Page 6 of The Matchmaker's Cottage

“Yourself?” Once again she interrupted him, her words tinged with soft, caustic humor.

“All of us,” he replied, teeth gritted.

She rolled her eyes, the gesture appearing uncharacteristic on her pretty, delicate face. “I tried to tell you before that I was no longer interested in Greg and that I wanted out.”

“Emily.” His tone was flat and inexorable. “It’s very common for our clients to have cold feet and want to scale back on the”—deception—“exercise. What isn’t common is having a client go absolutely nuclear on live television.”

“I thought after what happened between us, you would agree with my”—she appeared to be searching for the right word—“somewhat extreme tactics.”

What happened between—

Ethan ran a flat palm roughly down his face and then up again for good measure.

“Emily.” His voice came out more roughly than he’d intended, but he felt himself losing control of his emotions, similar to how he was about to lose control of this situation. “There is no ‘us.’ Whatever you think happened, I’m sorry if I misled—”

“Ethan, you kissed me!”

Oh god, her voice was too loud, her voice was too fucking loud, and he was definitely going to lose his job.

“I didnotkiss you,” he hissed, dropping both hands onto his desk with decidedly less force than he wanted. “You know that—”

Her expression softened, and she reached toward him, placing her hand atop his. He bit off what he was about to say and felt his whole body tense. It was an effort to keep his hand still underneath her warm palm when all he wanted to do was jerk it away.

“Ethan,” she murmured, looking up at him from beneath her lashes in what he recognized as a carefully curated expression meant to entice. “I—”

“Mr. Duchamp.” Gayle’s brisk voice interrupted them from the doorway, and Ethan gave in to the impulse to remove his hand from underneath Emily’s, never more relieved to hear the older lady’s voice. He stood, chair rolling away from him with more force than he’d intended.

“Yes, Ms. Smart?” Stepping away from the desk, he tried to put even more space between himself and Emily. The last thing he needed was more rumors spreading about his involvement in this whole fiasco. He knew Gayle wouldn’t say anything, but the glass doors of his office didn’t offer much discretion.

“Mr. Fordham would like to see you,” she informed him. Turning to Emily, she put on a professional smile. “Ms. Sattler. I believe your appointment with Mr. Duchamp is over now. Won’t you follow me?”

The sarcasm-laden use of the wordappointmentgave Ethan the impression that Gayle hadn’t been aware Emily had been in his office, and if he weren’t so wrapped up in dealing with the demolition of his life, he would almost find her disdain amusing.

Emily pursed her lips, also clearly catching the condescension and air of disapproval, but acquiesced. She gave Ethan one last inscrutable look before leaving wordlessly behind the secretary, her expensive perfume lingering in the room like a silent censure.

Ethan raked his hands through his hair, mussing up the cropped layers, before realizing it probably wasn’t the wisest decision to go see his boss looking as frazzled as he felt. He attempted to smooth it down again as he walked, making it to Fordham’s office sooner than he would have liked. The CEO’s office was also glass-doored, though his glass was frosted, as he was apparently entitled to more privacy than that bestowed upon his inferiors. Ethan knocked on the door once, waiting to be granted entry.

“Come in.”

Taking a deep, bracing breath, then slowly exhaling, Ethan let himself in to the spacious office.

Mr. Fordham was sitting at his desk, fingers steepled as he regarded Ethan with dark blue eyes under heavy gray brows, waiting until Ethan sat down across from him.

He would cut a picture of a formidable man, master of his domain, leader of the pack.

If not for the fact that his bare feet were propped up on the desk, one lean leg crossed over the other, toes on full display.

“You fucked up,” the older man said without preamble the second Ethan sat down.

If the sight of his boss’s feet still gave him pause, even after all this time, today was not the day he was going to acknowledge it.

“Mr. Fordham, I—”

The CEO waved his hand in front of Ethan. “When am I‘Henry’ to you and when am I ‘Mr. Fordham’?” he said, his tone turning mocking at the end. “Just say what you have to say, and then so will I.”

I’m getting fucking fired. Ethan knew with certainty that this was the last conversation he was going to have in Henry’s office. He was going to get fired, today, by a man who refused to wear shoes.

Focus, Ethan.