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I was sorry. Sorry that I didn't show more restraint. Sorry that I'd only solidified everyone's belief that I was an asshole.
Sorry that the one of the few people I wanted to see me as something more wouldn't even accept a damn Facebook friend request.
As I slipped into the elevator and punched the conference floor button, I felt the tiniest weight lift off my chest. Today was about starting over. Sure, I had bought the flowers with the ulterior motive of sneaking past Scott's defenses and forcing him to at least have a conversation with me, but I knew that Mrs. Larson would tell him I stopped by. This would be a battle of small wins, not some epic victory that would come with a simple apology.
I screwed up.
Which was exactly what I planned to tell Natalee when I saw her in a few minutes.
I stepped off the elevator, my secretary, Delia, waiting for me with her tablet in one hand and my coffee in the other, her eyes bright and ready to work. "I just got an updated ETA for the refreshments and Madison Creations is about ten minutes out-"
"Great! That'll give you plenty of time to run out and get a dozen of roses."
Delia was usually lock step and on my same wave length, reading my mind, and knowing what I needed before I did sometimes. She stopped in the middle of the hallway, making sure she heard me right. "Roses? For who?"
"The who isn't important," I rebuffed, even though that wasn't technically true. When was the last time a woman had gotten under my skin? Who made me do the chasing instead of vice versa? The who was very important. “I'd get going."
A flurry of questions rounded her hazel eyes, but she turned on her heels and hustled toward the elevator. I took my time, speaking to my employees as I breezed past, most locked onto their devices, wireless headphones over their ears. Our campus wasn't nearly as expansive as some of the big dogs, but it was important to me that the line was blurred between work and play. Happy people were more productive, so I tried to take care of my own. From the hardwood floors and sleek, interactive panels, to our own coffee shop, a restaurant run by a chef who used to work exclusively for celebrity clientele, a 24 hour gym with all the bells and whistles, and shower and sleep pods, this place was more like a resort than an office. We attracted the best and brightest in tech and it showed in our profits. We hadn't posted a loss. Ever. In fact, this quarter was shaping up to be our best since we opened our doors.
The glass doors to the conference room retracted and I slipped inside. A few of the programmers were already lounging around the table, grunting a greeting before getting back to their laptops, the clicking of keys mingling with the alternative rock that oozed from the speakers.
I took a sip of my coffee, savoring the perfectly proportioned collision of dark roast and cream. I slid into the seat at the head of the table and wondered what look I'd see on Natalee's face when she walked through the door.
Surprise?
Excitement?
Lust?
Or maybe disgust. The fact that she’d ignored every instance of me trying to reconnect made me wonder if she wouldn't turn on her heels the minute she saw me. The likelihood of that was slim because I'd done my research and she'd built her business from the ground up, working out of her home until she saved up for a space. Garnering clients one at a time until her brand and delicious offerings caught fire and our paths crossed again. And thank God they had, because the first time around, I hadn't gotten nearly enough of her.
I’d been replaying that night ever since the wedding. The delicate pink that flashed in her cheeks when I flirted with her. She was a knockout; surely she was used to men approaching her, A-game in tow, with hopes that they'd be the one to take her home.
Hell, under any other circumstances, I would have invited her up. That kiss, that taste in the elevator, was meant to be the beginning of a night that would have spilled into the new year.
But her eyes-
I forced away that unwelcome rush of nerves that reminded me why I cut things short. Why I walked away from what could have been.
I hopped up from my seat like the cushion was electrified, leaving the memories behind me as I headed over to the nook on the far wall of the room, where coffee and sugar and other odds and ends waited, including a blank space for whatever Natalee and her team had in store. I put way too much sugar in my coffee, stirring it, knowing that ultimately, ‘I'm sorry’ wouldn't cut it. Then I'd have to come clean and relive it all, or come up with a lie and live up to those last words.
You're a real asshole, Jason Cox. And mark my words, you're gonna die alone. And that's exactly what you deserve.
"Hi, where would you like me to set up?"
That familiar voice, wrapped around my heart and tugged. It was a feminine thing that was just low enough that it made my mind go to naughty places.
Natalee.
I turned around, facing her, with my best disarming smile locked, loaded, and ready to go. I expected a similar reception that I'd gotten outside that bathroom—brutal and just cold enough to freeze my cock and break it right off.
Instead, her surprise was outlined by something that looked suspiciously like mischief sparking in her jewel colored eyes, the green narrowing before she headed over. My team was already swarming her cart, but my eyes had other plans. She was in a respectable white polo with ‘MC’ embroidered just above the swell of her right breast. I forced my eyes upward, remembering that I was trying to do things a little differently this go round. Navigating unchartered territory, where I actually got to know the woman I wanted to take to bed instead of skipping all that in favor for uncomplicated fun.
She flipped her hair, the dark locks cascading past her shoulders. She parked her cart and headed in my direction like a woman on a mission, stopping arms length away.
She gave me a slow once over that almost made me blush. "I'm sorry, have we met?" She extended her hand, the sexiest little smirk curving her lips.
Wait—she was giving me an olive branch? An opportunity to start over fresh?
