“I need to go to the ladies’ room,” she huffed, tugging a makeup kit from her bag under the table.
I looked up from the oil and gas journal I pretended to read.
“Oh?” I asked sweetly. “Are you not fully potty-trained? You know, I’m a pre-K teacher. Accidents don’t faze me in the least. Need help in the big girl toilet?”
She shot me a murderous glare.
“Don’t go anywhere, unless it’s back to the trailer park you came from.” She stood, running her eyes over my cheap clothes. “Or hell.”
Her red-soled high heels stabbed the floor on her way to the restroom, leaving dents.
As soon as Casey was out of view, I jumped to my feet, sprinting ahead. Cillian’s office was the largest and plushest on the floor. It was easy to spot the one fitted for the king of the castle.
I could only see his visitor’s back through the glass door as I raced in his direction. The man who hid him from my vision was broad-shouldered with tawny blond hair, a sharp suit, and an impeccable posture. They seemed to be deep in conversation, but I didn’t care. I threw the door open without knocking, barging in before I lost my nerve.
Unfortunately, my grand entrance wasn’t enough to tear Cillian’s gaze from the man in front of him. They were hunched over a mass of papers scattered all over his silver desk.
“…stocks going up, but I still noticed a trend in negative press. Saying the media doesn’t like you would be an understatement. It’d be like saying the ocean is damp. That the sun is lukewarm. That Megan Fox is merely shagable…”
“I get the gist of it,” Cillian clipped. “How do we rectify the situation?”
“I suppose a personality transplant would be out of the question?” the man drawled.
“The only thing that’s about to be transplanted is my foot in your ass if you don’t give me a solution.”
Tough crowd. I’m about to face a very tough crowd.
“Bloody hell, Cillian,” the posh man huffed, “you started your CEO journey by sacking nine percent of the company’s management and drilling holes in the Arctic. You haven’t exactly won any fans.”
“I trimmed the fat.”
“People rather like fat. The fast food industry rolls 256 billion dollars in revenue each year. Did you know that? The people you fired talked to journalists, adding fuel to the fire and making you truly one of the country’s worst villains. Royal Pipelines is already considered the most hated company in the US. The refinery explosion in Maine, the Green Living climate rally where an eighteen-year-old broke both legs—”
“I wasn’t the one who broke her legs,” Cillian interjected, holding his palm up. “Unfortunately.”
“No matter how you spin it, you must clean up your act. Play their game. Promote a wholesome, jolly image. The company’s reputation needs to be restored.”
The man had a smooth, English accent. Princely, drenched with entitlement, and dripping authority. He was playfully detached. An enigma. I couldn’t tell if he was a good or bad guy.
“Fine. I’ll kiss a few babies. Sponsor some students. Donate funds to open a new hospital wing.” Cillian leaned back in his seat, his eyes dropping back to the paperwork in front of him.
“I’m afraid we’re quite past the kissing babies stage. It’s time, Kill.”
Cillian looked up, scowling.
“I will not sacrifice my personal life to pacify a few self-righteous, Tesla-driving pricks—”
“Cillian? I mean, Mr. Fitzpatrick?” I cleared my throat, jumping into the conversation before more information that wasn’t meant for my ears was given.
Both men turned to look at me in surprise. With blue eyes charred with gold, a granite jaw, and an elegant nose, the British man was the kind of handsome that should be outlawed.
Cillian…well, he stayed gorgeous in his own go-screw-yourself way.
Kill raised an eyebrow. My appearance in his office didn’t surprise him in the least.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt—”
“Yet you did,” he cut into my words.
“Sorry about that. May I have a word with you?”
“No,” he answered flatly.
“It’s important.”
“Not to me.” He dropped the documents to his desk, already looking disinterested. “Which Penrose sister are you? The older and loud one, or the young and annoying one?”
After all these years, he still couldn’t tell Emmabelle and me apart. We didn’t even look like one another. Not to mention, he’d seen me naked as the day I was born (also: just as red).
Yet again, I found myself torn between the need to seduce and stab him.
“I’m Persephone.” I balled my hands into fists beside my body, recalling how badly it hurt when he broke my heart. How sublimely idiotic I’d felt after I tried to put that silly spell on him.
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Fine,” I bit out. “I’m the annoying one.”
He turned his focus back to the files at his desk, skimming through them. “What do you want?”