by Liv Lane
The hardest part is that I love my job. Andrew’s team is fantastic, and I’ve let them down with my mistake.
I got through Coffeegate, I can get through this, I tell myself. Soon it will be nothing but a bad memory, old news they talk about in passing. They might even forget me if the list is long enough.
I stop at the coffee vendor, because why not? If I see him this morning, I might go ahead and toss my coffee over him accidentally on purpose.
But he doesn’t turn up, and I take the full elevator to my floor.
In my twenty-two years of life, I’ve come to understand that bad impressions travel twice as fast as good ones, which is why I’m super confused when Andrew greets me with a cheery wave as I slink to my desk. “Emma, how was your weekend?”
“Good, thanks,” I provide the obligatory answer. Although I sound deflated and not at all like it was good. Maybe Andrew doesn’t know about my indiscretion yet?
“That’s great to hear. Get home safely?”
I nod because I don’t trust myself to speak and not blabber it all out like I did with Coffeegate. There’s a weird subtext to those words. Why does it feel like that? He seems a serious sort who might frown on my fraternizing with Matt. He’ll probably find a way to fire me or crush any future career opportunities once he finds out.
“You had fun with the team Friday evening?” he asks. “Rex mentioned cocktails. I’m glad Matt made sure you got home safely. I asked him to look out for you.” He’s still staring at me intently, and I get the distinct impression he’s doing a Betty-style cross-examination. “I know it’s old fashioned, but I don’t see anything wrong with making sure we look after new staff when it comes to work nights out, official or otherwise. And especially ones involving free alcohol when Susan, Rex, and Kelly are in charge of the orders.” He sighs significantly. “Matt was happy to step in.”
I bet he was! I mumble my thanks, and his return smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Ah, here’s Rex!”
My mind scatters and surges as Rex saunters over, all debonair hipster. “Morning Emma, did you see the photos from Friday night?”
Freaking hell! When were photos taken? I have no recollection of this. “Photos?” I ask weakly. “No, I haven’t seen any photos.” I cut a swift glance toward my blank monitor like the damning evidence might magically appear. “When were they taken?”
“Don’t look at the photos,” Andrew advises cryptically before he heads off to get his morning coffee, leaving me alone with Rex and my mounting panic that’s rushing headlong into hysteria. I take a moment to collect myself, reasoning that any photos must have been taken from a distance while I was drinking the cocktails.
“They’re on the company intranet,” Rex says, sitting his ass down on the corner of my desk like he’s going to watch while I check them out. “We often take a few. There’s a great one of you and Matt.” He winks at me. “I put it on the company Instagram account yesterday, and it’s already received over a thousand likes.”
The blood drains from my face.
“Rex!”
Rex’s head pops up at Andrew’s call, while I mentally tack on, here boy, at the end.
As he leaves, I fumble to log on to my computer with fingers shaking so badly that I type my password wrong—twice.
Instagram account? What the hell is wrong with them! And how did I not know about the company’s Instagram account?
A thousand likes…no that isn’t possible, this is Rex’s warped humor kicking in because he knows the real reason I left with Matt, and that there was nothing remotely chivalrous about it.
I rub my temples to try and ease the tension there before making my third attempt at logging in. I really don’t want to have to call IT to get my password reset if I type it wrong again.
Thankfully, I manage to get the keys in the right order, and I’m on and scrambling to open the intranet social page. It doesn’t take me long since it’s the first picture on the home page. One hundred and fifty-seven employees have given it a thumbs-up, and there are a dozen comments logged.
It’s not yet eight in the morning, how is this possible?
I’ve lived for a whole twenty-two years without experiencing a panic attack. Since meeting Matt, tunnel vision and cold sweats have become a regular friend. My heart lodges in my throat, and air refuses to move in and out of my lungs.
The picture has been taken from close up. Matt is leaning in to talk to me, his face in profile. I’m facing the camera, my eyes are lowered, and there’s a faint flush to my cheeks.
