By the time the end of the day rolls around, I’m ready to change his nickname from the Beast to the MF’ing Beast. But do I complain? No. I refuse to give him that satisfaction.
“That’s it for me,” I call into his office from my desk as I grab my jacket and bag.
He’s been tapping away on his computer, but now he looks around at me, frowning.
“Unless you need anything else?” I say cheerily, the same as always.
He hesitates. I can almost see the wheels turning in his vindictive little mind as he tries to think of more shit work to give me but comes up short. Poor planning on his part. He should’ve paced himself better.
“Nope,” he says, equally pleasant. Until he glances past me and gets a glimpse of the extravagant arrangement of flowers on my desk, a conglomeration of gorgeous yellow roses, orchids and other fragrant beauties whose names I don’t know. An arrangement that, I’m proud to say, cost five hundred dollars and is much bigger than anything I’ve ever ordered on his behalf before. Naturally, I charged it to his personal credit card. His frown deepens. “What the fuck is all that?”
“My morning-after flowers,” I say sweetly. I hadn’t planned to do anything so petty, but after the hellish day he just put me through, you’d better believe I plan to stick it to him any way I can. “I knew you’d want me to have them.”
I sweep off without giving him a chance for a comeback, the prickling between my shoulder blades feeling a lot like his daggered gaze.
6
Griffin
“Hey, listen,” I tell my brother Damon early that Friday morning when I intercept him on the roof of our building, right inside the glass doors leading to the helipad. Tonight is the big annual investor reception out at our family estate in the Hamptons. Like me, he’s got his valet bag and briefcase slung over his shoulder. “I need a favor.”
He glances up from checking messages on his phone, gives me a closer look and narrows his eyes.
“Yeah, no. I don’t like the look on your face.”
“Let me take the bird.”
“There’s room for all of us, moron,” he says, trying to edge past me.
I sidestep him, blocking his way. “I’ll send it back for you. I want to ride out alone. With, ah, Bellamy.”
I try to look casual about the whole thing, but evidently, I don’t do a very good job. I find myself getting hot under the collar as I watch his expression slide from confusion to sudden comprehension and then horror.
“You didn’t,” he says.
“I don’t discuss my personal life. The point is—”
“The point is, you either hooked up with or plan to hook up with your assistant. Which leaves our company open to a sexual harassment lawsuit. What the fuck is wrong with you? I thought you moved past this. Although, now that I think about it, this is why you’ve been out of sorts all week, isn’t it?”
“I have not been out of sorts.”
Neither of us believe this nonsense. Matter of fact, the last time anyone told a lie this big was back when Cain, noted loving sibling and history’s first recorded murderer, told God that he didn’t know where his brother Abel was.
“Haven’t been out of sorts?” he says, aghast. “I told you the employees all call you the Beast, right? This week, they changed it to TFB. Short for the Fucking Beast. Because you’ve been such a jackass to everybody. You’re going to turn up with your head on a spike if you don’t change this khaki policy, by the way. And your girl Bellamy is the one who came up with the nickname.”
This news bite makes me wince and my morale plummet even further.
“You get your ass sued for sexual harassment, we’re not going to be able to find one favorable witness for you,” he continues. “They all hate your guts. Find someone else to hook up with. Forget Bellamy.”
“Don’t you think I would if I could?” I snarl before I can stop myself. I have a firm policy against discussing my personal life, such as it is, with anyone, especially either of my brothers, who never hesitate to give me shit about something if they sense a weakness. That’s what brothers do. But, on the other hand, it’s almost a relief to vent some steam on this Bellamy thing. Maybe give it the perspective it needs. “Do I look happy to you?”
He seems taken aback and eyes me with a new concern, which I both resent and appreciate. On the one hand, I don’t look that damn bad. On the other hand, I’m a fucking mess and I know it.
The seven days since my glorious and unexpected night with Bellamy have been the worst kind of torture. Honestly, I’d rather have someone clamp my head in a vise grip and be done with it.
I can’t sleep or concentrate at work. Can barely eat. I knew it was a mistake when I didn’t ask any questions and took her up on her too-good-to-be-true offer. I knew I already had a banked attraction to her and needed to make damn sure I kept that flame on low. I knew that playing with fire tends to get idiots like myself burned.
But I didn’t expect this.
I see her face. Every-fucking-where. Her luminous brown eyes. Her mouth. I live for glimpses of her smile, even if it’s never directed at me. I’m like a bloodhound on the trail of her scent (roses), searching it out near her desk and her chair and when she’s in and out of my office.
How did I get like this? Will someone kindly explain that to me?
And to think I was naively worried about hurting her or giving her the wrong idea. At thirty-two, I’m older and no doubt vastly more experienced. I know better than to attach any sort of significance to something that should be purely a physical act. Women tend to get emotionally involved more easily.
And look at me now, boy. Look. At. Me. Now.
I’m a fucking disgrace.
Most shameful of all, I took her shawl thingy. Stole it. Which makes me a thief on top of everything else. I’ve got it on my bed at home, the closest thing to her that I can get. I’ll never tell what I’ve been doing with it during my sleepless nights. You don’t need to know those embarrassing details.
I knew this was going to be a one-time deal. I knew I shouldn’t play with fire at all but that, if I did, I should only play with it once and be grateful to emerge unscathed.
But that’s the thing. I’m not unscathed.
And it’s not just that the sex was great. Sex, in my experience, is always pretty damn great. This sex was… It was…
Extraordinary is too big a word to apply to something as natural and commonplace as sex. Unprecedented is also too big.
But it was. I’m telling you, it was.
The taste of her mouth. Her skin. Her sweet pussy. The feel of her.
Am I supposed to forget about all that just because she apparently has?
Can someone help me out with that? Because I’m not managing it too well on my own.
Worst of all was that period after, when we just lay together and stared at each other. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I felt a connection to her in that arrested moment. A strong connection.
What the fuck is up with that? I don’t connect with people. Nor do I think woo-woo thoughts about connecting with people.
But here I am.
Stuck. Miserable. Desperate to spend time with her again, my condition made all the worse because she’s reverted to Forest, my trusty assistant, and hasn’t shown me one flicker of acknowledgment or lingering interest this week. It’s as though she had her moment with me and has now put me firmly in her rearview mirror. I thought I was okay with that. Or could be okay with it, given enough time. But a week has passed and, swear to God, I feel like I’m unraveling. As though I’m one hangnail away from losing control and flipping desks all over the executive floor.