“Yes. I guess.”
“You still haven’t answered my question. Was it amazing?”
“Oh, Ro. You have no idea.”
“Huh. You’re right there, I don’t.” I wince. I didn’t mean to hit that nerve with Ro. “But give me something to work with here, Lu. On a scale of one to ten?”
“Eleventy thousand.”
“Ohhh. I think I just had a sympathy orgasm.”
“I’m already in an Uber on my way home, and I’m still feeling aftershocks.” I sigh, which gets a snort from the Uber driver.
“Are you okay? Do you want me to come over?”
“No, you stay and enjoy the party. I’m almost home. And I’m okay. Promise. All I want to do is take a hot shower and forget it ever happened.” I feel sticky and smell like sex. Like Nick.
“Okay—if you’re sure. Let’s catch up for breakfast tomorrow, and you can fill me in on all the details. Call me if you need me. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
Even after a long hot shower, I can still smell Nick on my skin. Still feel his fingers digging into my flesh, his teeth nipping. Faint bruises are already beginning to bloom, and seeing them makes my whole body throb with unwelcome need.
Restless, I prop a fresh canvas on my easel and squeeze out angry colours—purple and red and dark, dark blue—on a palette. Painting is my therapy. Whatever it is I’m feeling comes right out of my brush and onto the canvas. Sometimes it’s beautiful, and sometimes it’s ugly. But it always centres me in a way nothing else does.
Before I know it, it’s four in the morning and I’m standing in front of a finished painting. I clean up my brushes, strip off my overalls and fall onto the bed exhausted but with my mood somewhat restored.
As exhausted as I am, sleep just won’t come. I can’t stop thinking about what was hands-down the best sex of my life. But the thing getting under my skin the most is that look. When he opened his eyes and looked right into my soul before slamming the shutters down. It might have been angry fucking, but somewhere deep inside me, something stirs. Something I can’t quite put my finger on. The bottom line, though, is tonight was a train wreck. Nick is at least as responsible as I am. More, if truth be told. So, I refuse to feel guilty. This will in no way impact my ability to do my job. And in no universe will it ever happen again. I have no intention of falling for anyone. Especially Nicholas the Complete Bastard Pierce.
Chapter Nine
Nick
SaturdaymorningIwakeup with a hangover, the likes of which I haven’t had for I don’t know how long. After Lulu left I polished off the rest of the bottle of scotch before spending the night tossing and turning. It’s not often my conscience bothers me. I’m pretty in tune with my moral compass and, for the most part, follow its lead. Last night was the exception. The catastrophic, cataclysmic, calamitous exception. I feel like shit. The problem is, I’m not sure what I feel most shitty about. The sex or the conversation afterwards. Then there’s the way I responded to her presentation. Take your pick. You’re spoilt for choice, Nick.
Trying to ease the throbbing in my head, I pop some paracetamol and take a long shower. At least the throbbing in my cock, a constant companion to thoughts of Lulu of late, has subsided. Coffee in hand, I lay down on the sofa, only to find her torn knickers where I dropped them and the smell of wildflowers on the cushions. I head for the bathroom bin, and my blood runs cold when I realise it doesn’t contain a used condom. I never have sex without a condom. Ever. Which goes to show how out of control I was. This just keeps getting worse. I’m about to drop the knickers in the bin when, for reasons I don’t care to explain—even to myself—I put them in my bedside drawer.
I try to get some work done, but my attention keeps wandering to the damn folder sitting silently on the dining table. Judging me. Yes, I was an arsehole last night. It’s obvious Lulu is talented and has put in an enormous amount of work. But as she pointed out, all I could say was ‘I’ll get back to you’. Ah, shit. When did she go from being The Interloper to being Lulu? Sometime between me attacking her lips and her slamming the door on her way out, I suppose.
Finally, I give up trying to work and open up the binder. An hour later, I have to say I’m no less pissed. I don’t hate it. And I hate that I don’t hate it. And I don’t hate her either. What I am is impressed. Twenty-four hours ago, I wouldn’t have believed it possible, but now it seems like everything about Lulu—The Interloper, I correct myself—is, well, less annoying.
Not only has she come up with some beautiful design ideas, but she has understood workflow and suggested some interesting innovations that could even make us more productive. And all this without creating an over-the-top, hyper-modern environment. She has managed to pay homage to the age and personality of the firm. But what I really love is her use of recycled and repurposed materials, fixtures and fittings, and the inclusion of features to make recycling easier and more efficient. She has, in fact, gone above and beyond anything I could have imagined. Which only serves to make me feel more arseholey and irritated. Fuck.
I bash out a quick email to Harry with my thoughts. Probably not the time to do it. My irritation shows. When I read it over, it seems to be the definition of damning with faint praise. But I’ve already hit send. All this is most unlike me. I’m considered and measured and even-handed. Knee-jerk reactions are not my normal approach. Something about her seems to render me unable to moderate my behaviour. I can only hope Lulu—I mean The Interloper—doesn’t get wind of it.
My mind turns to last night. I completely lost control. I can’t remember the last time I was so unbalanced by a woman. Oh, no, wait. I can. Never. That’s when. I am clueless as to why this woman, in particular, gets so far under my skin. At the office, she drives me crazy in a bad way, but last night, she drove me crazy in such a good way. It was worth every moment of irritation to feel that overwhelming desire and to have it returned just as passionately. I choose not to think about the moment before I realised the enormity of what I had done. The moment when we felt connected on a whole other level. It makes no sense. And it scares the crap out of me. So, I’m not going there.
But none of this changes anything. Obviously, it can’t happen again. Unfortunately. Because—apart from sexually—we are not at all suited. Her talent and professionalism notwithstanding, she is in no way the sort of woman I should have a relationship with. She’s monumentally inappropriate as a partner for me. Regardless of whether I decide to stand for parliament. Or stick with the law. Or whatever it is I decide to do.
I shudder at the direction my thoughts are taking but push those nagging doubts to the back of my mind. In all honesty, I’m not interested in a relationship. But if I was, I know I would need someone sensible, measured and well connected. Someone from the same background as me. Not to mention we would tear each other to shreds. Nor do we have anything in common. Apart from the aforementioned incredible chemistry.
Surely there is someone out there who falls somewhere in between? Perhaps I just haven’t met the right people.
Of course, none of this excuses the way I spoke to her afterwards. It was unforgivable. I’ll be lucky if she doesn’t report me to Harry for sexual harassment. Or worse.
Head pounding, I give up on getting any work done and text Claire. Her life might be a mess, but she’s great at seeing things clearly when it comes to other people. And there’s nobody else I can talk to about this stuff.
“Fuck, I’m glad you cut The Ice Princess loose.” Claire flops into the chair opposite me at the yacht club. We agreed to meet here for lunch since I have a race this afternoon.
