I'm grumbling about my lack of sleep come Monday afternoon. It's horrifying how three nights of zero shut eye can wreak havoc on your psyche.
All the catching up I did before the party is long gone, disposed of in a black hole of elusiveness. I'm worse than before.
Entering the foyer of Layton's after lunch, there is no smile on my face. The weekend's been too turbulent for smiling, and this particular Monday is wicked. Paul has forgotten to hand over two invoices, and he ordered things without me knowing. We're about to be charged up the wazoo for unpaid billing. That means I've had to talk to our bitchy head accountant all morning, sucking up to her sour ass to get them paid.
Man, today blows.All I want to do is zone out on swatches and paint chips.
I don't even want to chatter with Kitty.
“Olivia.” Kitty’s voice rings out in the open entrance.
Looks like I won’t have a choice; talking will be a must. Despite the foul stick up my ass, I will not bite her head off. I will be civil, even if it means pushing down a boatload of emotions.
“Hey, Kitty.” My voice sounds normal as I deviate toward the desk.
However, she's far from acting like her normal self. Nervous eyes shift to the area of the elevator and then back to me as she stands. “Mr. L wants to see you.” Her brows are sewn together, and her lips are downturned in a concerned frown.
“What?” My hands go clammy, and my heart thuds.
Something tells me I'm getting fired. For what, I have no idea, but it's happening. And why not? Actually, it sounds about right because these last two weeks have been a cluster-you-know-what.
“All right, thanks.” That's all I can say. I turn toward the elevators and haven't taken but a few steps when Kitty's voice breaks the uneasy silence.
“Hey, Liv?”
I glance over my shoulder.
“Let me know what happens.”
The stoic lines coursing her delicate face send my stomach twisting with resignation. Answering isn't even possible. All I can manage is a single nod.
A closing throat proves I'm cracking when I reach the top floor. I don’t want to leave. But that's not up to me. The black wooden door before me is ominous today. The sense of foreboding radiating around and behind it makes my heart curl. My fisted hand quivers as I knock with zero vigor.
“Come in.”
I gulp. The use of my name is absent at the end of Mr. L's invitation. Yep. I’m through. Sick, in a spinning vortex, I open the door and step inside, head down.
“Olivia.” The voice of my boss holds no warmth, only formality.
A tightening in my chest takes hold, squeezing harder once the door latches closed behind me. “Sir.” I dare to move forward and lift my head, but everything freezes.
I slow to a stop.
My world sinks, drowning in a haze caused by the sight six feet away.
Grant Brexton stands off to the side, at total leisure, with his hands placed in the pockets of his all-black suit.
An odd type of turned-on annoyance pricks at my chest that he found me, my ribs burning because of it. When I try to address him, nothing comes out. What kind of man is this? He’s doing nothing and is already muddling my headspace.
I think he likes it. Chiseled features perk up with a ghost of a smile as he greets me.
“Olivia.” The dripping manner in which he utters my name is indecent, causing estrogen to spike, and heat blossoms around my earlobes. And while I’d like to scream at him, the way his mouth hitches, leaves me inexplicably ravenous to taste him. “How good to see you again.”