“And what do I get when you crack like an egg?” she demands.
Who is this woman, and what has she done with my quiet, unassuming assistant?
“I’ll ensure Triada pays out your annual bonus.” Lief, the HR Director, told me she’d resigned just before the payout date, forfeiting her bonus.
Is it enough?
She chews her bottom lip, considering.
“I’ll even throw in a glowing referral,” I add, scrambling to sweeten the pot. Lief will have a shit fit if he finds out—referrals are a legal quagmire—but if all goes well, he’ll never know.
Lucy’s eyes narrow. “And you’ll stop calling me for help.”
Well, fuck.
I can’t argue—not if I want this to work—so I addkeen negotiatorto my mental list of Lucy’s best attributes.
“And I’ll stop calling you.” It’s an easy promise to make, since I have no intention of losing this bet. “If I win, you come back to work at Triada, and I’ll double your salary and hire you an assistant, as promised.”
“Deal,” she says, extending her hand.
I meet her in the middle, clasping her small, delicate fingers in mine.
“Just think—two weeks from now, you’ll be settled back in your old desk, and it’ll be like you never left.”
Lucy laughs as she withdraws her hand. “Just keep telling yourself that, Hart. It’ll make my victory that much sweeter when I take you down.”
Chapter Five
Lucy
Well, this is awkward.Miles and I sit side by side in the Jeep, both of us staring straight ahead as the city glides past. The silence is so thick I’m damn near choking on it. Despite our close working relationship, I’m at a total loss for words as I merge onto I-35, the Airstream—now our shared living quarters—bumping along behind us.
I have no clue what’s running through his head, but I’m freaking the eff out.
Getting over the man you’re madly in love with by taking a jaunty little road trip together?
Who does that? It’s the most ridiculous, ill-conceived idea in the history of bad ideas. The exact opposite of moving on. Of putting space between us.
I never should have said yes.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Maybe I can ditch him at a gas station?
The panicked sense of self-preservation is about twenty minutes too late.
It would have been far more helpful when I was making bets and talking shit.
Two weeks.
I just have to last two weeks. Two weeks of ignoring Miles’s bright, outdoorsy scent. Of resisting his serene blue eyes. Of not melting every time he throws that wicked grin my way or says my name in the deep, rich timbre that makes my knees weak.
Two weeks without completely losing my heart.
I can do this.
No, I have to do this. Losing the bet isn’t an option.
