"I know you didn't. But won't it be nice to get back to a point where we're working on what matters?"
"It would, but be realistic for half-a-second, Stockton. I've been running interference with your mother for close to three years. Because it was easier for you to pay me extra than to have a "Come to Jesus" conversation with her." I choke back a laugh at the look on his face, because god bless him, he looks surprised. Jeezus. I'm going to have to spell it out for him. "I'm not going to be your pretend fiancée, Stockton."
"Why not? It's the perfect solution."
"She called my hair a carpet."
Stockton flashes his megawatt grin, and tugs on my messy bun. "It has seen better days."
"Yeah. When I've had time to shower and you know... be human? Do you know how many hours I've spent in my bed this last week alone?"
His expression darkens. "Who were you with last night?" He growls like a possessive lover and not my boss, then gestures toward my arm. "And when did you get that?"
I bite back a smile. It's so easy to bait him. "None of your business, remember?"
We have a pact. Neither of us speaks about what we do in our off time. Although, in Stockton's case, I already know. Early on, during a series of denial of service attacks, we agreed that one of us should be close by at all times. So I have the misfortune of knowing his schedule inside and out. I've met every single one of the women he's bedded, and more who would give anything to be bedded. Stockton's prowess in the bedroom is legendary in Kansas City socialite circles, but I have to wonder how much of that talk is just... talk. I mean, seriously, no man can be all that.
He captures my wrist and lifts my arm, surveying the artwork. A shock of electricity zips up my arm as a hit of adrenaline floods my system. Heat pools between my legs. I hate that even after four years, he still has this effect on me. "It's my business when the arm belongs to my fiancée," he says silkily, tracing the outside of the design with a finger but taking care not to touch the swollen skin.
I swallow, heart stuttering in my chest. "I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man standing," I say with a saccharine smile.
His voice drops an octave and he steps into my space. "Is that so? Tell me more."
There's a note of challenge there that ratchets up my pulse, likely put there for my benefit, because I can't seem to resist an opportunity to take him down a notch, and he knows it. He finds it amusing. I should disengage, stand down. After all, I'm quitting at four. I don't need to do this anymore. I don't like what that says about me, but I can't resist picking up the gauntlet he's thrown like a piece of meat to a starving dog. "For starters, I'm worried you probably don't have a dick. I'm sure it fell off years ago. I mean, do you even use the condoms I have delivered to the office?"
"Every last one," he rumbles.
But I'm on a roll and since it's my last day, I'm not holding back. "I don't know what the ladies who parade in and out of here see in you. You're overbearing and an ass to pretty much everyone except Harrison and the cybersquad. The accounting department is terrified of you, as are the interns and everyone in marketing."
"I save my charm for the bedroom," he interjects.
I cut him off. "I'm not done. You're a relentless taskmaster, you don't know how to relax, you've worked seven days a week for the last four years - even when you're off doing your rowing thing, and you expect everyone around you to give one-hundred-fifty-percent of their life to this company."
He lifts an eyebrow. "My rowing thing?"
I roll my eyes. "Do you even know what day it is?"
A look of confusion flashes across his face before he flashes his brilliant smile. "It's the day we get my mother off my back."
An ache pierces my chest. I shouldn't be hurt by this. Stockton doesn't even remember his own birthday, let alone his mother's, mine, or anyone else's. It was foolish of me to think he'd remember today. I pull my arm from his grip before he can see the disappointment on my face and duck around the corner of my desk. Before I can chicken out, I pull the envelope from the drawer. There's no need to wait until four. He can have my resignation now. "Today is freedom day." I fight the lump that's suddenly formed in my throat. "I've fulfilled my four years and I respectfully resign." I step back into his orbit and hold out the envelope.
"Freedom day?" he chuckles. "That's a good one." His smile quickly disappears when he sees I'm serious. His jaw tightens and the only tell that he's deeply, truly angry, is the rapid pulse at his temple. Stockton's bark is far worse than his bite. When he's really mad, he gets quiet. He opens the envelope slowly, deliberately, not sparing me an extra glance. His face remains painfully neutral as he reads, eyes only widening once - I'm guessing at the part where I mention my new salary and moving to California. When he finishes, he refolds the letter and replaces it in the envelope. "No."
His voice is razor sharp, weighty in the delivery, and a tremor ripples through me. "You have no say, Stockton."
"Like hell I don't. You are not leaving me. Us," he corrects, a hint of color flirting with his cheekbones. "You're too important to the company."
But not to him, not in the way I want. He'll only ever see me as a vessel for my mind. Nothing more. And that's why I have to leave because one more day of watching the revolving door of women when the one who knows him best sits feet away, just might kill me.
"Penny." His voice softens, and I know this is exactly how he's charmed the panties off so many women. "Don't leave."
"Stockton, I-"
"The car is yours. And the condo. Keep them. I'll call Jackson, and he can have the titles switched over to your name by five."
"That's-"
His eyes narrow. "Do you know how much rents are in Silicon Valley? Even with that salary - which is crap if you ask me - you'll be sharing a bedroom in a three bedroom apartment."
"There are stock options."
"If you go public. Or get bought out. And there are no guarantees of either. Hell, Penny, you want to start a company? I'll give you your own damn division."
"That's not what I want."
"What do you want, Penny? It's yours. All you have to do is ask."
Dangerous words. But they only slice my heart because the one thing I want, I can never have.
He lowers his voice. "Does your mother know?"
My stomach sinks. Stockton Forde knows my vulnerabilities. "I was going to write her a letter."
"Coward."
"You know how she is."
"And running away to California isn't going to change that. In fact, it may make things worse."
He's not wrong. And I hate it. Because the one human thing Stockton has done from the beginning, is insist on driving with me three hours each way every other month to see my mother at the Women's Eastern Reception, Diagnostic and Correctional Center in Vandalia.
"And you'll have to fly," he points out, knowing that the reason he takes a full day to accompany me is because I refuse to fly in the deathtrap he calls an executive helicopter.