Intimate is the word that springs to mind. Rex certainly has an eye for photography, which I would appreciate a whole lot more if I wasn’t the freaking star of the show.
And I know exactly what Matt was saying at the time. “I want to fuck you, Emma.” Words emblazoned in my mind. Saturday morning, I played them over and over in my mind before Betty and Mary and the incident at the ice cream shop. “I want to do a lot of wicked things to you. I want to taste every inch of you and learn what makes you wet. Then I want to make you come. Yeah, I really want to make you come.”
It wasn’t a boast, the man certainly did deliver.
Intimate. God, I need to get the freaking photo taken down.
“Nice picture,” Dillon says, gesturing at his iPhone with a smirk.
“Fuck off,” I reply, which only makes him chuckle.
We’re in my office because my brother still has access since I foolishly haven’t gotten around to revoking it despite him only coming up here to give me hell. My laptop is open on my desk, showing the now-infamous photo of Emma and me. Her eyes are lowered, and I’m leaning in close. Her face is glowing from the filthy suggestion I was whispering in her ear.
Her expression is—unguarded. Given what I now know about her taste in books, I could have taken the dirty talk up another notch.
I flick back to the report I should be reading.
There’s a matter of a misunderstanding to clear up before we get to that. While I can see the vision I must have presented leaving the ice cream shop with my sister and her sweet monsters, I’m still pissed about her obvious conclusion.
I’ve played around, and I get that delivers a reputation. It’s one thing to play the field, and another to do so while married with children. People like to gossip and make assumptions. Mostly I don’t give a damn what people make of my lifestyle, but I take offense at this particular label.
The photo, though, that’s another pain in my ass.
“Looks…intimate,” he says, throwing me a raised brow before stretching his fingers over the screen in a way that suggests he’s zooming in.
Fuck, I need to get that photo taken down, but I’m debating whether removing it at this stage will do more damage than good.
There have been times aplenty when I wanted to fire Rex, but today I’m a beat away from picking up my phone and having him frogmarched out of the building.
“I’m going to fire his ass,” I mutter under my breath and drag a hand through my hair.
“No, you’re not,” Dillon replies easily because it’s not him with over a thousand likes on the company’s Instagram account, not to mention the comments on the intranet page.
We like to post fun pictures on Instagram, which occasionally includes social events. Every post is vetted by our media team, but they really screwed up this time.
Had I seen this Saturday when Rex first put it up, I might have had some chance at damage mitigation. But I rarely check our Instagram account. Even if I did, I’ve been so busy this weekend helping Kat with the Thomas fiasco that I’ve barely stopped to breathe. It doesn’t help that she’s so fiercely independent, and won’t let me employ someone to help her. She was exhausted after the hospital, and I spent the weekend there so she could catch a little rest.
I’m sure my judgmental new employee would be shocked to discover the truth.
I would have dragged Dillon in to help. Thomas adores Uncle Dillon and the rough-and-tumble t
hat usually accompanies his visit, but he was out of town since he’d whisked Susan away for the weekend as part of his celebrations.
“This is great publicity. Susan said you’ve had two media outlets and a magazine asking for pictures of the ring.”
“Susan?” I phrase this as a question because I’m experiencing a sudden epiphany as to how this got past marketing.
Dillon lifts his head and smirks at me. “So, how did it go with the new hire, aka the next Mrs. Matthew Dexton?”
“It didn’t,” I say too quickly. In my defense, I’m still trying to work out how to best back out of this photographic-disaster.
“Oh?” He says, sounding all interested, and relaxing back in the seat so he can give me his undivided attention. “So, you didn’t take her home?”
Asshole.
“You know I did. Then Kat called.” Evasion doesn’t always work with Dillon, but I’m desperate, and it’s worth a shot.
He indicates the phone, which I can see is still open on the infamous picture. “Her face is a little flushed. What depraved suggestions were you whispering in her ear?”
