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“I left for both our sakes, Emma,” he continues, still locked on me intensely.
“If I remember rightly, you left for your own … needs.” At least he has the grace to look away and sigh. My face is flushing, and my cheeks are hot; talking about this is making me uptight already. This was never going to be a good conversation. It just hurts me irreversibly.
“Yeah, well, we had started to overstep the mark a little too frequently, as you kept reminding me,” he points out calmly, but there’s a sadness in his voice.
“Is that what we’re calling it nowadays?” I sound pathetic, huffy, and immature, and I hate myself for it.
“What would you rather we call it? Gross misconduct? Sexual advances from your boss?” There’s a slight sneer, but overall, he sounds calm, his face almost expressionless, although his green eyes have darkened stormily.
“Um, no. Drunken antics that got out of hand … twice,” I utter nervously, trying to lighten the mood a little.
“Three times,” he corrects.
“I’m sure you weren’t drunk in the car,” I add.
“Maybe I should have been.” He shrugs with one shoulder and shifts in his seat.
“Well, that would have been safe, driving the way you were,” I sarcastically retort. I sound more than immature now; I sound aggressive and in no way ready to talk.
Why am I trying to antagonize him? Does he just bring this need out in me to fight with him lately?
“I’m an excellent driver, Emma. I’ve driven with some of the best racing instructors in the world.” He ignores my jibe.
“Is that the direction we’re taking now, squabbling over your driving accomplishments?” I pout, crossing my hands in my lap and sighing deeply. He wrinkles his forehead at me and looks out over the aisle at the empty seats, shifting in his seat for the second time.
“I left because, if I didn’t, it was going to go one of two ways … either I’d end up fucking you or strangling you.”
I’m gobsmacked; there’s no other word for it. He just put it right out there so bluntly.
I’m sure I should read my contract under the section about appropriate conversation topics with your boss and maybe check the sexual harassment clauses.
He flicks his eyes over my burning face, accepting my silence.
“It’s clear that parts of our relationship sometimes blur the lines. We work closely, we live in each other’s pockets, and sometimes I forget that you are my PA above everything else.”
“What exactly do you confuse me with?” I snort because that would be nice to know. I kind of need a definition.
What else would you call what I do?
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 sometimes forget 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’m also upset that 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 afterward 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 how I’ve maneuvered the topic. I’m such an idiot.
“Completely,” he responds. I sense the coolness returning to his voice; he reacts to my anger and 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 fakest 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 at 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.
I’m smarting and emotional, and I want to throw my drink at him in a bid to feel better. He’s acting like this is a 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.
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