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He shakes his head. “No.”
I slap my face between my palms. “Goddammit, Oliver, you’re giving me whiplash!”
“Hey, you kissed me, Paige!” he says. “After days of friends this and friends that and professional boundaries. Who’s lashing who here?”
“You fondled me on a train!”
“But I didn’t kiss you,” he says. “You don’t kiss someone like that unless you mean it.”
“I only kissed you after you revealed your dark and sympathetic backstory! What did you think was going to happen?! I read romance novels, Oliver! That’s like catnip.”
His eyes narrow. “Well, it’s nice to know my years as a neglected, starving orphan are such a huge turn-on for you.”
My gut sinks as he taps the elevator call button. “That’s not what I...” I sigh. “Oliver?—”
“Don’t,” he says. “Just save it. We’ve said enough.”
The elevator doors open and he steps into the empty car.
“Oliver, I’m sorry,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says. “Me, too.” He taps a button on the wall. “Look, how about we just… leave it be? All right?”
I nod slowly.
The golden doors close, and a woman stares back at me from their reflection.
She’s sweaty and disheveled with a tattered, blonde ponytail and rose-red cheeks. No make-up. No friends. No boyfriend, but is that really so surprising at this point?
Who is this woman?
She’s a fucking idiot.
CHAPTER 27
OLIVER
“Each building manager will prepare a presentation,” I say for the third time this week. “Just five-to-ten minutes of ideas for what they think can make this company better.”
Angela nods from the chair behind her desk as she skims the paper in her hand. “Sounds easy enough,” she says with a noticeable yet faded British accent.
“Graham wants to foster an atmosphere of teamwork and cooperation.” My eyes wander her office. A few college degrees hang on her wall, the earliest dating back to 1988. She’s been here a while. One of the Botsford Corp’s senior building managers. “It’s not just his company. It’s our company.”
She chuckles. “Like father, like son.”
“It’s the Botsford way.”
“For that branch of the family tree, sure.”
I grin at the obvious dig at Drake Botsford, her former... who knows.
She’d never tell.
“Shots fired, Angie,” I say.
She mimes a key near her mouth and turns it. “I said nothing.”
“You know, one of these days, you’re going to have to finish telling me that story,” I say.
