Chapter 23 Monday Morning
“Is there a problem, Ms. Hale?”
The vibrations of an incoming call have my phone tap-dancing on the top of his desk loudly enough to put my teeth on edge. “Sorry.” I snatch it up and decline the call. I don’t have to look to know who it is—because it’s been ringing off the hook all weekend, as if my father and some unknown number coordinated schedules to make sure that one of them was bothering me at all hours of the day and night.
Eric Wood arches one dark eyebrow, his lips pursed. “You’ve been flustered all morning.”
Ah, yes, just what every woman wants to hear. And I thought I’d done such a great job of hiding it.
“Oh. Have I?”
“Yes.” His voice cuts like broken glass. “It’s Monday, Ms. Hale. Most people come back from the weekend with a little gas in their tanks.”
“Clearly, those people don’t have a 14-year-old brother to deal with and a lazy freeloader eating all the snacks in the house. Do you know how important snacks are in a house with a teenage boy, Mr. Wood? I’ll tell you—really fucking important.”
On second thought, Eric might have a point about the whole “flustered” thing.
I wish I could swallow my words back. Cursing on the job, in front of my boss—my infamously vindictive, short-tempered, maybe-not-maybe-a-mob-boss boss—would normally be a shortcut to getting fired. But I’m really hoping Eric will go easy on me.
One, because I really did have a hellaciously stressful weekend.
Two, because I backed him up with Damien Cross, that skeezy reporter who wanted me to turn informant for his gossip rag.
And three, because—to put it indelicately—we’re fucking.
Well, we have fucked, with more contractually-obligated sessions on the horizon. But judging from the way Eric is glaring at me right now, that horizon is getting further and further away.
Before Eric can kick me out of his office or reprimand me for using inappropriate language in the workplace, my phone starts vibrating yet again.
“I’m so sorry to take up so much of your time, Ms. Hale,” Eric deadpans. “I didn’t realize how busy you were today.”
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I mutter, trying to shut my phone up. “Ugh, how do you turn the damn vibration off?” I almost drop my phone trying to change the settings. In the end, I just shove it into the pocket of my fitted black pants. I glance up to see that Eric is still staring at me with those crackling amber eyes.
“If you need the services of a full-time nanny, I can make some inquiries on your behalf. You can certainly afford one now.”
It takes a few too many seconds for his offer to compute. While it does, I just blink at him. Is he really trying to be helpful? Unless of course he’s just being sarcastic and I’m so turned around that it’s going right over my head. That would make more sense.
“Um—that’s—really nice of you,” I manage to choke out.
“No, and I don’t want her to be, either.” I shift uncomfortably. “I want to be able to spend quality time with him on the weekends at least. I barely get to see him during the week. Ever since Sienna died...” I trail off. “I’m all he has.”
I have no idea what he thinks of that. His cheekbones are carved from marble. “At the expense of your own sanity—and by extension, mine?”
I clench my jaw. “I’m not stressed because of Liam. I mean, yes, the weekend was chaotic. He broke a wine glass and took a marker to the walls. And something’s bothering him, but I have no idea what because he doesn’t—” I clam up when Eric’s eyebrows knit together. “Well, anyway, my point is that Liam isn’t the problem; my father is.”
“Is that who’s been calling you?”
“Incessantly.”
Among others. I decide to leave all mention of the unknown number aside. The less I think of that, the better.
For a split second, I detect the shadow of a smile on Eric’s face. But one blink later, he seems just as irritated as ever. “Kindly inform him that you don’t take personal calls at work. You’re excused, Ms. Hale.”
It’s a heavy-handed way of saying, ‘I don’t give a shit about your family drama; just keep it out of the office,’ but I still think I’ve gotten off easy. I’m almost at the door when he stops me.
“Oh, and Ms. Hale?”
Burying the flinch, I turn back around. “Yes?”
“Be ready at eight tonight.”
I gulp and nod. Then I levitate back to my desk.
The world seems brighter and less grim now. A visit to the penthouse is exactly what I need tonight. Between Liam’s moods and my father and Béatrice calling nonstop to check on him, I’m strung out. I want someone to hit my factory reset button and reboot my brain. And apparently, that button is located inside my vagina.
I glance down at my phone. Thirteen texts from Dad. Groaning, I open the thread and scroll through the messages. They’re all variations on the same old theme: Bring Liam over so that I can see him, preferably before I die and you regret forever that you kept us apart.
Then three missed calls from Béatrice. Voicemail: “Cathy, it’s me. Is Liam there? I just wanted to hear his voice. He’s not answering my texts. Call me back, sweetie. I’m worried.”
I mute both threads and put my phone away. I’ll deal with Dad and Béatrice tomorrow. Right now, I have sugar baby duties to prepare for.