She thinks I toyed with her intentionally.
And it’s a fair accusation because I did.
“I wanted to shake you up. I just went about it in the worst way possible,” I say, looking past her and out the window at an eerily peaceful cityscape outside. “You’ve heard people say I’m a loose cannon around here. Unpredictable. Demanding. That’s how I’ve kept my crew on its toes—only, sometimes I really am Captain Dipshit as you so eloquently named me a while ago. I can’t deny you need to be more careful with the attachments you send out, and I’m sure you’ll be the first to agree. I butchered the delivery, though, and I’m sorry.”
She looks down, then up again, searching my eyes to decipher whether or not the apology feels genuine.
“Maybe you should use separate devices for work and art,” I say. Of course, it dawns on me just then that I could have told her that without letting her know which attachment she sent.
I really am a jackass incarnate.
Maybe some warped part of me wanted her to know that I know she wants me.
“I’ll be more careful. Sorry,” she says softly.
“Don’t be too sorry. I’m the only one who should be apologizing. I never wanted to upset you. I’m proud of what you’ve accomplished in the short time you’ve been here, Dakota Poe.”
Her name rolls off my tongue too easily.
And when we lock eyes, I see something new in the unsettled green and gold and ivory of her face. It’s the wildness and solitude of her namesake—the roughness and beauty of a girl named Dakota, her soul swept with all the biting winds and harsh sunny days of life.
I hold out an arm. She leans into me over the padded armrest of the chair.
Just like that, I hug her tightly, and I probably linger too long before getting up.
When I’m on my feet again, I grab a tissue and hand it to her.
“You can’t go back out there looking like that. The whole company will be after me with pitchforks if they think I made you cry,” I say gently.
With a lopsided smile, she takes the tissue and blots her eyes.
“Oh, I doubt that. For some reason, they like you. Most people,” she adds, leaving me to wonder if she’s one of my honest haters.
Not that I can blame her, after today.
“Only because they don’t know me,” I say, smoothing my tie.
“Right. All of your employees agree you’re a total workaholic, but they think you care about them, I guess.”
“And what do you think, Nevermore?” Another question I shouldn’t ask.
Why does it matter too much to avoid?
It matters what she thinks of me, how she sees me.
It matters if she hates my guts like never before.
The slow smile that lights up her face damned near stops my heart.
Yeah. Or maybe it has more to do with the way her neckline plunges down more than anything else, and the terrible knowledge that she’s been writing erotic poetry about me.
“I think you’re a cinnamon-roll-obsessed, mega-entitled freak. Not sorry,” she says bluntly.
“A freak who burns you,” I whisper.
Bad move. I can’t help it. My tongue has a mind of its own.
Her blush deepens and she glares at me, telling me exactly how much I’ve just fucked up this truce.
“Oh, grow up. We should never mention that again if you really want me to stick around. I won’t survive any other way.”
Slowly, I nod.
“Consider it forgotten.”
“For the record, it’s not like it’s just me who’s noticed you, Burns. Surely, you know the effect you have on single women. But if you ever bring that up again, I’ll quit both jobs, agreement be damned. Then you’ll have to find a copywriter and an EA who can put up with your crazy ass until Lucy comes back from maternity leave.”
“I already agreed to your terms,” I say harshly. “And fair warning—you’ll never quit on me, because if you do, I’ll publish the poem all over social media.”
“You wouldn’t!” she gasps.
“Are you sure? I tried to crib a cinnamon roll off you once for five hundred dollars. I think we’ve established my actions defy conventional logic at times.” I wink at her. “Of course, I’m joking.”
Her color goes back to normal. She pushes her hands against the arms of the chair and leans forward. “You’re despicable.”
“Maybe so, but we’re back to our usual relations, aren’t we?” Are we? I want her to say yes, to razz me like the art brat she is, to show me we’re okay.
She stands quickly and starts toward the door.
“Miss Poe? Where are you going?”
“To work. Duh. It’s better than being stuck in here with you,” she throws back over her shoulder.
She’s out the door before I can get up and follow.
Fine.
That’s the Nevermore I know. A violent little monster armed with sass and a delectable ass I’m constantly fighting to push out of my head.