And then Logan and Thane would have to bail me out, which isn’t exactly ideal PR, days before Titan’s biggest launch in five years.
My feet slap the concrete harder, until my heartbeat threatens to thunder from beneath my ribs.
Only then do I return to my penthouse apartment.
Sweat-soaked head to toe, I march into the apartment, the sound of the heavy front door echoing across the room’s floor-to-ceiling windows, the stainless steel fixtures, the marble countertops.
I inhale the scent of eucalyptus and jasmine—the scent of the place where I sleep, eat, think. A place that’s never really felt like home no matter how many interior decorators walk inside these walls.
But at least the place is blessedly quiet.
Or it seems to be until the second I cross the threshold into my kitchen.
I brace as soon as I see the legs dangling against the island countertop.
“Fuck.” I blink, eyes narrowing. “Margaret?”
My sixty year old secretary barely flinches as she twists around, producing a brown bag.
“You missed your seven a.m. breakfast burrito window. I was about to declare you dead.”
Looking criminally unbothered in a crisp blouse and oversized sunglasses like some unholy cross between Diane Keaton and MI6, I glance at the bag of Russ & Daughters sitting on the counter beside her, along with my backup phone.
“I didn’t buzz you in,” I mutter.
She lifts her brow. “You gave me a key. For emergencies. And judging by the haunted corpse routine you’ve got going on, thisqualifies.”
Jaw ticking, I head for the fridge, reaching for a bottle of water inside. “Well, now that you can verify my living status, you can proceed with your day, Marge. As you can see, I’m fine.”
“Of course you are. Nothing screams ‘fine’ like a soaked shirt, hollow cheekbones, and rage jogging through Midtown.”
I take a swig from the bottle, but don’t answer.
“Long night?” she asks, too casually.
“Margaret.”
She hums. “That’s not a denial.”
I keep my back to her.
Because if I face her, she’ll read everything on my face, and my longtime secretary is known for her supernatural ability not to miss a damn thing.
Especially when it comes to me.
“I’m not here to judge,” she adds after a pause. “Just here to tell you that if you are sleeping with EmmaSinclair, you might consider doing a better job keeping it away from the press.”
Slowly, I turn. “Excuse me?”
She crosses her legs and takes a bite of bagel. “Oh, don’t look so shocked, Donovan. I’ve known you for fifteen years. You get twitchy around women who matter. And she matters.”
My jaw clenches. “You’re reading too much into things.”
“I’m reading exactly what’s on the page. You returned to your own pre-launch celebration looking like your soul had been drop-kicked into traffic. And Emma rushed out looking like someone had stolen her heartbeat.”
I say nothing. Because there’s nothing to say.
“And,” she adds, “you’ve spent the last month orbiting her like she’s your own personal sun. So either you’re completely oblivious, or you’re trying to hide something that’s already written all over yourface.”
