Anything else you’d want?
April:
Yes
If you ever make me throw out an entire draft and start from scratch again, I will go to the press.
Me:
It’s cute when you make threats you won’t follow through on. Do you think I believe you?
If your press release was written in the throes of some vivid fantasy about me throwing you over my desk, I reserve my right to ask for a rewrite. How’s that?
I glance at her again. Even though she’s half-hidden by the lights, I can see her red cheeks. But she’s not looking at me, she’s watching the runway. I can tell by the way her mouth parts and how her head turns just slightly that she damn well knows I’m looking at her.
I’m probably going to hell for all of this.
I sit back, my phone in my hand, watching the finale march begin. I wonder how long it’ll take her to reply to that one.
Chapter 7
April
Everything feels liketoo muchtoday.
The hum of the office printer sounds more like a chainsaw. My keyboard clacks sound like gunfire. My blouse sticks to my back and neck even though the thermostat insists that it’s sixty-eight degrees, and the lingering smell of Anthony’s daily banana protein shake is making me nauseous.
I’ve been sitting at my desk for nearly an hour now, staring at the same sentence I’d written in Anthony’s upcoming shareholder memo. I can’t tell whether it’s brilliant or incoherent. I keep rereading it, hoping it’ll either become clear or shift in my mind into something usable, but it doesn’t.
The door between our offices is open because, ofcourse,it is. It was open when I got here this morning, so I had nowhere to hide again. Shutting it would just clarify that I’m a coward. He’s in there, cool and unreadable. Sitting in front of his computer, focusing all his attention on work. His sleeves are rolled almost to his elbows, and I find myself fixated on his muscular arms and strong hands. I’d like them wrapped around my body instead of thumbing through financials like nothing about our dynamic has shifted.
As if he didn’t ask me to have his child a few days ago.
As if he didn’t text me yesterday at the show, confirming that it would bemine, too.
As if I hadn’t texted him about it anyway.
As if I hadn’t clenched my thighs when he called me a brat or said I was cute.
I try, genuinely try, not to look at him, but it doesn’t work. He hasn’t brought it up. No raised eyebrows, no follow-up information, just silence and work. Perfectly, infuriatingly tailored silence. He’s acting like nothing is happening, like I imagined the whole thing. I hate that it bothers me.
I prop my elbows on my desk and press my fingers into my temples as if I can rub clarity into place. I’ve been sleeping like shit since this all began. My brain won’tshut offfor the life of me. Every time I close my eyes, I see him. His gaze locked on mine as I sat there staring at him, looking so enticing that I’d forgotten how to breathe.
He never confirmed that he would grant my requests. He’d sidestepped it like a pro, asking me what I wanted and giving me nothing in return but dominance and sex appeal like a pro. I can’t stop thinking about that, either. I’m wondering if he took me seriously and actually cares what I need. Could he be arrogant and generous all at once?
Is he even attracted to me?
I bat the thought away before it can stick. It doesn’t matter if he is or isn’t. It’s a deal, not a romance; that’s the whole point.
I pick at the edge of my nail polish and try not to wonder what he’s thinking about it all. The elevator chimes down the hall. I glance up as a figure passes my door in the hallway. Instantly, I regret it.
Karen Bartley sweeps through the corridor like she owns the place. She doesn’t, but to be fair, her family does own significant portions of Voss & Bartley. Today she’s wearing a cool beige color in an expensive, flowery silk. Her blonde bob is perfectlystyled, her lips matte, and her eyes sharp. Strangely, her heels barely make a sound as she passes my door. It’s as if even sound is too pedestrian for her.
She is the one board member I absolutely can’t stand. She’s also the reason I understand Anthony’s worries over the board dissolving his shares and position if he doesn’t keep control of the trust.
She doesn’t look in my office. She never does. I’ve met her three times, and she still pretends I’m part of the furniture.
A moment later, I hear her voice, low and intimate. She’s speaking to someone down the hall. It’s probably one of the financial guys or a shareholder. It’s loud enough for me to hear bits and pieces.
