Besides, this wasn’t really about what I needed to hear from Donovan. It was what he needed to hear from me.
I turned back to him. “There was more about what happened between us back then, and I think there might be an impression of me that has lingered that is not accurate.”
“Oh, really?” He cocked his head. “I’m intrigued.”
“It didn’t help that I stayed on the phone with you the other night. I should have hung up, but I’d been drinking.”
He rolled his eyes dramatically. “You should have hung up on a friend?”
“One who was making sexual comments, trying to get a rise out of me? Yes.” I pointed a finger at him. “And don’t say that sexual harassment used to be our thing, because that’s what I’m talking about. That impression of me, that that’s what I want—it’s wrong.”
“That’s not what you want?” The way he looked at me—looked into me with those brown-green eyes and that intense gaze—it was hard not to second-guess myself.
But I barreled on, committed to what I knew was true about myself. “It’s not. Back then, when I was at Harvard, I developed somewhat of a fixation with you after you rescued me from being raped by Theodore Sheridan.”
He dropped his fork on his plate with a clang that made me jump. “A fixation. That’s what you’re calling it.”
He sounded pissed, and even though I couldn’t figure out why he’d be angry about my issues, it made me even more defensive. “It sounds silly, but it happens. It’s even got a name—it’s a form of transference. It basically happens when a person falls for someone in an effort to erase or change a past trauma.”
“Did you see a therapist to figure out this bullshit?”
“No.” I shifted in my chair, uneasy with the conversation. “I’ve read books and done a lot of online research. Anyway, it was a phase, and it’s over. I was complicit in the inappropriate activity that occurred between us, but I’m not that girl anymore.”
“Keep telling yourself that, Sabrina,” he said sharply.
His condescension stung, but more, he’d missed the point. “I’m telling you.”
Leaning forward, he practically growled. “Why?”
“Why am I telling you?”
“Yes. Why?”
“So that you’ll know.”
“You mean so that I’ll stop. So that I’ll stop saying things and doing things, things that maybe make you feel uncomfortable, but also make you feel alive for probably the first time in years. But you know what the problem with that is? The problem is that the thing you really want to stop isn’t me, it’s how you react. And that’s not going to go away with research or alcohol or stern conversations. And no matter how many times you tell this story to me, or yourself, it’s still never going to change that it’s exactly that—a story.”
My eyes felt wet. Not wet enough to cry but wet enough to sting. Yes, I wanted to stop reacting to him. Yes. He knew. He fucking knew even if I couldn’t say it clearly. But the thing he didn’t realize was that if he stopped then my reactions would stop.
Because he was the one who brought this out in me. No one else.
I finished my wine and set the empty glass on the table.
“We don’t have to agree on this.” My throat felt dry despite having just drunk.
“No, we don’t,” he said bitterly as he picked up his fork. “I just have to leave you alone.”
We finished the meal in silence. As each terrible, awkward second passed, I reminded myself that this was what I’d wanted. He wouldn’t bother me after this. He seemed to hate me now, for some reason I couldn’t quite figure out. Honestly, I wasn’t trying very hard. I was too busy hating myself.
Was transference just an excuse? A prettier label than the real one underneath?
But if I hadn’t been into sick dirty things because Donovan had saved me, then it meant I’d really liked it. All of it. Including the part where he’d been cruel and horrible. Including the parts where he was still cruel and horrible.
I was still in my head by the time we climbed into the elevator together. The tension was wrapped densely around us, and it seemed to thicken in the small confined space. It was solid. Like a wall between us.
We’d only traveled down a couple of floors when the car suddenly jolted to a stop. I glanced toward Donovan—his hand was on the emergency stop button.
My heart began hammering in my chest.
In an instant, he had me caged against the wall.
“Sabrina…” He searched my face, looking for an answer I wasn’t sure I could give.
“I’m not frightened of you.” I pressed tighter against the wall, but my stomach felt like butterflies had taken over, and shit, he was right. I did feel alive.
“No. That was never your problem. The problem was that you liked that you are.” He pushed in closer, so close that I could feel him against the length of me even though he wasn’t touching me anywhere. “I still remember every crease on your face when you came.”
I looked away, though his nose was inches from mine. “That was ten years ago.” But it was as vivid as yesterday in my mind, too.
“The sounds that you made. The way you said my name.” There was an ache in his voice, and it pulled my eyes to his.
I could remember the way he smelled. The way the bookcase scratched against my back. The way it felt when he pushed inside me—like I was being torn apart and split open, the way it felt like I was only being held together because of him.
And if that were all I remembered then I would beg for him to kiss me, because there was nothing I wanted more in that moment than his hands on me, everywhere on me. Making me feel all those things he’d made me feel back then. All the things he still made me feel when I dared to let him.
But there was more, and I hadn’t forgotten it.
“I remember how you dismissed me like a used toy. Sent me to your friend.”
Donovan’s eyes closed briefly, and he exhaled.
“To Weston.” He stepped away, releasing me from my trap. “That’s right. That was wise of me.”
