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I wanted to argue, but he was right. Pennington Industries was my priority, always. I couldn’t afford a distraction with a gorgeous body and disarmingly blue eyes. I should have been glad that he was willing to see himself out so I didn’t have to. And yet…
“Not so fast. I have things to say to you.” I had to end this night properly. With no hard feelings or recriminations but also no doubt that it had happened—I wanted to see the flash of awareness in those brilliant eyes as I pressed this point. With no question that we’d be keeping it confidential and also no expectations of a repeat.
But first, I needed a minute to fucking think.
I grabbed my discarded tux and pointed a finger at him. “Stay,” I said before stepping into the bathroom for the world’s quickest shower.
But when I stepped back into the room a moment later, Reagan Wellbridge was gone.
Chapter Three
Reagan
He’d told me to stay.
I kicked an abandoned noisemaker in the middle of the sidewalk and dodged a pair of drunken revelers.
Stay. Like I was a freaking dog.
They say “never meet your heroes,” but the expression should really be “never fuck the gorgeous man who clued you in to your pansexuality back in high school” because, let me tell you, the fallout was fucking awful.
Yes, sex with Thatcher Pennington had been volcanic, obliterating all my previous fantasies in a fiery rush—and birthing a few new ones involving a growly, dominant partner, besides—but those weren’t the only casualties.
So much for getting people to take you seriously, Reagan. Angry tears sprang to my eyes, making the streetlights blur before I blinked them away. How’s your grand plan of shedding that slacker, nepo-baby image going? Think Thatcher will be telling your dad about your impressive skills when the only things you’ve shown him so far are your incredibly short refractory period and your ability to come on command?
I was so angry my stomach hurt. Angry at the Universe for gifting me an uncomplicated hookup with a gorgeous Roman warrior only to say just kidding the minute the masks came off. Angry at myself for spoiling things yet again, like I was exactly the kind of fuckup everyone thought I was. Angry at Thatcher for knowing my identity when he pushed me on the bed yet giving me horror eyes before our cum had cooled, proving beyond a doubt that tonight had been a discount-sushi-before-an all-day-sea-fishing-expedition-level mistake.
The kind of mistake that could result in me being trapped in yet another horrifying shitshow of my own making if I let it…
So I would not let it.
I let myself into my tiny apartment in Midtown, which made up for its prime location by being measured in square inches rather than square feet, and immediately sprawled on my bed.
Thank god I’d gotten the hell out of that hotel room while Thatcher was in the shower, before he’d had a chance to lecture or, worse, fire me. Hopefully by the time he’d finished dealing with whatever emergency his phone call had been about, he’d go back to forgetting about my existence. Because as fun as parts of the evening had been, fucking my boss ran counter to every single thing I hoped to achieve, so it would never—could never—happen again.
Case closed, lesson learned, I told myself as I shut my tired eyes, pulled the covers over my head, and prepared to sleep my holiday away.
Three hours later, I awoke in the pitch-darkness to find my phone blowing up with missed calls and messages from my boss.
Bossman Stephen: Reagan, are you there? It’s me, Stephen Price.
Bossman Stephen: Reagan, we have a problem. Please respond.
Bossman Stephen: Reagan, I need you to be in the office at 8:00. It’s an emergency.
Bossman Stephen: Reagan?
Jesus Christ.
I blinked my eyes and tried to focus on the screen, trying to make the messages make sense. Stephen Price was a highly anxious thirty-something with an endless supply of identical brown suits, an array of Perfect Attendance plaques proudly displayed on his office walls, and an annoying habit of using my name in every sentence, which he’d probably picked up from reading Team Management for Dummies. He was a nice enough guy, but he’d never messaged me before, and I sincerely wished he hadn’t now.
I slapped the phone down on the mattress and groaned at the ceiling. The only silver lining of my boring job was that fiber companies didn’t have public relations emergencies, which meant I was never asked to stay late or come in on a weekend. Why did today of all days have to be the exception?
But I’d blown my shot at getting Thatcher to notice me for the right reasons, and I wasn’t walking away from this job, so I was just going to have to work harder, do better, if I wanted to prove myself. And that meant showing up, even on a holiday, even when your supervisor gave you forty minutes’ notice to haul your ass to the office.
Besides which, if I spent the day alone in my cubbyhole apartment, I’d probably end up jerking off to memories of my hot asshole boss, and… no. I refused.
I threw off the covers, sent Stephen a message that I was on my way, and quickly got ready before hustling the ten blocks to the smaller office building adjacent to Pennington Industries’ headquarters.
