CHAPTER133
He throws me a pained and disdainful look.
“You’re younger than any assistant I’ve ever had; we get on, and we’re friends. I forget sometimes that I need to act a certain way with you.” He goes back to staring at the side of my face, and I resist the urge to meet his gaze.
“So, you never kissed any of your other PAs?” I say sulkily. Margo flashes across my mind, and I immediately shake it away with disgust. My stomach is already in my throat.
Eeww, she’s like a mom to him.
“No, Emma, I haven’t. Before Margo took over full time for me, I went through a few assistants, and they never lasted more than a couple of months. I’ve tried male and female assistants, and I lacked interest and trust in all of them.”
“I see.” News to me, but okay.
“Working the way we do, requires both. And being this close means sometimes I forget there would be consequences in trying to screw you.” He’s still watching me closely; I’m dying under his scrutiny and the blatant way he’s talking about sex between us. I think I’m also upset by the fact he’s making it pretty clear it would only be that, nothing deeper! I forget that sex for him doesn’t carry consequences, maybe that’s the issue. He’s too used to meaningless sex and has to remind himself that he would still have to work with me after. Meanwhile, I’m too hung up on what sex with him would do to my heart afterwards and would be unable to work with him at all.
“So, the redhead?” I ask, smarting at this conversation.
“What about her?”
“She’s the one you ran off with for a week?” I’m back to sulking Emma, half pouting, heart twisting in my chest, broken inside. He just frowns at me and shakes his head.
“No. I picked her up before I flew home.” He avoids my eyes this time, and I swear I catch a moment of shame.
Nice. ‘Picked her up’, like picking up a quart of milk on the way home from work.
“Back on form then?” I spit, my temper returning at the way I’ve maneuvered the topic. I’m such an idiot.
“Completely,” he responds. I sense the coolness return to his voice too; he’s reacting to my anger and my snippiness.
“Got to the root of the issue?” I ask sardonically.
Try and keep calm, Emma.
I scold myself inwardly for this argument.
“Yes. Isn’t an issue anymore,” he grunts. I swallow hard, so close to crying, and paste a smile on my face instead.
“Good. Can’t have you incapable and suffering now, can we? Carrero losing his edge is worse than death for you, right?” I smile curtly with the most fake smile I’ve ever given. He regards me icily and hands me back my champagne. “Maybe we should clink to that,” I add drily, hating him in this moment and unable to stop the internal distress.
“Maybe we should.” He pings his glass against mine harshly, and I catch the sarcasm on his face. He seems angry now too, but I smile icily, hating on him as much as I detest myself.
Are we fighting? It feels like we are, but it’s laced in uber-cool and polite words, and I can’t read him at all.
I’m smarting, emotional, and I want to throw my drink at him in a bid to feel better. He’s acting like this is all some meaningless, casual joke; maybe it would have been two weeks ago but not now, not ever again. I lay my head back against my seat, irritation clouding my thoughts.
“Maybe I should follow your example,” I pout loudly; I hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but it’s out.
Crap.
“What example would that be?” He pulls out his cell and starts typing in response to a text. I wonder which leggy woman has his attention this time. I don’t even want to know.
“I should get a string of fuck buddies to go visit for a week, rid myself of the tension,” I sigh heavily and stare straight ahead, bracing myself for his agreement, which is going to hurt.
His hands falter and pause, his body tenses, and it gives me a moment of satisfaction. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his thumbs hover over the screen; putting the cell down instead, he leaves the text unanswered.
“If you want to be that sort of girl.” His tone is instantly different, tight-lipped, and kind of pissed."