He backed up until he was on the opposite side of the elevator. “Weston would be good for you. You’d be good for him. After his whole marriage is over, that is.”
I let out a harsh laugh. “So I should pursue Weston.” Really? He was pushing this again?
“Why not? That’s what you came here thinking you’d do, wasn’t it? I think it would be an excellent choice for both of you.”
I was almost too stunned for words. Thirty seconds ago he’d been ready to tear off my clothes, and now he was advocating a relationship with his business partner and friend.
Whatever his game was, it hadn’t changed since college. But mine had. Back then I’d let this hurt me. Now, I’d play along. “Fine. I’ll do that.”
He seemed slightly taken aback. “You will?”
“Sure. As soon as his marriage is over. Thanks for the suggestion.”
“Glad I could help.” He released the emergency button and the elevator started again.
The Jag was waiting on the street, but my worries about sharing a ride turned out to be unnecessary. After holding it open for me so I could get in the back seat, Donovan shut the door and knocked on the hood of the car.
The driver pulled out into traffic, and when I swiveled to look behind us, Donovan was already gone from sight.
Fifteen
I pulled my hair nervously as Nate Sinclair studied the bulletin boards in the strategy room. Pinned to them were ideas and inspiration for a campaign we were getting ready to introduce for Phoenix Technology—a multinational tech company that was one of the foremost designers and developers of computer software and hardware. My staff had gathered the pertinent materials into a PowerPoint presentation for the meeting the following day, but the brainstorming boards were still up in case we needed to make any last minute changes. It was much easier to work on a team project in a tactile format, I’d found, so I’d kept this style when I’d
joined the firm.
Still, it felt awkward having a superior looking at my work like this. Like it was naked and raw. Like I was naked and raw. I was grateful the main lights were off and only the spotlights were on. Maybe the darkness could hide my edginess.
“We’ll adjust any of this to fit what Creative comes up with,” I said, in case Nate thought the strategy was lacking. Not that he’d said anything to suggest that he did.
He moved from a magazine article to a graph about the best uses of social media. “I’m not worried about it. This is Weston’s department.”
Right. Nate didn’t care. He was only in here killing time while his own department came up with an ad campaign. They’d come up with several ad ideas, and he’d shot down every one so far.
Weston, on the other hand, had left for the night. He wasn’t the type to stay late in general, I’d learned. Especially recently, when he had so much to do to prepare for his upcoming wedding, which was now only six weeks away.
My anxiety was all about me and no one else. I’d been at Reach for a month, and due to the fast pace that the company kept, I’d already seen several of my team’s marketing plans put into place. But Phoenix was the first big campaign presentation I’d been a part of. It was important to the entire firm, and nerves were high-strung throughout the staff. I’d just left a handful of my own employees in another work room, quibbling over which color of background looked better in the PowerPoint slides like it was a matter of life or death.
I let out a sigh, relaxing my shoulders as I did. “Are you confident your team will come up with something?”
Nate stroked his hand across his closely shaved beard. “A year ago we wouldn’t have even had a shot at Phoenix. An opportunity like this doesn’t come every day, and I’m going to make sure we make the most of it. That’s the best we can do.” He turned toward me. “But if we don’t get it, we don’t get it. It’s not because I don’t have a good team. Advertising is catching the right wave at the right time. Sometimes you crest high, sometimes you wipe out.”
I tilted my head and looked at him in the dim light. “Nathan Sinclair, are you a secret surfer?”
Nate was ten years older than Donovan, who already had five years on me, and except for a vague bio on the company website, I didn’t know much about the man. He seemed to like it that way. Every time I’d tried to ask him about himself, he’d evaded my questions. Either he was a serious introvert or a man with a fascinating past.
I was betting on the latter.
Tonight he had his jacket off and the sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up to his elbows revealing tattoos extending down both of his forearms. I’d seen him riding a Harley once after work. I could totally picture him hanging ten.
But he only laughed. “Just trying to bond with the California girl.”
“In the years I lived there, I don’t think I ever became a California girl. I maybe went to the beach a handful of times.” I wasn’t even sure I’d ever gotten a tan.
“Workaholic.”
I squinted at the clock. “Says the president still at the office at nine thirty-seven p.m.”
“It’s only the second time this week I’ve been here past eight.”
“It’s Tuesday.”
There was a knock on the doorframe since the door was already open. We turned toward the sound. One of the guys from Creative was standing there.
“Hey, Nate, what do you think about the ‘American Idea’? That notion was used a lot in the last election year. Maybe we could try to leverage it as a unifying patriotic—”
Nate cut him off. “Can’t use it. The ‘American Idea’ was trademarked by Donald Trump.” He thought for a moment. “But I like the scope. Let’s keep thinking along those lines. I’ll come brainstorm with you.” The two of them left together.
“Send someone to get me when you have something,” I called after them. “I’ll be here or upstairs in my office.” Then I turned again to my boards. If the scope of the campaign were bigger, would we need to adjust our strategy to fit that?
