I watch as she slides into the car, putting her purse in the seat back pocket and buckling in. She takes out her phone to look at the calendar, the same as she does every morning.
But she’s in pants.
“Ten a.m., meeting with the Sandhill investors,” she begins, reading off the next few items on the calendar.
“I need a cleaning crew at my house,” I interrupt. She pauses but doesn’t look at me as she pulls up her notes app and jots down my request. Then she continues with the schedule for the day.
Besides the pants, Ms. Kristoff behaves perfectly normal the entire morning. She is attentive, focused, and doesn’t leave room for error. She makes calls as we drive, scheduling the cleaners, and then arranging to have a new punching bag delivered. At lunch, we have abrief reprieve from meetings when we settle down at one of my favorite restaurants.
“I’ll have the pork chop,” I say to the waiter, “and she’ll have the?—”
“Club sandwich, please,” Ms. Kristoff interrupts. She hands the waiter her menu, not once looking at me.
My mouth snaps shut. I return my menu, too, and the waiter leaves us.
Ms. Kristoff says nothing, and so neither do I. It’s not as if we ever made idle conversation before, but now the silence feels cavernous. I don’t know what I would expect her to say, but she stares straight ahead, drinking her water, occasionally glancing at her phone as she receives text messages.
“Four o’clock rescheduled,” she says.
“All right.”
She devours her club sandwich, and I watch her through my sunglasses. She will not tolerate what I did last night. She is firmly putting her foot down, and I am both intrigued and annoyed. I don’t think I’ll be taking her against the desk today.
The rest of the afternoon is much the same. Ms. Kristoff is impeccably professional, andthere’s not a fault to find. Any idle time she spends dutifully ignoring me and working.
When we stop for an afternoon coffee, George glances at me in the rearview mirror, one eyebrow arched.
“Pardon me for overstepping,” he says, “but Ms. Kristoff appears… upset. Should I arrange for some flowers, perhaps?”
I snarl through my tusks. “You are overstepping.”
But George doesn’t appear shaken. He has been my driver for a long time.
I think for a moment about those goddamnedpants, and how she ordered her own lunch. How not even a bit of her personality shone through today, as if she had erected a bulletproof wall between us.
“Flowers may not be a bad idea,” I allow. I need her back, my Ms. Kristoff from before. The one who took my cock so eagerly and then rested her weight on me after I’d made her scream. I should have held her then, shown her what she’s come to mean to me. Then she would never doubt that she’s mine.
That’s when the truth settles on me, the full knowing of it. I truly have claimed her. Myinstincts are clamoring for her, to have her by my side, and I need her with me again.
“She will be attending the gala with you tomorrow night, correct?” George asks.
Normally, Ms. Kristoff comes as my assistant, keeping to the sidelines. She does not partake or enjoy, there only to take notes and make follow-up appointments.
“You could give them to her then,” he suggests.
Damn it, it’s a good idea. I grind my teeth because this will require one thing, one thing that I have so far in my life refused to give out to anyone.
An apology. And that may not be enough to get into her good graces again. No, if I am to have Ms. Kristoff back, I will need to put myself out on the table. Show her that things have changed for me, that simply being Mr. Roth isn’t enough.
When we bring Ms. Kristoff back to her apartment that night, I stop her from getting out with a gentle hand on her arm. Her eyes dart up to mine, suspicious.
“Tomorrow night. I am… sending you a gift. Do not bring your notebook.”
Her lips twist. “But how else will I take notes?”
“You will not be taking notes.” With that, I release her, and she departs the car with a perplexed look on her face.
ROSETTE
