She finally gathers herself and straightens, pulling her hair off her face and over one shoulder. She looks at me. Swallows. Blinks. And gives me that serene, soft, gorgeous smile.
The smile I fucking hate.
“I’m sorry, that was funny,” she says, collecting her mobile from Gina’s desk.
“What?” I ask, my face impassive. “Gina avoiding Mac?”
“Yeah, and running away.” She motions down the corridor, her eyes still on me, but her smile is fading.
I push my way into my office. “You been giving her pointers?” I ask.
“Sorry?” she questions, clearly confused. “Pointers on what?”
“Running away from men.”
Her face drops and she takes a step back, her eyes wide and wary. “Ty, I didn’t mean—”
“Not interested, Lainey.” I slam the door in her face and then head to my bathroom to check the gray situation, kicking a chair as I pass. “Fucking, fuck, fuck, fuck.” I land in front of the mirror, turning my head from side to side. There’s no gray. Thank fuck. I exhale, not only in relief from that, but in exasperation. And I positively hate the fact that I feel like a fucking arsehole. “You wanker,” I say to my reflection, running my hands through my waves. “You fucking A-class wanker.” I turn and hurry back through my office. She didn’t deserve that. We left on relatively good terms yesterday at the tennis club, all things considered, and I just ruined it.
Swinging the door open, I just catch sight of Lainey pushing through the door to the stairwell. I’m in pursuit quickly, and I barge in behind her, coming to an abrupt halt when I see her sitting on the step. Her spine lengthens, and she frantically starts wiping at her face.
“Lainey?” I approach with caution, my guilt multiplying. Man, she’s crying.
“Fuck off, Ty.” She clears her throat and reaches for the banister to pull herself up.
I’m in no position to reprimand her for talking to one of her bosses like that. I deserve it. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have sp—”
“Yes, you should.” She swings around, and I recoil as the tears streak down her cheeks. My eyes drop, ashamed. “I deserved that,” she goes on. “But it doesn’t make hearing it easier.”
What? Why would she even say that? How little does she think of herself? “No, you didn’t deserve it.” I hate seeing her like this. I feel . . . I don’t know, but it’s horrible. I’ve upset her. Yes, I’ve upset many women, and I’ve never felt particularly great about it, but now I feel horrific, and I have an unshakable need to fix it.
She laughs and makes to pass me, and before I can stop myself, I grab her wrist. But I’m quickly shook off. “Do not touch me, Tyler.”
I withdraw, hands up in surrender. “Okay. I’m sorry if I hurt you.”
Her glassy eyes lift, and she sniffles, gazing at me for a long, long while. “You didn’t hurt me. But you will.” She hurries back through the door to our floor.
And I stand in the stairwell, alone in the quiet, my mind spinning.THE NEXT DAY, MY THOUGHTS haven’t slowed no matter how much I’ve distracted myself with work. Never has a woman’s certainty about me hurt. Never have I wanted to prove them wrong.
But you will.
With those three words, Lainey has spelled out the problem. Or one of the problems. She doesn’t trust me. Who can blame her? I’m known for many things, but commitment isn’t one of them.
I flop back in my chair, unable to focus on the mammoth essay of an email that’s just landed from the company accountant. My brain’s not playing today.
The door swings open and Sal wedges his shoulder against the frame. He still looks like shit, but I’m too exhausted to ask how things are at home. Besides, I don’t think I need to. “Do you mind if I pinch Gina for an hour?” he asks.
“What for?”
“I need some files from storage.”
“What’s wrong with your own assistant?” I ask, quietly praying Sal’s had to let her go. Please tell me it hasn’t worked out. Please tell me you’ve fired her.
“Lainey’s off today. She’s ill.”
I only just hold back my recoil. “She’s ill?” Oh fuck. I really have upset her. And now she’s avoiding me. You arsehole, Christianson.
“So, can I?”
I jump out of my daze, finding Sal’s still at the door, staring at me, his forehead busy with lines. “Can you what?”
“Borrow Gina?”
“Oh, yeah, sure.” I return to my computer, but it’s impossible for any of the words I’m reading to sink in past the wall of curiosity that’s getting higher each day. I don’t believe she’s ill for a moment. She was perfectly well yesterday afternoon . . . until I threw my ego around. I made her cry. I condemned her for smiling at me. She wouldn’t let me touch her. Wouldn’t let me try to comfort her, even if I was responsible for her tears. Why?