“Too late,brother.” I can feel him grinning behind my back as I turn to walk away.
This has to have something to do with me threatening to fire her for being late. Why else would she show up an hour early and start handing out a small fortune in donuts to my crew, let alone say they were from me. Unless, of course, she’s trying to get into my good graces. Though I can’t see why she’d put in the effort after everything.
Unless she’s just being a smartass, though the London I knew didn’t have a vindictive bone in her body. Though I think it’s time I finally accept that the London I knew is long gone.
It doesn’t matter if she’s even more beautiful than she was the day she left. Or that every time I’m in the same room with her, I have to fight my instinct to be close to her, my body and brain at complete odds. My brain knows she’s not my London anymore. My body, on the other hand, seems hell-bent on never accepting that reality.
She’s always wielded a power over me. The only woman who could ever bring me to my knees. The only one who could stop me dead in my tracks with a look. Who could calm me with a touch. Who could turn my world upside down with nothing more than a word.
It’s like I’m being operated by strings that she controls and yet she seems entirely oblivious to this fact. I’m not sure which is more maddening—the fact that I still feel this way about herafter all this time or the fact that she seems completely unfazed where I’m concerned.
I pass several of my crewmen on my way to my office. Many raise their donuts in thanks; others say the actual words. I nod in acknowledgment because what else can I do?
By the time I push my way inside the small building, I’m not sure if I’m ready to apologize for being so shitty to her about her being a couple minutes late, or rip into her for... well, for what I don’t know.
The first thing I see is at least a dozen white boxes piled on my desk. Some open, some not. The second is London, who’s sitting at her desk, nose in her laptop, like she hasn’t even noticed I’ve entered the room. Or at least, that’s what she’d like me to believe. I don’t miss the slight hitch of her breath when she feels my eyes on her.
“What the hell is this?” My voice is rougher than I intended.
“What the hell is what?” She looks up, meeting my gaze.
I stare into those familiar blue eyes for a long beat, so long that I damn near almost lose my train of thought.
“That.” I point behind me toward my desk.
“Donuts,” she states flatly.
She has her hair in those damn pigtails again. Her brown waves twisted in tight braids that fall over her shoulders. Every time I see her hair like that, all I can think about is twisting one around my fist as I...
I don’t allow myself to finish the thought.
“I can see that they are donuts. But why are there donuts?”
“Does a person need a reason to bring donuts into work?” She purses her lips.
“When that person is you, yes.”
“Because I’m incapable of doing something nice for others?”
“Because you’ve done nothing but make my life a living hell since you got here. You didn’t do this out of the kindness of your heart.”
“I’ve done nothing but makeyourlife a living hell?” She squares her shoulders the way she always does when she’s putting her walls up. “Perhaps you should look in the mirror.”
“You’re the one who came storming back into my life, not the other way around.”
“You think I had a choice. You think I want to be here? You think it’s easy for me to come in here every day and deal with your dirty looks and snide comments? You can’t even look at me most days!”
“I wonder why that is.”
“Oh, please. You’re just angry because I got out and you got stuck.”
“You got out, did you?” I force out a laugh to drive the nail deeper. “Is that why you’re sitting here?”
“I don’t remember you being such an asshole.” Unshed tears fill her eyes and while it damn near guts me to see, I can’t stop myself from digging the hole deeper.
“Guess that’s what happens when the person who was supposed to love you the most up and leaves you.”
“You know what, I take it back. You’ve always been an asshole. And a crybaby. Always wallowing in your own self-pity when things don’t go your way. Perhaps if you’d start acting like a man and not a little boy, we wouldn’t be having this conversation at all.”
