Page 87 of Saved By the CEO

Mr. Bennett

How are you?

I raise my brows. That’s… weirdly sweet.

I’m still a little bit out of it, but I’m much better. Thank you

His reply comes less than a minute later.

Can I come over?

I sit up.

Why?

I thought I could bring you some lunch, and maybe we could talk about last night

Wow, what afuntime! Let’s absolutely eat an awkward lunch together in my slightly nasty apartment and talk about the traumatic and mortifying experience that I went through yesterday. Let’s definitely do that! It’s not like I’m already doing everything in my power not to think about it.

That’s nice of you. I’m all right though

I’m already on my way

Hope you like Thai

Are! You! Fucking! Kidding! Me!

Theaudacityof this man.

I look around the apartment and see dirty laundry draped over chairs, dishes piled in the sink, and sprinkles of dust pretty much everywhere.

Great!

As I’m trying to tidy up, I realize I’m wearing pajamas. And not the cute, matching kind. I’m wearing a T-shirt with a faded Titanic print and a pair of ratty flannel pants, which I’m like ninety-nine percent sure have a hole in the crotch.

And the literal cherry on top? My hair is tied up in a bun that Annie sometimes calls the Pepper, lovingly named after my look-alike inAmerican Horror Story.It’s not a trendy slicked-back bun or a cute messy bun. No. It’s a tight, embarrassingly small ball on the very top of my head. Draw a smiley on an onion, and there you have me.

My hair is greasy, so I can’t take it out, and I don’t have time to shower. I grab a hoodie from one of the many piles of clothes, pull it over my head, and draw the hood up. It completely disguises my hair. You can barely even see a bump where my pathetic little bun is.

I need to buy a serum or something.

Jesus Christ.

There’s a knock on the door. I groan.

He gave me what, five minutes?

I open the door, and there he is. Crisp white shirt, black slacks, expensive coat slung over his arm. His hair is in its usual perfect swoop, and his face is freshly shaved. He’s holding a brown paper bag that gives off a warm, spicy smell that immediately makes my stomach speak up.

I want to complain about the unfairness of it all. He’s standing in my doorway, looking absolutely perfect, while I look like I haven’t left my room for two weeks.

But the fact is, he doesn’t look perfect.

The things he can control are immaculate, as always. But the things he can’t control are giving him away. The wrinkle between his brows is deeper than usual. His skin is sallow, almost sunken, and his green eyes, usually so sharp and irritatingly vibrant, look dull. The purple shadows beneath them are dark enough to pass for bruises.

“Hi,” he says, holding up the bag. “I brought lunch.”

“It looks like shit in here.”