The Pact (Winslow Brothers 2)

He’s…amazing.

But telling him that I put my job at risk—the job he gave me, mind you—because I didn’t keep track of my visa’s expiration date? No. That’s professional negligence that would be impossible for most bosses to understand, no matter how damn awesome they might be.

“Daisy.” He says my name again, but this time, it’s in a way that makes me realize just how much time has passed since he asked the question.

“Yeah?”

“Doll, I wasn’t born yesterday.” A laugh jumps from his perfectly hydrated lips. “I know when there’s some kind of emotional drama brewing better than anyone. So, honey bunny, it’s high time for you to spill the tea on what’s got you acting so weird.”

“What?” I feign confusion. “I’m not acting weird. No way. Nothing weird is happening, and I’m not acting weird.” When I realize just how weird my rambling response was, I add, “Maybe I’m just a little tired?”

“You’re jumpy and fidgety, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were sitting here watching porn on your company-issued computer.”

I choke on my tongue. “Uh, no. I wasn’t watching porn.”

“Taking sexy foot pics for your OnlyFans account, then?”

“Damien!” I exclaim on a laugh. “Oh my God, you’re deranged. I don’t have an OnlyFans account.”

“Personally, I am pro-porn and pro-Only Fans. I mean, have you seen the money some of the people are raking in?”

“No, I have not.”

“It’s a lot, doll. A lot. Anyway…back to your weirdness…” He smirks down at me, but he also quirks a knowing brow. An expression that says, “I know you’re not telling me something, and I’m not leaving your office until you do.”

Boiling hot water in a bubble bath, the pressure is scalding. What do I tell him?

I search and scramble to find something that makes sense. Something that’s simple enough not to trip me up any time it comes up again, and heaven forbid, something that’s not even worse than the actual problem I’ve acquired. I wouldn’t put it past myself to accidentally blurt that I went on a homicide spree, given the number of true crime shows I frequently put myself to sleep with.

But Damien is calmly persistent. His gaze is still locked on my face, searching, seeking, trying to decode what sits inside my brain, but doing it in a way that doesn’t feel like he’s suspicious or interrogating me at all. Which only makes me insanely nervous all over again and certain that if the FBI and CIA and local police departments would only hire gay men to get suspects to confess, unsolved crimes would no longer be a thing.

One drop of sweat drips down the center of my back, and my hands start to feel clammy and my heart just keeps pounding, and the pressure is building and building…

“I got married in Vegas.” The words shoot out of my mouth before I can stop them. And trust me, I tried to stop them, but my hand slapped against my own lips after “Vegas” flitted off my tongue.

“What?” Damien’s eyes turn as wide as my ever-growing path of lies, and he blinks several times. “I’m sorry, but did you just say you got married?”

Oh boy. I cringe. Nod. Shrug. Nervously giggle.

“In Vegas?”

When I don’t answer, mostly because the truth is undoubtedly written all over my guilty face, he scrunches up his nose like he just ate a piece of sweet-and-sour candy. “Let me get this straight… Daisy Diaz got married while she was in Vegas for an EllisGrey work trip?”

“I…uh…I made sure I did it outside of work obligations…?” I respond, as if I’m asking him if that was the reality. “And I’m sorry…” I add, even though I don’t know why I’d be apologizing to him about getting married. Obviously, I should be apologizing for messing up my visa, but I’d prefer to take that monumental mistake to the grave.

This is not going well…

Damien just stands there, staring at me for about thirty seconds too long. The kind of silent observation that makes you feel incredibly uncomfortable and makes the urge to start rambling some kind of explanation that will most likely lead to the truth grow like a vine of ivy up a tree.

Don’t you dare say another word. Do. Not. Do. It.

“Damien, I have something I need to—”

“I swear, if this is Mateo calling me to bitch about the masseuse I hired for him, I will tear my hair out,” he grumbles as he snags his phone out of the inside pocket of his sleek gray suit. He stares down at the screen, and my body threatens to burrow inside the fancy hardwood floor of the office when I realize I was mere seconds away from dropping the biggest truth bomb of my life up in this bitch.

“Damn, I forgot about that.” Damien sighs, shoves his phone back into his suit pocket, and points a perfectly manicured index finger in my direction. “Doll, you’re lucky I have a meeting to get to right now, but I promise you, I’ll be back for that tea.”