Or maybe he’s testing to see if I still feel something for his body. I should’ve stuck to my first impression, that Rhys is the type of guy you ride on your last day at work. He’s impossible to ignore, but I doubt anything between us is going anywhere productive—certainly not marriage and happiness.
His mouth flattens as he waits for my answer. I struggle to recall what he said, then blurt out, “My place burned down, for one. I needed to find a new apartment and buy some essentials.”
“Took you over three weeks to act on the urgency.”
“Because I didn’t want to leave you high and dry in the middle of the Beissen negotiation! There wasn’t anything I could do about my apartment at that point, except to contact my insurance company. But some things can only be arranged in person. You understand, right?”
His scowl only darkens. Guess that was the wrong answer. But I can’t think clearly when he’s this close.
“And did you accomplish your mission?” His hard voice seems to say if I failed, he might have to punish me.
Oh yes,Bossman.Plunder me like the man you are.
My face burning, I mentally slap my libido for creating an image Ireallydon’t need right now. “No. A new place is hard to come by, especially anything in my budget. The ones in safe neighborhoods want a kidney, and the ones that fit my budgetwere either too far from the office or in the kind of area I wouldn’t want to be in, even with a gun in my hand.” I wish I just had a succinct executive memo to hand him.
Rhys’s eyebrows twitch. “And—”
A sharp ping from his phone interrupts him. Cursing under his breath, he glances at the screen. His dark eyebrows instantly snap together, his eyes blazing. If they could speak, they’d mutter,Fuck,fuck,fuck. He closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them, they’re empty of emotion, but the tension on his handsome face remains.
“Max, we can discuss this later, but for now, head to Hubby & Wifey and bring me the most expensive and time-consuming coffee they have, in the largest size available, plus a dark cherry Danish. You can also treat yourself to something. Put it on my expense account. Now go.” He waves me off.
What isthatabout?
Is this some kind of punishment? If so, it’s a fairly easy, if cumbersome, task.
“Is there…a time limit?” He might want an excuse other than “you ghosted me after sleeping with me” to fire me.
He glances up like I’m insane. “No. Make sure to walk there and back. And walk slowly—we don’t need you sweaty.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Max
A TSA line the day before Thanksgiving might be shorter than the one at Hubby & Wifey, a small mom-and-pop café three blocks from the office. People come here not just for the amazing coffee but for their killer pastries. Even the air seems full of caffeine and sugar. My brain perks up a little at the possibility of more caffeine as I suck in the yummy smell and try to count how many people are ahead of me.
Despite the baristas behind the counter zipping back and forth like bees, it’ll be at least half an hour before I can get the coffee and Danish for Rhys. Not sure why he was so specific. He likes H&W coffee, but usually doesn’t bother in the morning because of the wait time. Not to mention that RF Investment’s breakroom has an amazing selection of different coffees and snacks. Rhys and Finn don’t skimp on stimulants for the employees.
“Good morning, Ms. Loomer.”
I freeze, then lift my head for a quick look at the man who just spoke.He was probably talking to somebody else—
Except he’s staring at me, hazel eyes bright and golden hair slicked back, his smile pleasantly confident with just a hint of arrogance. Probably in his late twenties, he has even features and a trim body. The thousand-dollar navy suit says a lawyer or an accountant. Or maybe a stalker with nothing better to do,because he’s holding a cup bearing the H&W logo, so he’s been here for a while.
“Well, well, so itisyou. Can’t believe my luck. You’re a difficult woman to track down.”
There’s a zealous gleam in his eyes, and the way he’s staring makes me feel like some kind of prey.
“Today’s your lucky day,” he adds pompously, his eyes searching my face for a reaction.
My ass. If it were, I wouldn’t be referred to asMs.Loomer. “Who are you and what do you want?” My tone is frosty.
“My name is Don Wellington.” He sticks out a hand, which I ignore. Undeterred, he continues, “An attorney from Highsmith, Dickson and Associates.”
“High-strung Dicks,” I mutter. My wariness goes up another three notches. Highsmith, Dickson is one of the largest and most prestigious law firms in the country.
“What?”
“Nothing. Your mother must be proud,” I say blandly.What does this five-hundred-dollar-an-hour asshole want?
