He covered the short distance between us and pulled me to him, my hips melding to his. His arm curved around my waist, keeping me in place. “Weare not a mistake, sweetheart.”
As if to prove his point, he bent his head and put his lips to mine in a deliriously sensual kiss, his touch sending sparks down my body. When he stopped and rested his forehead on mine, I drew a deep breath and stepped back, reality swooping in instantly.
The jerk.
This time, I really did slap my purse against his chest. A fly could have swatted him for the difference it made.
He chuckled and took hold of my hand, giving me a squeeze. “I’m going to say it isn’t my kiss you’re mad about.”
Of course he would.
“Your confidence hasn’t taken a beating, I see,” I said wryly, stepping back, even as his fingers massaged my palm.
He gave me a long, lingering gaze. A speculative, quietone this time. One that harked back at a distant memory. The grip on my hand got stronger, as though he was afraid I might pull away.
“It did,” he breathed out. “Ten years ago, when I left you.”
He turned away, but not before I caught the look of regret on his face. Ten years ago, he’d made a decision. A decision that had affected both of us. One that had obviously troubled the two of us.
Why were we going through it all over again?
There were no words to describe how lonely and isolated you could feel in the company of a loved one. We stood side by side, unable to express our affection for each other, unable to be honest with one another, just because of the differences in the power in our jobs. He was always going to have this internal tug-of-war. Trying to choose what was best for the business or what was best for me.
I decided to make the choice easy for him. I didn’t want to see the man I once loved struggle all over again.
I stood up straight and looked ahead at the elevator doors. “I’ve decided,” I said. I turned to him, and my voice was even. “Our kiss was a mistake.”
The elevator doors opened, and I blinked away the tiny pinpricks of tears as I got out on the second floor and made for the break room.
32
DESMOND
Five days had passed since I’d heard anything decent from Ava. She hardly responded to my messages, and our paths never crossed even though I made every excuse under the sun to visit the café.
On the fifth day of not speaking with Ava, I walked into work, feeling an odd sense of foreboding. Today was the day my team would tell me the results of their evaluation of The Galley’s financial prospects versus a new Luxe Hotel. The day I was supposed to break the news to Ava. How Bianca had gotten wind of this information was beyond me.
Bianca Rutherford had sent me her article for approval. She had been true to her word and not published anything incendiary about me or Ava in the article even if her words during that meeting had triggered our fight.
The memory of that angered me. Why had Bianca been so out to get me for the past year?
I made a call that afternoon to Bianca. I told her that if her current animosity toward me was due to a past failed interview with me, she was sorely mistaken. I hadn’t known abouther current relationship with one of my employees when I turned her down after that interview. She heard me out and was quiet in contemplative silence for a few moments after.
“I know this won’t be the end of your critical reporting on me,” I said finally, punctuating the silence with my words, and she hummed in agreement.
“But perhaps I can find a middle ground,” she offered up.
“You mean, fewer mentions of me as a snarky bastard?” I asked in a dry voice.
“I think that sounds fair,” she said in a calmer voice.
And that was that. She also gave me a clue about who had leaked information to her about my plans for The Galley. I didn’t know how to deal with that person just yet.
I was stepping out of my office, and my eyes fell upon Thomas coming up to me.
“Ah, Thomas, what news do you have for me?” I asked, seeing him look serious.
I’d asked him to run the numbers on Ava’s mom’s restaurant and to give me an update.
