It had only made it worse.
My mood worsened as the day progressed.
I told Nash to go to hell, and by the time I cleaned up, changed, dropped my bags off in my closet, and arrived to work two hours late, Nash was typing away at his laptop with the rest of my coworkers.
Apparently, hell was my office.
He cocked a brow as if to say, and where have you been?
I had been joking when I accused him of stalking me, but maybe he actually was. He had made himself at home in the office, replacing one of the computers with his own laptop, taking up the entire desk as if he owned it.
He does own it, Emery. Given the state of your trust fund and how desperate you are for work, he basically owns you, too.
God, trying to screw Nash had been a horrible idea, like taking on the Avengers armed with an unloaded gun. I pulled out my phone and typed a message to Ben.
Durga: Newsflash—you give horrible advice.
I deleted the text without sending. Guilt gnawed at my stomach. A—Ben usually nailed every piece of advice he delivered. B—screwing Nash out of my system would have worked if he were anyone else but Nash, the one guy on Earth to take more pleasure in turning down a no-strings-attached hook up than wild sex.
Pocketing my phone, I eyed everyone. Cayden’s desk was too messy for anyone to justify booting him from it, so Chantilly sat on the couch I normally shared with Ida Marie and Hannah.
No one explained why Nash was here as I entered, the silence so opposite of what this place resembled sans dictator Nash.
I dropped my Jana Sport at the foot of the couch and leaned down to hug Ida Marie. “Sorry that I’m late, y’all. Some asshole wouldn’t let me into the elevator, and then I had to stop by the, um, restroom.”
Lame as far as excuses went.
I was off my A-game, stealing glances at Nash every few seconds and trying not to be obvious about it. He didn’t look up at me. In fact, he typed away at his laptop as if nothing had happened.
“Pay dock.” Chantilly pointed to the coffee table with her chewed-up pen, not bothering to offer me her attention.
I took a seat on the floor, wondering if I had stepped into the Twilight zone. I pulled out my sketchbook to begin drawing portrait ideas for the C-level suites. As soon as my sketchbook hit the coffee table, a stack of folders fell above it like Jenga pieces collapsing.
I counted down from ten, bit my tongue until it bled, and finally looked up at the jackass who had thrown the papers down. “Yes?”
Nash wore the same bespoke suit. His hair no longer stuck up in several directions, but his eyes remained wild, caged by a thinning veneer. I studied him for signs I had company in this lust.
How easy it had been for him to leave me etched doubt into my brain.
His tongue against my collarbone.
His fingers curled inside me.
His cock pressed against the back of my throat.
None of it seemed to faze him.
But to me, touching him was a song on repeat you couldn’t forget. Each touch—the beat. Each orgasm—the bass. Each demand of his—the lyrics.
Beg for me.
Suck my cock.
Swallow my cum.
A song that never got old.
“I need copies of these.” His eyes snapped to the Bvlgari watch he never would have been caught dead wearing four years ago. “Two each.”
I skimmed the papers. Half of them had been typed in a foreign language. The word Singapore stood out to me, along with Delilah and Nash’s names.
“I’m not your assistant.” When I swiped them off the table, the papers floated to the carpet like dead leaves. I wanted to step on them and watch them crumble. “Do it yourself.”
“Check your contract.”
Nash didn’t bother to pick up the papers. He pulled out his phone, and I just knew he was playing Candy Crush. I doubted he played for the game, but for the pleasure of pissing people off. Another tool in an arsenal that resembled the U.S. Army’s.
He continued with his game, adding, “You’ll notice clause forty-two, subsection C clearly states each employee may have added job responsibility in the company’s time of need. I am the company, and I am in need.”
I waited for a sign he was bluffing.
Wishful thinking.
He could bluff, but he’d never break.
The contract had been ridiculously long, and it would have taken me a month to go through it in detail. I skimmed it as best as I could, but it had been lawyer-speak, and Reed assured me it was a standard form every employee had to sign.
Fuck. Me.
We didn’t have printers in this temp office. Where did he expect me to go? Did Kinko’s still exist?
Nash continued, “There’s a coffee shop next to the printing center on third street.” Fishing out his all-black credit card from my wallet with fingers that had just been inside me, he tossed it onto the stack of papers. “I’ll make it easy for you this time, seeing as your level of competency sits somewhere between a lobotomized pigeon and the dip-shits who wrote Disaster Movie. Dark roast. Black. Largest size.”
Picturing his torture, I collected the papers from the floor and the company credit card, taking my sweet time. I used his company card to buy everyone at the tent city Chipotle, myself new jeans to replace the pair I’d left in his room, his damn paper copies, and the coffee (decaf because he didn’t deserve to be caffeinated).
I shot a text to Ben on my way back.
Durga: Does North Carolina have the death penalty for murder?
Benkinersophobia: Yes, but you can take out your aggression through angry phone sex tonight. My balls are bluer than a whale’s.
Durga: Whales have pink balls, and they weigh, like, one ton. At the very least, I hope you’re proportional.
Benkinersophobia: Durga?
Durga: Yes?
Benkinersophobia: Shut up and fuck me tonight.
Durga: [GIF of Chris Pratt thrusting]
Nash was still in the office when I returned after changing into the new jeans and dropping my sweats off in my closet. Except this time, he had begun a meeting without me.
I snuck in and sat next to Ida Marie, resisting the temptation to crawl my way there on the zero-point-zero-zero-zero-one-percent chance he wouldn’t see me.
No such luck.
Nash glanced at his watch before ignoring me. I set his copies and coffee down on the table, took my seat, and whispered—in my defense, discreetly—to Ida Marie, “What is he doing here? I thought he wasn’t supposed to show up until we had the 3D renderings done and ready for his approval.”
That should have given me at least a week without seeing him.
Ida Marie scribbled across her notepad in indecipherable strokes. “Chantilly just announced that he’ll be helping with the workload.”
“Couldn’t he hire someone local for this project?”
My notebook sat at the bottom of my Jana Sport. Rather than fetch it, I leaned back and studied Nash. He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up. Fifteen years of knowing him, and that was the single habit I ever noticed.
Ida Marie dipped her shoulders and fidgeted with the notes she’d been taking. “Maybe he’s one of those involved C.E.O.s?” Even she didn’t sound convinced, and a felon dressed in a bright orange jumpsuit could swindle her out of her wallet. “I’m sure there’s a good reason. You don’t think we’re in trouble or anything, right?”