Total pages in book: 19
Estimated words: 17942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 90(@200wpm)___ 72(@250wpm)___ 60(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 17942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 90(@200wpm)___ 72(@250wpm)___ 60(@300wpm)
"Impressive," Matthew says, his tone suggesting it's anything but.
"She'll get you up to speed on everything. All the department heads, current projects, collection details." Levi checks his watch. "Speaking of which, I really do need to get going. Angela will murder me if I miss this flight. That's not a great way to start a honeymoon."
No. No, don't leave me alone with him. Please, Levi. Take me with you. I'll carry Angela's bags. I'll do her hair and make-up. Anything but stay in this room with your brother.
But Levi's already smoothing his jacket, looking like a man who's about to spend two weeks in paradise while I'm trapped in my own personal hell.
"Take care of things," he tells Matthew. "Call if anything explodes."
"It won't. I'll have Vivian to help me, remember?"
Levi hugs me goodbye—a quick, brotherly squeeze that feels like my last connection to sanity. It's not too late. I can still beg to come with him. "Be nice to him, Viv. He's not as scary as he looks."
And then he's gone.
The silence stretches between us, and my heart starts to beat out of time. Matthew turns back to the window, hands clasped behind his back, and it's not the time for reminiscing, but I’d dug my heels into that spot as I took him deeper.
"We should discuss the schedule," he says, one big hand rubbing the back of his neck.
Right. The schedule. Work. Normal, professional things that don't involve remembering how he fucked me or the sounds he made.
"Of course." I clear my throat. "You have the meeting with Mika Wells at ten, lunch with the creative directors at twelve-thirty, and reviewing the new designs for the wristwatch collaboration at three."
He spins on his heel to face me. "Give me the file on Mika Wells. Reschedule the lunch for tomorrow, and I need the designs on my desk by twelve."
"Of course."
"The creative directors—are they internal or external?"
"Internal. Stanley Brooks runs the team for the lifestyle brands, Allie Webb handles the marketing."
He nods once. "I'll need coffee. Black. I trust you know how to filter the calls? I also don't need every manager in the building wasting my time for courtesy calls."
"Yes, sir."
The 'sir' slips out automatically, and something flickers in his eyes before the professional mask slams back down. "That's all for now."
I nod and head to the door, hyperaware of every step, every breath, the sound of my heels on the hardwood floor. It's as though I suddenly don't know how to walk on legs that feel disconnected from my body.
Once I get back at my desk, I sit down slowly and stare at my computer screen without seeing anything.
The best sex I've ever had was with my boss's brother. I must have really done something awful in my past life for the universe to punish me like this.
The rest of Monday crawls by in a haze of professional torture. Matthew treats me exactly like what I am—his temporary assistant. He's demanding but not unreasonable. Exacting but not cruel. When I deliver the Mika Wells files twenty-eight minutes after he requested them, he simply nods and moves on.
He calls me Ms. Olivers in the same flat tone he uses for everyone. When he needs coffee, he asks the same way he'd ask anyone. When I brief him on department heads, he listens with the same polite attention he'd give any competent employee.
It's perfect. It's professional. It's driving me completely insane.
Because every time he rolls his sleeves to his elbows, I stare at his forearms for a solid three seconds before I catch myself. Forearms. I'm losing my mind over forearms. How those muscles ripple and fold over and over whenever he clenches his fist or stretches out and picks up the file.
When he leans over my desk to sign documents, I catch his perfume, and my brain goes back there. The same scent from my clothes when I went home. The same scent I was breathing when he had me pressed against the hotel room door.
But his face gives away nothing. No recognition, no awkwardness, no heat. Nothing.
Fine. Two can play this game.
By five o'clock, I've matched his professionalism perfectly. I've anticipated his needs, solved three minor crises before they reached his desk, and delivered everything he's asked for with ruthless efficiency.
The man at the bar called me brilliant. Well, I'll take that. Not that I'm self-absorbed, but that sounds fair. The man in this office barely seems to notice I exist.
Which is exactly what needs to happen. This is temporary. Two weeks. I can survive two weeks of pretending Friday never happened. I press a sharpened pencil tip into my thumb. And then bite down hard.
Even if pretending is going to kill me.
On Tuesday, I'm picking at a salad in the dining hall when Jaden drops into the chair across from me. And just like everything he does, it's dramatic.