“The kind I don’t discuss with you,” I say, and I regret that uncensored slip seeing Dillon’s eyes widen. “Did you come here for a reason? Because I have back-to-back meetings,” —I glance at my watch— “starting in five minutes.”
“No, I’m good. Just came to gloat,” Dillon says, rising from the seat. He slips his phone into his back pocket and adds, “She looks sweet and way too good for you. Don’t fuck it up.”
With those parting pearls of wisdom, my baby brother exits my office.
And like a revolving door, in walks Andrew. He nods at Dillon before closing the door and stalking over to my desk.
“You fucked her, didn’t you?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head and confident in this admission because technically I didn’t.
He scrunches his face and waves a disapproving finger at me. “Don’t fuck her, asshole. I’ve seen that photo on the intranet page and Instagram for fuck’s sake. What were you saying to her?”
“I was asking her if she wanted to be taken home,” I say, indicating my laptop and the report I am still trying to read. “I have a meeting in five minutes, and I need to read this report. You asked me to make sure she got home safely, remember?”
“Yeah,” he rakes a hand through his hair. “That’s because I’m an idiot. I regretted it the moment I saw that evil grin light up your face. I didn’t employ her as your fuck-buddy. Her grades are outstanding, and her work is exemplary—as I knew it would be. Did you learn nothing from your experience with the paralegal?”
I flip my laptop closed because I’m deluding myself that I’m reading a damn word. Also, I learned a lot from that paralegal. Later, I found out I wasn’t the only recipient of her wisdom….sometimes you have to roll with the punches. “What are you, my mother? Did you or did you not ask me to make sure she got home? Did I go into her home? Yes, I did. Did I subsequently get a call from my sister because Thomas broke his arm? Yes, I did.”
“Is he okay?”
Andrew appears genuinely concerned, which throws me since he usually doesn’t give a damn about anyone or anything besides his job and nailing the next blonde model in his lineup.
I wave a dismissive hand. Thomas is a tough kid. “He’s fine. Got a spider-man sleeve over the cast, so he thinks he’s a superhero now. I was with her most of the weekend, and his energy levels were still off the chart. Doesn’t seem to be troubling him.”
“That’s good,” he says, stuffing a hand in his pocket. “Kat okay too?”
“My sister is fine. Thanks for asking. And if it makes you feel any better, Emma probably thinks I’m an asshole because I left abruptly after getting Kat’s call…In fact, I know she thinks I’m an asshole when she saw me the next day with Kat getting Thomas an ice cream. My sister foolishly made that promise to gain his good behavior for the doctors. So now Emma thinks I’m some sort of creep, out drinking,” —And going down on her— “while my poor wife tends to our injured child.”
Predictably, Andrew finds this amusing. “Good,” he says, nodding. “It’s for the best.”
I’m saved from further discussion by a knock on the door. And taking the cue, Andrew leaves the room.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
IT’S BEEN A long week, but it’s now late Thursday afternoon, and the weekend is closing in. I’ve gotten through it far better than I thought I would…apart from the tension spikes whenever someone mentions the infamous picture. No one has made mention of my leaving with Matt, so that’s one bullet I’ve dodged. The photo has taken center stage, but even that’s tapered off.
I find myself wondering what Matt thought of it. I expected him to have it removed, but it’s still there, still racking up likes.
He probably didn’t spare it a glance.
So yeah, the picture has been a blast for all the wrong reasons, but I’ve gotten effective at deflection, and most people are ready to believe that nothing is going on between us because, let’s face it, we’re in different leagues and it’s easy to believe.
“How’s our Instagram star?”
My head pops up from my spreadsheet to find Susan smiling at me from the other side of my desk. I should have reviewed this analysis data an hour ago, but I keep getting distracted by all the angst that’s invaded my once mundane life.
As per usual, Susan looks flawless in her cream-colored fitted dress, and her long dark hair falls in perfect waves over her shoulder.
