Bedwrecker(38)

“It wasn’t you. I was in a really bad place.”

“I get it, Keen, I do, but I don’t want to talk about it. Can we just keep things professional?”

The muscle in his jaw flexes and I can tell I’ve put a kink in his armor. “Yes, we can. You have nothing to worry about. When I’m at work, I will keep focused on my work.”

Reaching into my purse for my own sunglasses, I respond with, “Then we should get along just fine, because so will I.”

The GPS directs us to remain on this road for the next fifty miles. With that, he glances over at me. “Fantastic. Now that that is settled, how about we discuss the company?”

Stuck on his apology, the sincerity of it, the way he looked at me, my mind is spinning while he asks me a million questions about Simon Warren, and as I answer each one, I recite to myself that I absolutely should not even consider accepting his apology. I shouldn’t.

I.

Should.

Not.

Yes, I can tell myself that over and over, but really women don’t always say what they mean, or mean what they say.

Now do they?

It’s a universal fact.

Sure, in theory I should be happy that he has agreed to let it go.

No, I should be ecstatic.

The heartbreak is already past. And now the worry over a repeat is gone. Leaving things pretty straightforward.

Just a boy.

And a girl.

And a whole lot of work to be done.

Life couldn’t be any simpler right now with it all spelled out.

I should be singing from the rooftop.

Still, I am anything but happy because no matter how much I want to hate him, how many times I say I never want him in my bed again—it’s simply not true.

Don’t look at me like that. It’s happened to you. I know it has. And like you, I will not be a doormat. Which is why admitting what my real feelings are, even just between you and me, is not easy.

But the truth is—I want him more than ever.

And I can’t . . . no, I won’t . . . let him see that.

Not if I can help it.

In fact, I’ll go out of my way to make sure he doesn’t see it.





Keen

Like one of those accidents that is not really an accident, Maggie brings me my coffee, black, and then accidently spills it all in my lap.

Right down the front of my pants while I’m sitting in a chair, a leather chair, which doesn’t absorb the liquid.

Okay, maybe I provoked her, but fuck, a man has his limits.

What happened between us wasn’t about her. It was about me, and me losing my life, everything that I thought was important to me.

Yet I know I was wrong. I should have reached out to her, even if was just to let her know I wouldn’t be around. And I have tried to explain . . . but she shut me down. I want to let her know that my entire life went down the drain the day I lost my job, and that I had nothing to give anyone, not even myself. Which is why I went into self-preservation mode.

I can’t change that. I wouldn’t even if I could. I needed that time alone to realize maybe Wall Street isn’t the right place for me. And that maybe, just maybe, I don’t want to be alone anymore.

However, I’m not selfish. I get that she was hurt and doesn’t want me to see it. I get that she has a wall ten thousand miles high up.

That’s why for her, I tried to go along with the ruse that we aren’t eventually going to end up together.

I tried to back down.

Be nice.

Be understanding, which is so not in my nature.

None of that worked.

Somehow being a better man only made things worse. Her condescending tone, coupled with the fact that she was blatantly ignoring me, and we hadn’t even been here an hour, had pushed me to my limit.

I’d had enough already!

What else could I possibly do?

What did she want—blood?

The gloves had to come off.

I had to exert my authority. I am the boss, after all.

And you see where that got me.

“Fuck,” I hiss, jumping up and doing a little dance that is anything but impressive in front of my prospective employee.

Her hand flies to her mouth. “Oh, I’m so sorry, sir.”

Sir.

Like she’d ever call me sir.

Not that I wouldn’t enjoy it, just not in this setting, and not with my clothes on, or hers.

“It was an accident,” she tacks on.

Accident.

Accident my ass.

She is purposely trying to ruffle my feathers because I had to remind her that I was the one making the decisions.

But really, it’s not like I was going to ask her to bring me my latté on a daily basis—I don’t even fucking drink lattés—or run out and get me my lunch, cooked to order every afternoon.

But I admit, I might have gone overboard.

You see, by the time Jordan Cartwright, the head designer for Simon Warren, introduced himself and addressed Maggie as “dear,” I had already had my fill of her attitude. So when he asked if I wanted any coffee, and he was the only one in the workroom besides Maggie and me, I couldn’t resist saying, “Yes, I’d love a cup. Maggie, why don’t you be a dear and get us both one.”