‘It’s business.’ Did I just snap?
‘Nah, this is different. You’ve got your knickers all sticky over something.’
‘It’ll be money,’ Griffin offers, helping himself to another chip. ‘Some deal he’s brewing, which means there’s some poor fucker somewhere waiting for him to pounce.’
I’d like to pounce. And when the time is right, I will.
And the best part? Olivia won’t go down without a fight.
Chapter 12
OLIVIA
Everyone has their price. Bah!
There is nothing on this earth that would persuade me to contact that man.
I don’t care about the depths of delicious depravity.
Or what the press of his lips silently promised.
Or how his behaviour, coupled with the bulge beneath his belt, hailed a penis trifecta of stamina, length, and girth.
Even if—no, especially because I can’t get any of the finance fuckers in town to take my calls. Whether because of his influence in the industry or some other Machiavellian scheme of his, I don’t know. But what I do know is I will not bow down to that rich, beautiful autocratic devil in a three-piece suit.
I am not for sale.
‘Is your laptop insured?’
‘Sorry?’
Pushing the unwelcome thought away, I glance up from the email I’m crafting at the sound of Jorge’s voice, only for my gaze to slick down again when something on the screen catches my attention. Seems my email has been infiltrated by my angry thoughts; my speculative email turned to a hate-filled rant. I hit delete and look up once more. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’
‘I asked if your laptop is insured because the way you’re hammering those keys, it’s not going to last very long.’
‘I suppose I am a little crabby this morning.’
‘Crabby isn’t the half of it,’ Jorge mutters, turning back to his own workstation with a cup of coffee in one hand and a chocolate biscuit in the other. Crumbs trail down the front of his shirt, suggesting he’d stuffed one in his mouth while waiting for the kettle to boil.
‘Where’s my coffee? You know the rules. Whoever goes to the kitchen—’
‘Or the corner shop,’ Miranda, our twenty-one-year-old marketing expert pipes up, pulling a biro pen from her messy blond topknot. Wearing Sass & Bide jeans and a sleeveless shirt with a Peter Pan collar, she’s effortlessly stylish as always. She makes me feel ancient, despite there being only a few years between us.
‘I asked,’ he says in his sad Eeyore tone. Actually, Eeyore has a little more personality than Jorge. For someone who’s resume promisedcreativityandflairin the field of development, Jorge is very staid in both personality and appearance. The most exotic thing about him is his name, and I’m not sure where that comes from because he’s anything but Mediterranean looking. Today’s ensemble is much like any other day except for his daring choice of double denim; a long-sleeved shirt buttoned to the neck and skinny jeans that have gone a little baggy at the knee. Over these, he wears a brown knitted cardigan with square pockets and large buttons that look like old-fashioned leather soccer balls.
‘I asked,’ he repeats as Miranda scoffs. ‘No one answered.’
‘That’s because when you can’t be arsed to make anyone else a cuppa, you more or less whisper,’ retorts Heather, Miranda’s younger cousin who’s interning with us this summer—for free, supposedly. She has little love for Jorge, and even less like for him, and can often be found rolling her eyes and complaining that his unironic grandpa chic gives her migraines.
‘Well, you didn’t ask if I wanted anything from Subway when you went yesterday.’
‘Because you gave Miranda the stinkeye last time we had Subway for lunch.’
‘Because she said something uncooth,’ Jorge replies quite primly.
‘Me?’ Mir pipes up. ‘I only said I couldn’t remember the last time I has six inches so close to my mouth.’
‘And,’ Heather adds, warming to her theme, ‘you didn’t get me what I asked for when you went to the Co-Op on Tuesday.’
