“Er,” she says, biting her lip and looking away in anobvious attempt to look sheepish, like she’s giving up some gossip. “He’s with someone. A…personal meeting. In his office.” She tacks on the last few words with innuendo, and an avalanche of anger hits me squarely in the chest, threatening to knock me off my heels. He’s havingsexin his office after heaskedme to come here? Is he trying to send me a message? Because it’s been well and truly fucking received.
As if on cue, Scabby (as she will be referred to from this moment onwards) points a clawed finger over my shoulder toward the corridor that connects the lifts, lobby and offices together. I turn to find a statuesque, brunette beauty, who couldn’t be a day over eighteen, sauntering down the corridor in a pair of cut-off jean shorts and a top that hugs her curves tighter than a wetsuit.
What the fuck is with men my age dating girls fresh out of high school? I’ve been out of the dating game for a while, not that I was really ever in it, but is this what it’s come to? When I’m ready to dip my toe back into the dating pool, will my suitors all be middle-aged men? Will my future partner be putting the blind back into date?
Jesus.
“That’s Mr Romero’s lunch,” Scabby says from behind me, and I whip back around to face her. “Date. Lunchdate,I meant to say, of course.” The grin she’s wearing is positively shit-eating.
“Of course,” I smile back, showing all of my teeth. “Looks like he’s all done so I’ll be heading back there now.”
Before she can object with some further power-play, in a game I wasn’t even aware we were playing, I head straight past the teeny-bopper that’s now waiting for a lift to arrive and down the corridor to the very end, where I don’t even knock before throwing open the last door.
Unfortunately the door is heavy as fuck, so it doesn’tquite give off the intended effect I was going for, but I manage to surprise Zayn none the less.
“Gianna,” he says, lifting his brows as he leans back in his seat. He looks impeccable as usual with his standard three-piece suit. No signs that he was just screwing someone on his conveniently bare desk, but that doesn’t surprise me because he always looks so bloody composed. I never felt the anger stage of grief when Zayn left, which was definitely due to the circumstances around why he left. I was miserable, depressed, worried sick about him, but never angry. Well, I’m fucking angry now.
“I was about to phone you, Mr Romero, but Mrs Sanders came down before I had a chance.”
I scoff internally at the breathy undertones in Scabby’s voice now that she’s talking to Zayn and not me, although it could have something to do with the fact that she seemingly ran down the corridor after me.
The teenager’s perfume still lingers in the air, singeing my nostrils as Zayn’s gaze coasts down my body, his eyes growing narrower the further down he goes.
“That will be all, Abby,” Zayn dismisses Scabby without even glancing in her direction. She retreats behind me, closing the door as I step forward and dump my purse and coat on top of Zayn’s desk.
“Going somewhere from here?” he asks a little too casually, judging by his hard gaze that’s focused on my hair. Zayn always loved my hair. He would spend countless hours running his fingers through it when we were younger. It’s probably part of the fucked up reason I could never bring myself to get more than a trim. Now I’m thinking I should cut the whole lot off.
“Yes.”Home.“Can we get this done?”
“You look nice,” he drawls, making no move to producethese papers that so urgently needed to be signed. Anger bubbles and fizzes in my gut.
“Please,” I sigh, tucking a forearm under my ribs and pinching the bridge of my nose between my fingers. “I just want to sign the papers and leave.”
When I’m met with silence, I flutter my eyes open to find Zayn watching me. His brows are furrowed. “Are you okay, Gianna?”
No.“Yes.”
“You don’t seem okay.”
“You don’t know me well enough to know if I’m okay or not.”
He gives me a look that suggests he does, and the anger bleeds out inside of me. On the outside, however, an unnatural calm overtakes my body.
“I understand that you’ve come back to Melbourne, and it wasn’t for my benefit,” I start, sitting down on the edge of my seat and crossing my ankles underneath the chair. “Which is fine by me. Really. We don’t need to play any games, Zayn. You don’t need to make this personal. Not for my benefit. You can drop the pleasantries.” I fold my hands in my lap and match his heated glare. “Now that’s out the way and we’re on the same page let’s get these forms signed so we can both continue on with our day.”
Zayn runs a hand across his chin, and when he speaks there’s an edge to his voice.
“Now who’s the one being presumptuous?”
“I’m not being presumptuous. I’m just being realistic.”
“Are you really not going to let me explain why it took me so long to come back to you?”
I don’t miss the ‘to you’ he tacks on at the end, but I ignore it. I don’t want his placating words when he’s just been rubbing my face in his lunch time conquest.
I scoff and glance down at my fingernails. “I’ve heard enough, trust me.” Enough to feel like I’ve been stabbed in the chest a few times over this past week, and Ihatethat after all this time he has this effect over me. Seeing him again, knowing he’s okay, is hopefully enough to give me the closure I need to finish that chapter of my life for good. No unknowns, no what-ifs, no uncertainties left to painstakingly roll over in my mind. Hopefully now I can close the lid on that time in my life.
“Fine,” he says abruptly, removing a manila folder from a drawer under his desk and sliding it toward me. “Just sign these and you can leave.”
