input—which means my input—on a lease agreement. And I need to—’
‘Quiet.’
God! Don’t hate me, but when he’s bossy I love it. And he’s almost always bossy.
I glare at him across his desk; it’s best if he doesn’t know that this is just about my favourite version of him.
‘You’re fucking telling me to be quiet?’ I lean forward, and we’re close now: almost touching. ‘Seriously?’
‘You’re pissed off.’
‘Damn right, I am.’
His laugh is soft. Throaty. Hot. ‘Because we didn’t finish?’
I flick my eyes shut. My cheeks are hot. ‘What do you need?’
‘Are you in a relationship with him?’
‘Who?’
‘Wolf DuChamp?’
I hide a smile. ‘So you do know his name?’
‘Now I do.’
His expression is unreadable. But deep inside me something stirs. Hope. Because isn’t there an implication there that he knows about Wolf because of me? Because he wants to know about my life?
‘So? What’s the deal?’ he asks.
‘Are you jealous?’ The words are a challenge; they escape unbidden.
His response is razor-sharp. ‘Why would I be jealous?’
Crap. A stupid challenge, apparently.
‘Forget it.’ I scrape the chair back and stand, my eyes not inviting argument. ‘Is that all?’
‘You haven’t answered me. How can it be all?’
I expel a breath angrily. ‘I like him.’ I shrug.
It’s true. Not romantically, necessarily. But he’s a nice guy. Good-looking. It doesn’t matter that I’ve already ruled out a relationship.
‘Are you fucking him?’
My expression is ice—even I can feel the chill that spreads through the office.
‘Isn’t this the question that got us into trouble last night?’
He stands up, slamming his palms against the desk, his eyes lashing me. ‘Are you fucking him?’
It’s loud. Not quite a roar, but close to it. I’m startled. This is outside the bounds of anything that’s happened between us and we both know it. Then again, I guess we’ve obliterated boundaries now. They—like me—are in a state of flux. Changeability that is unpredictable and not good.
‘Go to hell.’
I turn around and walk out of his office, but my knees are shaking and I feel really weird, as if I could cry—which, for your information, I haven’t done in years. I literally don’t cry. Not at sad movies. Not when my cat died.
But I’m shaking, and if he follows me I’ll be really lost.
He doesn’t.
I storm over to my desk. I wasn’t lying or exaggerating. Piles of paper clutter every available inch of the thing. I turn my back on them and stare over the Heath, my eyes brooding.
This is a damned nightmare, isn’t it?
My brain nods along smugly. Told you so.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