The idea of making changes made me tired—or more tired—but I was determined. I walked backwards, trying to see the entirety of the plan better, until my thighs hit the back of the worktable.
“Fuck it,” I muttered to myself, hopping on the table. I was already here late. Might as well get comfortable. I kicked off my shoes while I was at it and brought one nyloned foot up to my knee to massage while I looked over the boards and brainstormed.
For the next several minutes, I was lost in my head, but not so lost that I didn’t notice when the air in the room changed. It felt warmer. Like the heater had just kicked in.
Someone walked in and stood beside the table.
I inhaled slowly. I didn’t want to turn my head, didn’t want to look in his direction, because I knew exactly who it was, and in this moment, he was next to me, and while I was pretending I didn’t know, I didn’t have to pretend I didn’t care.
But then he held out a Styrofoam cup of coffee in my direction, and I had to look at it.
“You’re working late,” Donovan said when I acknowledged him.
Beyond seeing him in meetings and passing him in the hallway, I hadn’t really talked to him in the month since the night he’d taken me to Gaston’s. We’d left things unsettled, and that gnawed at me when I let it, but when I didn’t, our working relationship was fine. He didn’t bother me. I didn’t bother him. He’d done as I’d asked—he’d left me alone.
That was what I had wanted, I reminded myself often. It was for the best.
And yet I couldn’t deny that his nearness now felt like a glimpse of sun after a long winter cold.
I took the coffee, wondering if it was an olive branch of sorts. “I want to make sure the plan we have outlined fits the new creative campaign when it comes through.”
After taking a sip of the brew, I set the cup down at my side, trying to ignore the way my stomach flip-flopped when Donovan looked at my work.
It wasn’t any better when he looked back at me. “You have a qualified team for that. You don’t trust them?”
“I trust them just fine.” Honestly, I did. But this was my first big deal. It would have my name all over it. I wanted to make sure every t was crossed. Every i was dotted.
It wasn’t something I wanted to explain to anyone. Especially to him.
“Let me give you some advice,” he said, pulling a chair out from the table.
“How about you don’t.” I was both intrigued and intimidated by his actions. It wasn’t like him to be on this floor. “Why are you even down here?”
Facing the chair toward me, he sat in it. “To bother you. No other reason.” He held his hand out, palm up. “Give me your foot.”
I glanced down at the foot in my lap that I was still half-heartedly rubbing. Was he offering to…? “No!”
He side-eyed me. “Come on, Sabrina. You look exhausted. I owe you a foot rub, at least.” When I still hesitated, he added, “Completely innocent. I promise. We aren’t the only people here. What could I possibly do to you?”
What could he do to me? What a loaded question. He could torture me completely in front of a crowd of people, and no one would ever know. He tortured me completely all the time without even being in the same room with me, and he didn’t know it.
But he’d been right with what he said at Gaston’s—asking him to stop hadn’t stopped my reactions. In the month that had passed, he’d kept his distance, but I’d still thought about him. And the second he stepped into my presence, I lit up in awareness.
So what did it matter if I let him give me a foot rub? It could be a truce. Make our working relationship better, at least.
Reluctantly, I gave him my foot.
He began rubbing the sole through the black nylon thigh high. He wasn’t soft, using his thumb to dig deep into my muscle, but he seemed to know right where to massage and how much pressure I needed to release the tension, not only in my foot, but even in my shoulders a
nd my back.
“You’re good at this.” I couldn’t stop watching him. Couldn’t stop watching his face, how serious he was. How focused.
“I know.” His fingers moved to my ankle, and my entire leg started to tingle, like I’d been lying on it for too long and it had gone to sleep.
I wanted to pull away. But I couldn’t.
He glanced up at me and grinned, as though he could sense my inner struggle and enjoyed it. “Now, my advice.”
“I knew there was a catch.” I huffed, putting on a show, though mostly it was to cover how shaky my breathing was at the moment.
“Of course there was a catch. Stop fighting this.” It was both an order and an appeal, and something about that made me actually pause and listen and wonder if he were talking about more than listening to him spout wisdom.
“Say what you want to say,” I said after a beat. It was probably a bad idea to hear him out. I couldn’t think of many worse.
He kneaded his fingers up higher into the flesh of my calf. “You already have the job.”
“I’m not afraid of losing my job.” Okay, I was somewhat afraid of losing my job.
“You feel like you have to prove yourself.”
I pursed my lips. “Maybe I wouldn’t feel that way if one of my superiors didn’t take every opportunity to discredit me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Nate likes you fine, and we both know Weston is more concerned with what’s under your skirt than what’s inside your head.” But he was smiling. He knew I was talking about him.
“You’re an incredible asshole.” I smiled back. Begrudgingly.
Donovan let go of my leg. “Now, Weston isn’t going to fire you, but if you want something permanent with him, you do have some work to do.”
I perked to attention. “What do you mean?”
“Weston will lose interest.”
Oh. For a second, I’d thought he’d been talking about my career. I’d forgotten the stupid thing I’d told Donovan about pursuing Weston when his marriage was over.
Dirty Filthy Rich Men Page 13
