Page 22 of Tempted By the Safety

I frown down at the screen before I can stop my face from doing it.

Me: who’s Emily

“Everything okay over there?” Paige asks, and there’s an edge under the mild tone now.

“Yeah. Sorry.” I glance at the phone, then back up. “Little trouble with my PA.”

“On a Saturday night?” One of her eyebrows goes up. “I thought the whole point of hiring somebody was so you got your evenings back. Don’t they know not to bother you during personal time?”

“It’s something I asked him to do,” I lie again.

The phone buzzes.

Milo: emilys a friend. old coworker

I sit with that a second. Emily. The name clicks into place: the waitress at the restaurant where Milo used to work.

So that’s her. Or maybe it isn’t. I don’t actually know how many Emilys exist in Milo’s life, and I’m aware, somewhere in the back of my head, that I’m doing an unreasonable amount of detective work over a first name.

Before I can ask him anything else, the phone goes again.

Milo: ok theres a guy at the bar who keeps eye-fucking me. hes hot. should i go talk to him

My stomach drops, fast and ugly, and I don’t examine it too closely because I already know I won’t like what I find down there.

Me: don’t

I type it, thumb moving faster than my thoughts.

Milo: you can’t tell me what to do

He’s right, and some rational, adult part of my brain that I’m currently ignoring knows it’s not my business.

Me: I can. I’m your boss

I know exactly how it reads. It’s the kind of thing that gets an assistant a lawyer, but I still don’t take it back. Because I cannot stand the idea of Milo hooking up with someone.

“Okay.” Paige sets her napkin on the table. “If you have somewhere else you need to be, we can just reschedule this.”

I look up at her.

There is a version of tonight where I apologize properly, put the phone away, ask her something about her life, and salvage the evening the way a person with manners would. But that version exists in some other universe.

“Yeah,” I say. “That’s probably smart.”

Paige nods, covering her disappointment quickly.

Me: send me the address

“Wow,” she says quietly. “Okay.”

“Paige—”

“No, it’s fine. You clearly need to go handle whatever this is.”

My phone buzzes one more time with an address, a bar name I don’t recognize, somewhere downtown.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it, even if it doesn’t fix anything. I raise my hand for the check, and the server appears fast enough that I know he’s been reading this table for the last five minutes, same as everyone else in a thirty-foot radius. I hand over my card before the bill’s even fully on the table, sign the slip without checking the total, and I’m standing, jacket in hand, while Paige is still sitting there with her water glass, watching me leave like I’ve confirmed something she already suspected.