Page 24 of Faking It
“And you’ll get them, but keep in mind, I won’t be played. I may be an old buzzard, but I’m a tough one at that so if you think I was going to sign my check and walk away silently, you’re wrong. I believe in this project, I believe in you . . . and more than anything, I believe in the promise I made Sylvie. That’s who I’m doing this for. That’s why I want this to succeed. So like it or hate it, I’m along for the ride.”
Hello, bullet. Meet gun. Meet temple.
“I wouldn’t expect anything else.” The less I say the better, right now.
“Good,” he says with a definitive nod. “Now let me tell you how ecstatic I am about you having found Harlow. She’s such a lovely woman with so much dimension. I can see why you’re smitten with her.”
“She is quite the force to be reckoned with.”
Too bad it seems I’m the one who’s going to have to do the reckoning.
And of course once he leaves my office, the rest of my day is shit to go right along with my morning.
A phone call from my parents. My mum getting on the line to bitch about my dad. My dad then getting on the line to bitch about my mum. Then them hanging up without saying much else to have another drink and no doubt fight some more. Another pleasant reminder why I left the first chance that I could.
Then a frustrating glitch in the SoulM8 program showed up, and I couldn’t reach the software engineer to fix it. Plus an issue with one of my other companies—a merger that was going south that I had to try and save. Not to mention dealing with a disappointed Simone asking what the hell happened when I had all but verbally told her she had the job.
Add to that Smudge puking on the carpet.
But it’s more than just that contributing to my bad mood.
I should be happy. I can sleep with Simone free and clear now without crossing boundaries I shouldn’t be because I’m her boss. Well, after she forgives me for everything. Our eight o’clock meet up time for cocktails will give me a chance to explain.
But I’m still in a shitty mood. Is it because I don’t want to be stuck with Harlow?
Christ, it’s not even that.
Problem is, I actually like her. Her gumption, her ability to play me when I don’t get played. Her damn body.
That right there is why I hate this idea. If our first few meetings are any indication of what this promotional trip is going to be like, she’s going to speak her mind and assert herself every chance she gets.
Fuck if that isn’t sexy. And confusing. And everything I never go for. All it spells is complication. Trouble. And damn it if it isn’t going to be hard to pretend I’m in love with her, all while wanting to shut her up.
“You okay, mate?” I ask Smudge as he wanders next to my desk, grunting a little with every breath he takes, when the phone rings. “Christ,” I groan when I look at the name on the caller ID.
Cinder.
Isn’t it bad enough that she’s all I’ve been thinking about? And staring at? I glance up at the images on my computer screen, the photo shoot that was sent to me a little over an hour ago. The time I spend contemplating every which way I could have fun with that body of hers all the while knowing the chaos and irritation she’s causing me in all other aspects of my life.
It’s a fucking curse to be a man sometimes. What I’d give to think with my brain without my dick interfering and fucking things up. Literally.
“Haven’t you caused enough problems as it is already?” I say when I pick up the phone.
“I see your manners still need some fine tuning.”
“I’m not a piano, Harlow. I don’t need fine tuning.”
Her laugh is deep and throaty and the mere sound of it has me thinking of her lips the other night. The defiance on her tongue. The surrender in her body that she fought against. That is right up until she speaks. “Oh, but how fun you are to play.”
Fuck if we’re not even a minute into this conversation, and I’m already pissed off. “What do you need?”
“Good afternoon, Zane. I hope you’re having a good day.”
“Not hardly.” That’s all I’m going to give her. I refuse to give her the satisfaction of knowing that she’s the reason my current mood is shit. The silence stretches as I scroll through the rest of the pictures the photographer sent me of Harlow.
The camera loves her. Every angle of every curve of everything about her. In ways that have made me spend way too much time staring at them today instead of tackling the shit I need to do.
It’s her fault. All of it. Isn’t that the easiest way to wrap my head around it all?
