“But you don’t, Mag. You can’t do this Atlas thing forever, holding up the world. You’re two different people. You’ve made your own choices, and they’ve been very different from his.”
Have they?
If only she knew how similar they were. If only they knew Miss Bristol—Brina—is all I think about, jerking off in the shower and under my sheets like a smitten dolt.
I stare out the window because I don’t have a response. Where do I even start?
I kissed my fucking beautiful, smart, and too good for life EA in the middle of the Sonoran desert, and I enjoyed every second of it.
Her moans are branded on my grey matter. They still raise the hair on my arms like a wild beast, and if I hadn’t realized how close to that evil bastard I was behaving...
...things wouldn’t have stopped there.
“Look, Mag, I’m sorry. This is a weird time of year, not just for you.” She lets out a hefty sigh and takes a step back. “I’ve been digging around my own family tree. Turns out, I had a lost sister. I found some records that came out recently after that big bio-tech company fell apart out west. Galentron or whatever? I guess she spent her life in this freaky espionage thing before she disappeared, and...I’m rambling. Forgive me.”
“Do you need anything else?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “I wish I could help with your sister.”
“Forget it.” She clears her throat. “Are you sure it’s just Marissa and the kid you’re upset about?”
“Positive.”
“Because if you’re upset about someone else, someone in this office...I don’t think you should be. I don’t know what happened with you two, but a talk could probably clear it up.”
Fuck. Has she noticed?
“Who are we talking about, Ruby?”
Her lips twist sourly.
“No one. I’m just going to get back to work. Happy New Year to you, too.”
She can’t know what really happened in Phoenix.
If she did, she wouldn’t have told me, I’m not like my old man.
Ruby finally gets the hell out of my office, and I plod back to my desk and sit down. My computer shows the time. Twenty minutes after four.
She’s only been gone for twenty minutes.
Who is this guy taking her out? What’s he like? Does she like him?
That dress says she plans to.
That dress says she wants to fuck his brains out.
Who cares?
Me, apparently, because I’d need a hole through the head to stop my fingers from pulling up her contact and punching out a message.
We’re pitching Arrowpoint Airlines next week, I type. I need five ideas to keep Hugo’s concepts organized ASAP. Your next bonus is riding on this.
No answer.
I try five or six more times before I see my scowling reflection in the screen.
Whatever. I’ll text one more time, but this is it. I’m not this goddamned desperate.
So what if I even write Urgent! at the beginning of the message?
She’s ignoring me, and I deserve it.
I did the same thing to her after Phoenix.
If only I knew it feels worse to be on the receiving end.* * *I climb in the town car, almost tripping over my phone, throwing my briefcase down with a thunk.
“Whoa, boss, you should’ve told me you needed a hand. Where’s the fire? You’re heading out early today,” Armstrong says, looking back with concern.
It’s not even five yet.
I’m usually here half the night.
“Take me to Sweeter Grind. It’s in the shopping center across from the park where we did the Jazzle Razzle shoot months ago.”
“You drink cheap coffee now? Did I miss the four horsemen?” he chuckles. “Is everything okay, Mr. Heron? We’re not going under or anything, are we?”
“I’ll never drink cheap coffee. It hasn’t come to that.” I laugh. “Everything’s fine with the company, so don’t worry.”
Everything except my sanity, I mean, spoiled by one wicked woman in a cursed red dress.
I’m going to hell for this. I don’t even know if she’ll be there, it’s just a hunch.
It’s not like she said she was going to Sweeter Grind. If she’d just answered my texts, I wouldn’t be resorting to this.
Armstrong parks in front of Sweeter Grind a few minutes later.
I scan the large windows at the front of the shop, trying to catch a glimpse of her, when my eyes catch on soft curves sheathed in scarlet red. She’s at a table, just inside, glowing like the firecracker she is.
By herself?
A thousand pounds lift off my chest.
I don’t know why I care.
Until a twenty something blond punk in shorts, a jersey, and a scraggly beard struts up to the table and hands her a cup.
A cinnamon latte, no doubt.
He grins at her like a wolf ready to pounce on its prey. His lanky, muscular build only deepens the impression.
If I had three wishes, I’d burn one on flamethrowers for eyes.
What the hell does she need with a fuckboy in gym shorts? And who wears gym shorts to a coffeeshop in the dead of winter to take a girl out? Did he even shower before he crawled out of the gym to meet her?