in the vault. Iâm guessing itâs for the same reason that Violet has been cleaning the office for the past three months. Gus is starting her at the bottom. Me, I was a runner, carrying messages between Gus and his clients none of them would risk putting in writing.
Violet takes away the bucket and returns with clean water. She mops the whole floor again before tackling the dusting. She doesnât glance in my direction, but sheâs no longer humming or moving with her usual grace. As I predicted, sheâs stiff and guarded.
Giving her the illusion of disinterest, I type the last row of coding and sit back to enjoy my masterpiece.
Fuck, itâs beautiful.
The program is graceful, like Violet.
Interlacing my fingers, I crack my knuckles and put my hands behind my neck to support the weight of my head. In front of me sits three yearsâ worth of work. I started it when Ian, Rudy, and I were still a gang. The program will put me on the map. Itâll win me the recognition I crave and prove that Iâm worthy of being made a partner. The moment is sweet. I should call Ian and tell him the good news, but Iâm selfish. I want to savor the moment alone for a while.
A hint of caramel reaches my nostrils. I donât budge when Violet stops next to my desk. I donât move from my reclined position as she leans over and shuffles papers to dust my desk. The sight of her is ten times prettier than the eloquent program on my screen. The shape of her breast is a thousand times more perfect. If I reach out, I could cup the curve. It would fit in my palm like it was made for my hand. I imagine testing the weight, how soft yet firm her flesh would be if I close my fingers.
She does a half-assed job, skimming over the paperweight and filing tray. I make her nervous. She barely touches my screen with the duster before moving to Elliotâs station.
In contrast, sheâs thorough with her brotherâs desk. She lifts the mouse pad to clean underneath. Elliot doesnât pay her attention. Like a jerk, he continues to work, treating her like everyone else, as if sheâs invisible. Iâm about to lose my cool again when she neatly knocks over his mug, spilling the coffee over his built-in keyboard.
The keyboard backlight dies.
Elliot jumps up, shaking coffee from his hands. âBloody, fucking hell.â
For a second time today, the room goes quiet.
âFor fuckâs sake,â Elliot cries out, stabbing his fingers into his hair.
When his desktop screen turns black, his eyes grow round. âNo.â Pulling on his hair, he repeats, âNo.â
Water damage is serious. Liquid that seeps onto the ribbon cable can cause a short circuit in the system board. If the hard drive was damaged, he may not be able to retrieve any work he didnât back up.
A hint of a smile plays on Violetâs lips. âOops.â Mimicking his tone of earlier, she says, âSorry. I guess I didnât watch what I was doing.â
âGive me a fucking cloth,â he yells, waving an arm at her and groping air.
Violet cocks her hip. âSay please.â
âWhat?â He tears his gaze from the damage to stare at her. âAre you fucking serious right now?â
She narrows her pretty eyes. âIâve never been more serious.â
His mouth drops open. He looks around. No one moves. Everyone is frozen in shock, their faces transformed with horror. Thereâs no greater tragedy to a programmer than a spilled drink.
âFucking please,â Elliot grits out.
Violet walks to the trolley. Her limp makes her slower than most people, but sheâs taking her time. Elliot rips out the power cable. Heâs unplugging an external hard drive when she returns with a dishcloth.
âHere you go,â she says, waving the cloth in front of his face.
He rips it from her hand.
She crosses her arms, not offering to help as he wipes up the spillage.
Before turning to leave, she says with a smile, âYou missed a spot.â
Elliot looks like a stick of dynamite with a fuse fast burning out. The helpless fury on his face is priceless.
One for Violet. Zero for Elliot.
Popping in her ear pods, she hums as she picks up her duster and moves to the next desk. The guy who occupies it grabs his external keyboard and hugs it to his chest.
Thatâs when I know with crystal clarity.
Whether sheâll want me or not, Violet Starley is mine.
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