I wish I had a picture of Magnus Heron and a dartboard.
I should start applying for other jobs soon. But where do you find other jobs with my pay? I don’t want to see the screwball again, but I also don’t want to give up six figs a year.
Three episodes of Schitt’s Creek later, a lot of angry pizza chomping, and so many bad thoughts, my phone rings. I grab it without looking, thinking it’s Paige.
But Magnus Heron flashes across the screen.
God, I’m so tempted to ignore it.
But he did get an odd call before he left, didn’t he? Also, I’ve never heard him use the word promise until right before he bolted out the door.
What if he has a real excuse?
I want to smack myself in the cheek, wondering why I’m lending him the benefit of the doubt.
I take the call anyway. “What?”
“I—I’ve sent Armstrong to pick you up—” His voice is gravelly, strained, this low scraping like he’s been beaten and dragged raw.
I’ve never heard him like this.
I sit up straight. “Are you okay?”
He sighs into the phone. “I’m fine. But I need you, Brina. Right now. It can’t wait.”
“For what?” I’d assume he just wants to finish the hookup, if only his voice didn’t sound so...odd.
“Just be ready as soon as Armstrong gets there, and I’ll see you soon.”
“Maybe you won’t,” I say.
“What?”
“I never said I’d be there. After what you did—”
“Brina, goddammit, this is serious,” Magnus growls. “We need to talk.”
My heart flutters. I haven’t reverted back to Sabrina or Miss Bristol again.
Then my brain tells my heart to shut up because this guy has left me hanging twice. But I also can’t parse this sudden strange emergency that’s gotten him so keyed up.
“Fine, let me get my coat. I’ll wait outside, so I can hop out and head over as soon as he pulls—”
“Don’t. It’s snowing, and it’s dark. I can’t handle more catastrophes tonight. Stay inside in the warmth of your building with your door locked until he calls.”
What the?
This sounds serious.
“Mag, what happened?” I ask, blanking on even a guess.
“Just get here when you can.” He hangs up.
For a second, I sit there staring at the screen, this dark pit deepening in my stomach.
One thing’s for sure: I’m not going out in the snow in this stupid dress again, and if he wants to summon me at any hour he pleases, he can deal with bad fashion choices. So I throw on sweats and put my hair up in a messy bun.
I look nothing like the girl he left on the couch, and I don’t give a damn.
Maybe he’ll find me repulsive and finally stay the hell away from me. I’m probably not strong enough to do the same with him.
Appearances aside, he left me with one fierce memory I can’t push away.
The fire coursing through my body when his mouth was on my nipple and his hand was under my dress lingers like a burn.
With every single breath I take, I can still taste Magnus Heron’s lips.
I open the back door of the town car and climb in.
“Any news, Armstrong? Is this some kind of prank?”
“I don’t think so. He was pretty frantic when he called,” Armstrong says slowly, his eyes gazing back at me in the rearview mirror.
“Frantic? Since when does Mag get frantic?”
“I don’t know, but he was as close as he ever gets,” he says, this tightness in his normally warm voice.
Okay, now I’m doubly worried.
“What the hell happened?” I whisper.
If Snarlypants wants to be forgiven for skipping out, it better be good.
“I don’t know, exactly. Bossman just said ‘I have a personal emergency and need my assistant ASAP.’ I told him I’d pick you up,” he says.
“Personal emergency?” I echo.
“He wouldn’t say more,” Armstrong says with a shrug. “Your guess is just as good as mine.”
“Jesus. I mean, you’re sure he’s not pranking us both?”
Armstrong shakes his head.
“Nah. He’s not the kind to punk. Not like this.”
“What have other personal emergencies entailed?” I ask.
“He’s never had one till now. The boss must really trust you, Brina,” he says with a sigh. “I don’t think he’d call anybody else for an emergency.”
I let that sink in, chilled to the bone, even in the toasty car.
“We’ll see, I guess,” I say.
“Are you two fighting?” Armstrong asks.
Crap. Does he know something?
“Um, no,” I say. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Mag just thinks he owns the world, and we’re all his pawns. I’m sure he thinks he’s having an emergency, but it’s probably something ridiculous like he can’t find his TV remote or something.”
Don’t be so harsh, Brina, I tell myself. He sounded desperate on the phone. He could be hurt.
But I have a new question for Armstrong.
“If you knew this was some kind of sick joke, you’d tell me, right?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be involved with a prank between two folks I have to work with,” he says with a smile. “I’ll tell you one thing, he’s never used the word emergency before in all my years working for him. I’m worried about the kid.”
Kid? What kid?
My stomach sinks with those words. He could be talking about Mag since Armstrong’s an older man, but I’ve never heard him use that term.
Weird. I just don’t get it.
As pissed as I am, I don’t want Mag hurt.
Technically, I don’t want Magnus harmed at all unless I’m the one doing the harming. A nice swift kick to the balls is probably warranted after everything he’s put me through.
The car stops in front of a luxury building close to the office.
Armstrong pulls out his wallet and hands me a white card. “His penthouse is on the top floor. You’ll need this to get in the elevator, but I’ll need it back the next time I see you. Security protocols, you understand.”
I nod. “Thanks, Armstrong. Have a good night.”
The building has a doorman, who nods and opens the massive glassy door like he’s been expecting me. I’m not sure why I expected anything less.
The place looks like a palace reaching into the sky. The floors are granite and the lights are crystal. I flick the white card in front of the electronic box on the elevator, and it opens. A panel of glossy buttons faces me. I hit forty-seven, the very last number.
It’s only then that I realize Armstrong didn’t give me an apartment number.
Crap. I pull out my phone to text Maggot—after this stunt, I think Paige’s name for him was appropriate—but there’s no signal in the elevator.
Awesome.
Once I’m in the hall for the forty-seventh floor, there’s only one set of double doors.
Silly me. I don’t need an apartment number because he owns the whole floor.
I knock on the door, and Mag pulls it open a second later.
I barely hold in a gasp.