Page 33 of If We Were Young

“Please.”

Fuck, I hated him. I wanted to shake the life out of him.

“If you could bring in some drinks please, Natalie.” I turned for my assistant who melted into a drool while we were still at the obligatory courtesies. You should have seen him when he was young and not an arsehole.

“And can you please tell Fred that Mr Carling is here?”

Matthew’s attention flickered across at me.

“Fred is my head of design.”

“Excellent. Do we know what we are designing yet?”

My smile tightened further, if possible. “Fred and I had an early morning brainstorm.”

Matthew’s eyes held my gaze. “Excellent. That’s what I’m paying you for.”

The situation would have been empowering if it weren’t for the way his voice ran through my veins.

Did I mention I hated him?

“Natalie,” I squeaked. “Drinks, please.” It was almost automatic. “Two teas.”

“Nice china?”

I rolled my eyes and went to answer, but Matthew shot her a heart-stopping smile. When I say heart-stopping, mine flatlined—put me on a gurney and wheel me into the morgue. “Not on my account, please.”

She swooned right in front of him, no shame whatsoever.

I held my arm out, directing him to the office, but he waited for me to walk first, which I did, knees knocking.

In my office I clutched air into my chest and glanced up to find his gaze resting on my face. Past and present, interest and hate.

The way he looked at me became too much. We stared at one another until I realised what he was doing. He was waiting for me to speak first, testing me.

Which of course erased every word I’d ever had in my brain. Because… pressure.

I wanted to close my eyes and meditate for half an hour, but time was a luxury for those not on the brink of a past and present crisis breakdown.

The image of his fingers pushing that glass of water towards me on Friday popped into my head. He’d known I was battling that knot that grew inside me, and he’d helped. He hadn’t forgotten the knot that was half of me, when others didn’t even acknowledge it existed.

Now he was waiting.

“You hate me.” Three words. Maybe not the right ones. But… pressure. I had to say something.

“Hate’s a strong word.”

I perched on my desk, unsure if my legs would work much longer.

“You’re acting like we don’t know each other.”

“We don’t, do we?”

Please let me punch him. If I flew at him like a stark raving banshee would I get away with it? What would my staff think though? Poor Stewart would have kittens, multiple litters. Natalie would try to give Matthew the kiss of life. It would get messy.

So instead, I leant against the desk and stared.

Eventually I shrugged, it was all but impossible to act nonchalant with your heart pounding like a train.