The formal address feels like a slap in the face. I want to tell her it’s not an act anymore. That every moment with her is real, terrifyingly real. That I’ve been pushing her away because I’m terrified of how much she has gotten under my skin.
Instead, I say, “You knew what you signed up for.”
Her eyes finally meet mine. The hurt in them nearly breaks my resolve.
“Yes. I did.” She stands, gathering her things. “I’ll be ready.”
She walks past me without another word, leaving me standing alone in her workspace like an idiot.
***
The flight to London is torture.
We’re in first class, separated from other passengers by privacy screens and expensive curtains. Bailey sits by the window, earbuds in, pointedly ignoring me while I try to work on my laptop.
Her sleeve brushes against my arm when she shifts her position. The contact is brief, probably accidental, but it sends electricity shooting through me. I catch her citrus and floral scent and have to grip my armrest to keep from reaching for her.
“You’re staring,” Bailey suddenly says without removing her earbuds or opening her eyes.
“I’m not.”
“You are.” She finally looks at me. “Is there something you need, Mr. Williams?”
The formality is killing me. “Stop calling me that.”
“It’s your name.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Do I?” She pulls out her earbuds. “Because you’ve been treating me like an employee for two days. I’m just following your lead.”
“Bailey—”
“Save it. We have a job to do in London. Let’s focus on that.”
She turns back to the window, effectively ending the conversation. The rest of the flight passes in tense silence.
London Heathrow is chaos. The moment we step into the terminal, cameras flash. Reporters shout questions about our relationship, about Cassidy’s article, about whether the rumors are true.
I feel Bailey tense beside me. Instinctively, I take her hand and pull her close, using my body to shield her from the worst of it.
“You didn’t have to,” she murmurs as security clears a path.
“Yes, I did.”
Our car is waiting. We slide into the back seat, and I keep her hand in mine longer than necessary. She doesn’t pull away.
The investor presentation is scheduled for 2 PM at their offices in Canary Wharf. Bailey changes into a pretty, yet corporate, burgundy and wine dress. I can’t stop watching her as we enter the building.
The boardroom is full of skeptical British investors who’ve read every word of Cassidy’s hit piece. I can see the doubt in their eyes as they assess me. I begin the presentation regardless, clicking through slides about our projected growth and market expansion. The numbers are solid, and the strategy was devised by the best in the country, but I can still feel their skepticism.
“Mr. Williams,” one of them, an older man named Whitmore with silver hair and sharp eyes, interrupts. “These projections are impressive, but we’re more interested in the creative vision behind your brand.”
“Of course.” I gesture to the next slide. “Our design team—”
“Actually,” Whitmore leans forward, “we’d like to hear from Ms. Rodgers. She created these visuals, didn’t she?”
Bailey stiffens beside me. “I—yes, but—”
