But I think I nailed it.
“Please tell me you’re not getting dreamy-eyed about him again,” she accuses.
I cringe. It’s even worse that the asshole is listening. “No, definitely not.” I grit my teeth and force out the next part. “But I do need to make amends. There’s a history between our families that runs deeper than I knew?—”
“Your actions weren’t unjustified.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Her eyes widen. “Cavallo’s increased ruthlessness in the industry being tied to CrossPoint no longer matters?”
Nausea eats away at my stomach. “Like I said, it’s complicated. It’s a family matter. And a management issue. You wouldn’t understand.”
It’s a low blow. One that sends her brows skyward.
Despite having been her superior since she was employed years ago, I’ve never had to pull the management card. Not once. Notever.
I’ve always considered her my equal. If anything, the brilliance of her mind outshines mine in every aspect. Treating her like this is nauseating, but for her safety, I have to double down. “As a friend, I adore you for caring so much… but as your boss, I’m going to need you to drop it.”
She flinches. Her mouth opens, then closes.
I feel fucking horrible, because I know damn well her mental superpowers come with kryptonite—rejection sensitivity.
“Again, I’m really sorry for worrying you.” I raise the bags. “And I appreciate you getting my things. But I need you to let me navigate this on my own. Okay? I have it under control.”
She nods. Once. Twice. Then keeps going like it’s the only thing tethering her to rationality.
Itkillsme.
“I guess I’ll get going then.” Her gaze drifts to the upper deck. “Will you be in the office tomorrow?”
I backtrack, trying to place distance between me and the awful feeling churning my insides. “I’m not sure.”
She maintains the nodding. “Right… Well… good night then…”
I wince.
There’s so much more I want to say. To confess. But I can’t.
Shewillgo missing.
“Good night, Quinn.”
“Night.” She forces a dim smile, then turns her attention over my shoulder and calls out, “Mitch.”
The two men reappear almost instantly, stepping out from behind the panel like they’d been posted just out of view.
“Despite the generous welcome party,” Quinn announces, “I’m ready to leave.”
Mitch gives a polite incline of his head and boards the tender, while his counterpart unhooks the thick ropes from the yacht’s metal anchors and tosses them across. Mitch catches each one and stows them out of sight.
“You got everything?” He settles into position at the controls.
“Yeah.” Quinn’s gaze darts one last time in my direction.
“Alright then.” He starts the engine, the grumbling gurgle eating up the quiet.
In seconds, the tender is pulling away, slicing into the dark water, taking Quinn back to what I hope is safety.