I envy her wearing that color of dress, I would probably spill food or drink down myself within seconds if I dared to leave my home like that. Meanwhile, Susan has gone an entire day wearing it incident-free.
She has her bag over her shoulder, so I’m guessing she’s about to leave for the evening.
“Surviving the hordes of clamoring fans,” I deadpan. “There was talk of crowd control barriers, but thankfully the frenzy died down before we got to that.”
Susan bursts out laughing, her warm brown eyes sparkling with mischief.
“You’re handling it better than Matt,” she says dryly.
I fidget and try not to appear too interested in that because I’m not interested in Matt—or in any reaction he might have had to the photo.
Not interested…but I am curious—which is completely different.
No, it’s not different, it’s precisely the same, and I mentally slap myself up the side of the head.
Susan is watching me in a way that suggests I’m projecting my conflicted emotional rollercoaster.
Earlier, when I said everyone bought into the idea that nothing is going on between Matt and me, I wasn’t including Susan. Susan is totally on to my attempts at deflection and is clearly finding my whole plausible denial amusing, which also doesn’t make a bit of sense.
She’s been his assistant for three years, surely she knows he’s married?
Her face softens, and I mentally prepare myself for her to tell me his wife is a bitch, that he was forced to marry…and further that the children aren’t his, but the product of her numerous affairs.
“You can’t keep ignoring a meeting invite from the company CEO,” she says softly. Her face is serious, and her tone filled with gentle reproach.
Yeah, that was a low blow, and the follow through with a bucket full of guilt didn’t help.
I sigh. “I know,” I say, only I don’t know anything anymore, and I desperately want to ask her what the hell is going on.
Matt (yes, Matt and not Susan because I can see the email signature) has been sending me meeting invites, too many to count—I’ve declined them all. Today none arrived, so I’m guessing he might have finally given up.
I don’t want to hear his reasons or excuses. I’ve got myself back into my flow, and I’m determined to keep this strictly business from here on out. So what if my stupid brain can still remember how good it felt when he put his hands and mouth on me. It will pass. I’ll get over it.
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The trouble is, I have a weird feeling that I’ve got this all wrong as I stare at Susan, hoping she will put me out of my misery—she doesn’t.
Her smile is rueful; she can see right through me. “I’ll see you at the presentation tomorrow,” she says, and with a goodbye call to Rex and Kelly, who sit a few desks away, she heads for the elevator.
The way everyone talks about Matt, it’s obvious that he’s liked and respected. Then there’s the way he was so patient with me, before, during, and after—and he didn’t mention the ridiculous goat noise. That definitely gets him a few points.
He’s also wicked and hot, and I know Susan was only half-serious when she called him a tyrant on the day I started.
So yeah, he’s complicated, and I fear I’m not worldly enough to work him out.
I need to remain professional, he’s a good man who does have some principles, just not the ones pertaining to marriage. And I know I have to accept the next meeting invite when he sends it…if he sends it.
How did my life become such a hot mess? Tonight I’m going to distract myself with a gloriously unhealthy takeout and pretend there isn’t a biker romance book burning a hole through my coffee table.
“Excited about tomorrow’s presentation?” Andrew asks as he stops by my desk. Rex and Kelly are still working, but otherwise, our floor is quiet.
“Yes…a little nervous, too,” I admit. Our team is delivering a presentation to the senior managers tomorrow, and I want it to be perfect.
Andrew smiles. He’s a great boss. Firm but fair. I’m going to learn so much from my experiences here, sometimes you just know when you’re on to a good thing.
“The presentation will go fine,” he says confidently. “Rex is doing most of the talking.” He winks. “Getting him to stop talking will be the challenge! You’ve spent two weeks collating the supporting data for the project, so you must be the one to share it. And the experience will be good.”
“Thanks, I appreciate the opportunity.” I’m talking about a lot more than the presentation.
