“Max. Enough!”
Oh. Hell. No.
That tone might fly in a club with loud music. Maybe even behind closed doors in his bed. But not here. Not now. Not while I’m sitting in his office trying to help him keep his operation from unraveling.
“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?” I say, voice sharp. “I came here to help you. Don’t talk to me like I’m just another employee getting on your nerves. I don’t do disrespect, Eli. And I definitely don’t do temper tantrums.”
I snap my laptop shut and stand, headed for the door. And maybe a donut.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he snaps. “We still have thirty minutes left in this meeting.”
“Let me know when you’re feeling better and ready to talk to me like you’ve got some sense. Until then, kiss my very natural Black ass.”
And in seconds, I’m walking out before I say something I can’t take back.
I Want My Thirty Minutes
Eli
I’m pacing. Again.
This office is too damn small for the amount of anger sitting in my chest, and every lap from desk to door and back just feeds it. It builds. Simmering.
She got up and walked out on me. Mid-sentence.
Like I was some intern fumbling through his first meeting instead of the man running this entire operation. Like I didn’t matter. Like what I was dealing with didn’t matter.
I’m not usually an asshole. Most people find me pretty easy to work with. Approachable. But when I’m frustrated or when things go off the rails, I get…short.
And this—this right here—is why I don’t blur the line between business and personal. I like control. I like knowing that when the day is done, I can go home and burn the tension out of my body the way I always have—through sweat, through motion, through something that answers heat with heat instead of questions.
Especially now after the call I just got. Vanessa’s pregnant. With Elliot’s baby. And my mother delivered the news like it was something for me to celebrate. Like I was supposed to smile, call them up, and play the proud uncle. All it did was made me remember what Vanessa did and everything that’s at stake.
What the hell did my mother expect from me? For me to buy them a gift from the damn baby registry?
Fuck that baby.
It probably isn’t even Elliot’s.
I’m frustrated. I’m restless and the one person I want to reach for—the one person I know could draw this edge out of me—is the very woman who just walked out of my office. She’s laughing with my staff like she’s known them for years, and it pisses me off.
Because it’s not for me.
Not with me.
Yes, I’m quiet. Reserved. I’m not the guy who cracks jokes or lights up a room on command. But if anyone is going to pull that kind of light out of her—if anyone gets that easy laugh—it should be me. At least while she’s here.
Instead, she’s handing it out like fucking candy. All girly and shit. She told me she was going to be an asshole tome. But she can charmthem?
I know my logic is completely fucked right now. I know I probably sound like a mad man. But tell that to my fist because it’s hovering a breath away from punching a hole straight through the wall.
I hear Dan’s voice.
Then hers again. Brighter this time.
Is she fucking flirting?
“I’m losing my goddamn mind, and she’s out there hosting the Maxine Palmer Variety Hour,” I say to no one.
