CHAPTER147
I hurriedly pick up the remains of my clothes from the floor and throw them in the kitchen trashcan. I leave his clothes folded on a chair in the room and discard the condom packet. I don’t know why I’m trying to hide this now; she’s already seen it, and I’m guessing by the raised voices, she’s making that clear.
Like a guilty, dirty secret, as if I’m his mistress and she’s the wife showing up and catching us, I’m scurrying around trying to erase what I’ve done. I’m also trying not to listen at the door, my heart doing some sort of cha-cha as I rush in circles. I’m completely out of control, all traces of PA Emma banished; my palms are clammy and cold, and I feel physically sick.
I creep back to my room and turn on the shower. I need to clean his smell off me, eradicate the memory of how he felt. I need to wipe away my shame and get back that cool, calm PA who would know how to handle this. That is one of her job skills: handling awkward situations.
The water is hot and harsh, but I don’t care. I want it to punish me. I want it to scald the crap out of me and take away the lingering feel of his touch, his skin on mine, his kiss, his hands, his smell, him inside of me. I can’t bear to think about how it felt. Not now. Not ever.
I’m running … I know I am … mentally pulling away at speed and ramming myself back into that tiny box in my head, that safe, concealed, controlled box where my life is one big mass of orderly lists and checked boxes. No emotions and no complications. I can handle that life because I control every part of it; there are no surprises, no unplanned events. No feelings that can rip my soul to shreds. No one to reject me.
Coming to work for Jake had been a mistake. From day one, he made me question myself over and over, made me forget and lose my reserve, made me relax too much. He has a way of making me lose sight of who I am and what I am doing. He let that part of me that I lock away slide out, and I hate it; he makes me feel unsteady and vulnerable, and I can’t do this.
How can I go back to before? He’s unraveled me in so many ways. I’m more broken now than I ever was.
* * *
When I emerge, I’m wearing my workout clothes; I’ve a clear plan in my head, and I’m more optimistic. Determined. I’m going to go running, clear my mind, and get the hell away from him for a while, until I can reel in my thoughts and feelings. I also need to put a huge sea of space between Marissa and myself simply because I can’t stand her, or maybe because of the fact she’s here with him, and I don’t know how she fits in or what she means to him anymore. And what I am in this mess. I don’t intend to find out. My heart is aching, but my defense system is connecting. And I just need air.
My damp hair is tied up the best it can be, now that it’s so short, and my sneakers are on my feet. It’s quiet. I assume they’re still in his room doing God knows what. I don’t even want to think about it.
I open the door and pull my hooded top on, zipping it over my sports crop top in a distracted movement. I freeze as I catch sight of him sitting alone on the couch, facing my door. Pausing mid-movement, then continuing to haul on my jacket, I try to ignore that he’s watching me in an unsettling, silent way, his expression bleak. He is still topless with jeans and bare feet, and I gulp, so easily affected by him.
He looks poster boy sexy and ruffled, but totally stressed; his arms are up resting on top of his head in a pose that just screams ‘my life is fucking over’. I falter, but he says nothing, just sighs, still watching me, and I force myself to walk into the living room. I look around for his guest and note his door is shut.
“She’s in there. It’s Marissa,” he points out darkly. I say nothing, just chew my lip nervously. My heart is pounding so hard I think I may have a heart attack, and I want him to stop staring at me. He’s making me even more nervous than I already am, dissolving my resolve. “Are you done having your after-sex crisis?” he asks, his tone droll. I flinch at his words but ignore them and take a slow breath.
“I’m going running; I need some air,” I respond quietly, unable to meet his eyes. I focus instead on putting my iPod in the holder on my arm and plugging in the headphones.
“How appropriate, Emma,” he sneers at me. I glare at him as I walk around the furniture toward the door. He jumps up, leaping easily over the couch, and stands face to face with me, blocking my route menacingly. He towers above me, anger all over his face, and I hesitate. “I don’t think so,” he growls.
“What? You’re going to stop me from leaving?” I reel back in trepidation, a little unsure of him right now.
“If I have to.” He looks sardonic, and I back off confused.
“You want a cozy chat with me and Marissa, do you?” I can’t help the sarcasm; he has knocked me off balance with his behavior, and I’m just reacting.
Why am I being this way? Why is he? What’s wrong with us? We should be able to just go back to before.
He steps back as if stung by what I said and rubs a hand over his face losing his menacing glare. He scrubs his fingers through his unruly hair, looking desolate, and I get a twinge of guilt and pity, but I steel myself to stay still.
“Things are fucked, Emma.” His voice wavers, sounding as exhausted as I am.
That’s an understatement if I ever heard one, and I’m heartbroken that he’s only now realizing this! He lifts his hand, cupping my cheek, and runs his thumb across my mouth unexpectedly, causing me to flinch at his touch, at the surprise of such a tender motion. He withdraws as if I’ve scolded him and puts both hands into his pockets instead. He looks like a child as he turns his face away, hunching his shoulders. It makes me ache to reach out for him, but I still my hands by my side. I have more control than this. I need to do this.
“Are you going to fire me?” I ask flatly. I need to know. I need to prepare myself, figure out where I go from here.
“Why would you ask me that?” he snaps, his fiery green gaze on me, anger instantly returning."
