“Alright. I’ll just have to fire…”
“Stop it!” Zoe’s hands ball into fists.
Maybe I was wrong about the fight instinct, and seeing her inner fire come to life is hot as fuck. Kind of literally, since my cock is throbbing again. It’s going to be a good half hour before I can safely leave this boardroom unless I use my bag and files and whatnot to cover my junk when I walk out. Even then, it would probably be pretty obvious what I was trying to hide, considering I’d have to hold it a foot away or risk damaging something. Mm, yeah, that’s not a risk I’m going to take. Ever.
“You’re such a prick,” she hisses. “Fine, I’ll come. I’ll come over,” she quickly clarifies, her face going scarlet. “Send me the address, and I better not have to go through any gates or security or whatever.”
“There are gates. I’ll have my assistant send you the details.”
“Of course you will. Of course there are gates. And an assistant.” Zoe gives me a dirty look, implying that, of course, I’ve also done dirty things with the said assistant.
If only she knew. Barb is sixty-two, and she’s going to retire in a few years. She has two children and six grandchildren, soon to be seven when her daughter has her baby next month.
I’m not such an asshole. I do know things about the people who work for me. And with me. I do care about their lives and jobs. I might not hesitate to absorb a struggling company or even pay top dollar for one I want, but that’s just good business. If other people want to see it as ruthless, well, I’m not going to argue pointlessly or try and change their minds. Semantics never really mattered to me because I work hard to be fair and treat people right. People can talk smack about me, and they can assume whatever they want, but I won’t tolerate people talking shit about my work ethics.
Because it is Zoe, and because I’ve purposely pissed her off, I let this one go. I can correct her later. And I did just invite her over to my house. What else is she supposed to assume?
I don’t know why I extended the invitation. Maybe it’s a combination of the fact that I don’t want to do the necessary catching up, bargain striking, convincing, or whatever in a place where anyone else can hear, and this was someone I once cut myself for—someone whose initial I still have inked—very badly and terribly—into my upper leg right near my hip.
I didn’t ask her over because I want to bang her.
Much.
Okay, so maybe my dick was doing a bit of the thinking there, but now that I put it out there, it’s not like I can actually back down.
“See you at six-thirty?”
“Fine.” Zoe blows out an angry breath.
She shakes her head, looks like she wants to say something, changes her mind, and storms out of the room. She almost—very comically—walks right into the glass door on the way out before she can get it fully open, but she dodges around and makes it out safely at the last second.
I watch her walk past the glassed-in room, completely captivated, mystified, and amazed. There are a thousand things I feel right now, things connected to the past and memories. So. Many. Memories. It’s all confusing and a little awe-inspiring. No, I never stopped thinking about Zoe and her dad. I never looked her up because I was too busy building my own life, trying to take care of my mom, and then too busy trying to run a company that made its first million just a few months in. It was overwhelming—all of it. All the struggles, trying to survive, and college. And all of a sudden just…just making it.
If never looking Zoe up makes me an asshole, then I guess I am an asshole. Just like I told her, I was always an overachiever. I don’t want to think about that or debate what exactly makes a person a total D-bag. I have something else, something very vital, to worry about. Zoe. In my house. Tomorrow night. I can’t fuck it up. Meaning, I will not make a pass at her because she works for me, because I don’t need to get slapped with a sexual harassment lawsuit, because it’s not right, and lastly, because it’s technically kind of really gross since she’s my ex-stepsister.
I sit at the table in the empty boardroom for another forty-seven minutes while pretending to look at my laptop and pretending to read emails.
Although, really, that’s just how long it takes for my damn dick to obey my commands to calm the fuck down and stop making a tent in my pants so I can get the hell out of there.