She sucks in a sharp breath at my brazen words, color flooding her cheeks as the blatant truth detonates between us.
“Well, at least I know your only witness to those little fantasies was your pussy,” I add casually, taking a slow sip of my drink.
“My . . . pussy?” she croaks out, eyes wide.
I tsk, shaking my head. “I have to admit, I was starting to seriously question your living situation.”
Her eyes go even wider, realization and mortification warring on her face. “Oh, for fuck’s— I wrote about mycat, Winnie. Jesus, this literally cannot get any worse.” She seems to be muttering more to herself than to me at this point.
I hold up a hand, cutting off her spiraling panic. “All right, here’s what’s going to happen.” I pluck the cigarette from her fingers and extinguish it into an ashtray. “You’re going to march back out into that party and be at your desk bright and early tomorrow morning. You’re going to delete that diary of yours and never make sucha rookie mistake again. And then you’re going to keep being the brilliant asset I know you are. And we’ll pretend this ridiculous tantrum of yours never happened. Understood?”
Her jaw clenches mutinously, but she nods. “Understood.”
“Excellent.” I wave a dismissive hand. “Now see yourself out.”
She turns on her heel, clearly battling to keep her composure until she’s out of my sight.
“Oh, and Gemma?” I call out as she reaches the door.
She stops, glancing warily over one shoulder.
“For what it’s worth, those fantasies of yours don’t even scratch the surface of reality.” I let my gaze brazenly appraise her form, my hand tightening around the chair rest. “Too bad you’ll never have the pleasure of finding out firsthand just how thoroughly I could wreck you. I don’t mix business with fucking, as a rule.”
Her face scrunches up in anger and she storms out, slamming the door.
CHAPTER 14
Gemma
I stride through thesea of suits on their way to work on Friday morning, nearly body-slamming about three people because my mind is too busy spiraling into a black hole.
There’s no coming back from this. Now, I have to look the man in the eye every single damn day, knowing he’s seen the filthy depths of my subconscious.
But things could be worse. I’ve seen people do far more questionable things in our office. Like the guy who xeroxed his dick and stuck it to the window, or the couple we caught going at it like rabbits in the server room.
All I did was write about it. In the grand scheme of things, that’s tame.
If only I’d written about literally anyone else, though. The cute admin guy. The hunky masseur downstairs with the magic hands. Dennis from Accounting with the unfortunate rash.
Last night, after dragging Lizzie home early from the party, I plummeted into a whirlwind of anxiety. And when that happens, I have this quirk: I click on the most deranged ads on social media from the darkest corners of the internet and buy ludicrous junk.
Last night, it was a strap that promised to erase my double chin, no surgery required.
So now, I’m the not-so-proud owner of a collection of gadgets that are supposed to give me a jawline like Henry Cavill and a chin like Angelina Jolie. The worst part is, once you start clicking on these ads, they multiply like rabbits. Before you know it, you’re in a full-blown tailspin of self-loathing and questionable purchases.
I stop at the Comfort Cup coffee cart right outside the office, and even though Jimmy’s already serving a queue, he gives me a cheerful wave while steaming milk for someone’s latte.
I can’t help but smile back. These Comfort Cup carts are awesome. They’re part of the TLS charity “TLS Community Rebuild,” which helps homeless folks get back on their feet by giving them jobs at these non-profit cafés and carts scattered all over the UK. Doing something far more noble and meaningful than my job, that’s for sure.
By the time I reach the front, Jimmy’s already got my flat white waiting. I’m nothing if not predictable.
Also I’ve given Jimmy a bag of my own secret stash of coffee beans that he grinds just for me. It’s this smooth Ethiopian brew that makes the regular TLS coffee taste like it was filtered through a sock. I get it, it’s a charity and all, but there’s only so much low-grade sludge a girl can choke down.
So, I pay full price for my coffee—and those for my HR team—but I get it made with my own special blend.
“Morning, Gemma,” he says. “You’re up bright and early after last night. Did you have a good time at the party?”
Jimmy remembers everything about everyone he serves. I’m pretty sure I only mentioned the party in passing.
