More Than Hate You (More Than Words)

“I’ve got that handled.” But her expression says she hasn’t considered that possibility before now.

“How long do I have to complete the analysis?”

“A week.”

I blow out a breath. Surely, Sloan knows that dissecting an entire corporation, down to every last expenditure, employee, and income stream, will take more than five days. “If I can’t?”

“Then Jeremy will be fired. And his reputation will be toast—Mr. Rawson’s words, not mine. So if you don’t want your pal’s professional demise hanging over your head…”

I need to save this sinking ship—and Sloan with it. Otherwise, she’s going down, too, and taking responsibility for this Titanic as if she were its captain.

Since I’m afraid to analyze why my urge is so strong, I focus on the next most important question: how the fuck am I going to accomplish that?

Time slides by quickly. The rest of Monday is a blur that doesn’t end until the lights automatically shut off in the rented office suite at ten p.m. Tuesday is a repeat of the previous day, minus any personal conversation. Knowing I have until Friday to save Jeremy’s professional reputation and Sloan from devastation, I work like a maniac. She’s right beside me, giving me a lot more help and a lot less snark. When I have questions, she finds answers. When I’m missing information, she retrieves it. When I need new formulas embedded in the spreadsheet, she writes them.

Thank fuck she also brought a coffeemaker to the suite. And good coffee with it. She has tasty lunches catered in, blessedly with only an occasional mocking nickname for me when she orders.

Honestly, I’m loving this work—in-depth problem-solving that requires creative, out-of-the-box solutions. But by Tuesday night, I have two glaring problems.

First, Sloan is a distraction. She doesn’t have to wear a short skirt or flash cleavage for me to notice her. Sitting beside her is enough to turn my head. When I’m close, I smell strawberries…and I remember the scent in her hair as I kissed her. Leaning in to look at something she’s typed, I brush her arm…and I remember the softness of her skin against mine when I undressed her. The longer I’m with her, the more I’m haunted by that night—her lips brushing mine, her legs spread and welcoming, her head thrown back in pleasure as the taste of her coated my tongue. My craving to touch her again grows every minute. I picture Sloan on her knees with her lips wrapped around my aching cock or her pussy taking every inch of me as I give us both the hard ride we need until she screams out in ecstasy. And I sweat.

Sleep is difficult. Concentration is impossible. My frustration climbs.

Second, since Reservoir has failed on several clients’ maintenance schedules lately due to supposed budget shortfalls, their equipment is experiencing more outages than normal. That’s translated to more customers than projected exiting their contracts and deactivating their service. So not only has Shane been stealing the profits for his own pleasure, Reservoir is collecting fewer dollars than Perez and his bean counters planned on.

The ship is sinking even faster than I suspected.

“You’ve looked at that same column and checked the formula three times. I checked it, too. It’s right. What’s wrong?” Sloan asks.

It’s nearly eight o’clock. Neither of us has had dinner. She looks tired and anxious. I hate to tell her that, even with the most stringent cost-cutting methods, even if Bruce Rawson fired his son tomorrow, it’s probably too late. But I think on some level she knows. In fact, I suspect she knew before she even called me, and she hoped I could find a miracle.

Unfortunately, I’m no one’s fairy godmother.

But tomorrow is soon enough for her to hear my assessment. She’s too stressed for me to heap more on her now, and waiting to deliver the death knell won’t change the outcome.

Instead, I shake my head. “I couldn’t remember if I’d checked. I’ve been looking at this so long I think I’m cross-eyed.”

She glances at her computer screen, then out the window. Only the last glimmer of dusk remains. “It’s later than I thought. Maybe I should order us dinner in.”

So she can grill me while we eat? “I need sleep.”

Sloan looks frustrated that I want to call it quits for the evening, but in the next breath, she yawns. “I guess I do, too. If I drink any more coffee, even the good stuff, my stomach will corrode.”

I hear that. “We’ll pick this back up tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” She closes her computer, shoves it in her bag, and stands. “Eight a.m.?”

“Sure. Unless…I’d love to take you to dinner, if you promise not to talk business.” It’s a long shot, but why not try?

Sloan snorts as she picks up her purse and computer. “So you can pretend to flirt with me, work whatever angle I know you’re sharpening in that crafty brain, and try your best to play me again? No, thanks.”

Before I get a word in, she pushes her way out the door and disappears down the hall.

“Fuck.” I’m annoyed that she left, but it’s probably better. I have precious little time to decide what to do.

Thankfully, the corporate apartment Reservoir keeps is a mere two blocks away, and I have to pass one of the best Indian restaurants on my way there. I’ll grab dinner to go.

And while I wait, I’ll return Evan’s four voice mails asking for updates. That is, once I’ve decided what to say.