Page 55 of Mr. Perfect

I look down at my desk and frown at the two phones laid out there. I’ve been dragging Heath’s phone around with me all week, unable to erase the stuff I put in there. Unable to even open up the messages and look at all the stupid, stupid things I wrote. Unable to let go of that dream.

Mac thinks I’m crazy. You need professional help. What an asshole. That really hurt. It was a harmless fantasy. And no one was supposed to see those messages. If a message says undelivered, then how the hell was I supposed to figure that they’d all send in a giant batch once the phone was turned back on?

It’s not my fault McAllister Stonewall stumbled into my fantasy uninvited.

A sharp knock on the connecting door startles me back to reality.

I stand up and say, “Come in,” in a commanding voice. Good. I want to have my say and that bastard… opens the door and walks in looking like he just finished a fashion shoot for a men’s magazine cover.

“Jennifer says you’ve been—”

“Just hold on there, Mr. Not-So-Perfect,” I yell, putting up a hand and walking around the desk. The baby steps I have to take in this tight pencil dress kind of make my flash of anger less effective, but I swallow hard and lift my head, determined to stand up for myself. “You got to say all the things to me on Monday, and now it’s my turn to say…”

My words trail off because he’s looking me up and down like he might eat me alive.

I wait for his gaze to return to my face. His cerulean-blue eyes have me in their grip and I’m suddenly chilled. My nipples perk to attention in the wake of his stare.

He does not miss this.

“Your turn to say what, Miss Hatcher?”

I clear my throat and take a deep breath. “It’s not fair. Nothing you did or said to me on Monday was fair!”

“Why are you yelling?” he asks calmly.

“I’m not yelling,” I practically yell. “But I’m angry, so I’m glad you think I am. Because you should.”

“I should?” he asks.

Jesus. I sound like an idiot. “You accused me of being what? Unstable? Just because I have a healthy fantasy life? A creative imagination? A—”

“Grand delusion about my brother?” he adds in, his voice rising now as well.

“I’m not sick and I don’t need professional help! You’re the one who’s sick! You have no fantasy life beyond fucking your subordinate at work! You’re boring. Too boring for me, that’s for sure. You can’t even appreciate a dream. In fact, I feel sorry for you. Sucks to be you. So glad I’m not you!”

“Well,” he says, walking over towards me. I step back, unsure what he’s doing. But he passes by me and then slips behind my desk and takes a seat.

In my chair.

My fucking chair!

“Then I apologize about the insult. I should’ve been more professional about it.”

“Why are you sitting in my chair?”

“Why not? Does it bother you?”

“Well, yes. Yes it does. This is my office.”

“I purchased this entire office for you.”

“For me, right!” I’m still yelling. I bet Stephanie and the whole seventh floor can hear us in here. Well, me, at the very least. Ellie’s in there making another scene, they’re probably saying.

“And I wanted to take you out last weekend but you said no.”

“You were moving way too fast. Is it my fault I wanted space and you didn’t?”

“Then why lie?” He leans back in my chair, one elbow resting on the armrest, the other hand scratching his perfectly chiseled and slightly stubbled jaw. Good God, he’s handsome.