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I clench my pen. “No, but my photos do.”
“Touché.” He dips his chin for me to continue.
“A different car picks you up. And I don’t know where you go after. Maybe to your apartment? I know you don’t date. And you don’t seem to see your friends very frequently. Do you have friends?”
“That’s enough,” he says shortly. He pushes back from the desk, and I scramble to my feet. His eyes flash under lowered brows. “I don’t need a clueless paparazzo speculating about my social life.”
My lips press flat. Or lack thereof, I almost say. But instead, I force my shoulders to relax. “Anything else I should know?”
10
Jonah
Callie Thompson makes me want to scream. Anything else I should know? She’s playing a game, and she might be just as good as I am. Maybe. I’m a ruthless negotiator, but I can’t figure her out. She was spitting fire when she walked in, but she’s gotten it under control.
“That will be all,” I say slowly.
She gives a crisp nod and turns toward the door. My gaze drops helplessly to her ass, again. My hand flexes against the wool of my suit pants. That skirt is way too fucking short. Her long legs are bare and the curve of her butt makes my blood feel hot. Shut it down. I’m not going to lust after this woman, and certainly not now that she’s an employee.
“Thompson.”
She’s nearly at her desk, but she turns. “Yes, Mr. Crown?” My name on her full pink lips makes me tense. They’re sinfully full, under a small, lightly freckled nose and high cheekbones. Her long, dark hair curls over her shoulders, and her eyes are the color of my favorite navy suit. She looks like a fucking Disney princess and it makes me want to scream. Or better yet, make her scream.
“I have a task for you. Please see George. I expect it completed by the end of the week.” She inhales. She’s gathering her patience. Not as calm as she seems.
“And your lunch?”
“I’ll be far too busy to get it today. Coordinate with George. And you have thirty minutes to eat, so I expect you to get mine and finish yours in that time.” A rule I just made up, but it feels right. I couldn’t care less how long my employees take for lunch, as long as their work is completed.
I can see the protest in her eyes. They’re flashing with anger. Come on, sweetheart. Let’s see you crack.
“Understood,” is all she says, before she walks away, her hips swaying and her long legs carrying her confidently down the hall.
I force my gaze back to the papers on my desk. Term sheets, projections for next quarter, an email George thinks I need in hard copy. I have no business lusting after Callie Thompson. Not when she wants to ferret out my secrets and use them against me. I’m intimately familiar with the hot agony of betrayal. It’s a dull knife hacking at your insides, not a clean cut. A back alley stab in the back, not a surgeon’s scalpel. I’ve been left raw and bleeding before.
To be the best, I need my wits about me. I can’t afford to let anyone close. Which means staying the fuck away from Callie. I narrow my eyes in concentration, even as words swim before my eyes.
I won’t let her get to me.
11
Callie
Four hours in to my “task,” and I’m fairly certain I’m going to cry. I’m buried in a storage room down the hall from Jonah’s office, sorting papers, like a corporate Sisyphus. I have twelve boxes to categorize and alphabetize, but each is packed to the gills. There are thousands of papers in here, and no rhyme or reason to the contents.
“Who even uses paper anymore?" I grumble. I’m starting to lose it. My arms are tired from sorting, and my back hurts from bending down to add papers to my various piles. Fuck you, Jonah. I think the words but I’m not brave enough to utter them. He probably has cameras in here.
I squint at the beige drop ceiling, like something out of a 90s movie. A little black camera stares back. Yup, definitely cameras. I put my back to the camera and drag the next box toward me across the gray carpet. There are no windows in here, no clock. I listened to music for the first few hours, but my phone is nearly dead now, so I sort in silence.
The next box is packed so tightly that I can barely pull out the first folder. Ugh. Is this how every day is going to pass? Locked in a closet while Jonah lords over me? He would love that. Despite his beauty, he’s as cold as I suspected he was. I flip idly through the folder. It’s full of financial statements. Not something I know how to analyze, or I’d stop to read them. I put them in the pile with the others. More financial statements, meeting notes, then emails. Emails. My eyes catch on one dated almost six years ago. It’s from Jonah to Dylan Green. Of Green Media. I’ve never met him, but Matt has talked about him a bunch. Jonah knows him?
This email isn’t recent. The words call me are in bold, nothing else. Presumably, that’s typical Jonah brusqueness. I drop the email into a new pile. The next one stops me in my tracks.
It’s a response from Dylan and all it reads is, “you got what you deserved.” Holy shit. My eyes dart guiltily to the camera before I sink to the floor with the whole stack. I scan the pages quickly, looking for anything that could give any clue as to what happened. There are a few cryptic exchanges between Jonah and Dylan, each using their personal email addresses. Why are these even here? I am definitely not supposed to see this. The thought spurs me to read faster.
You’ll pay for this. Jonah to Dylan.
I’d like to see you try. Dylan to Jonah.
