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“Just stripping in front of your boss, then?” His voice has dropped a little; low and a bit rough.
“You’re not my boss anymore.”
“I am for the next two weeks. And that’s if I accept your resignation.”
“You can’t hold me there against my will. Unless you plan on adding kidnapping to your list of quarterly achievements.”
“We’ve clearly been too lenient with you if you think this is a situation that calls for jokes.”
“Sorry, Boss Man, but you’re not threatening to fire me. I’m quitting. I hold all the cards here.” I collapse onto my couch with a small, contented sound. Taking off my skirt and pulling on leggings would be heaven right now, but I think that might be a bridge too far.
Ford watches me, his assessing gaze so intense it feels like a physical touch, as if he’s attempting to peel back every single layer of invisible armor I wear. If this is what he’s like in the boardroom, it’s no wonder he brings grown men to their knees.
“You’re serious,” he says finally, the words slow.
I exhale, relieved that he broke the silence before I caved and did it first. “Of course I am.”
“You can’t blame a man for thinking this might be a ploy for a raise. You’re no stranger to standing up to us to get what you want.”
“Well, I’m serious now. I know it seems sudden, but it’s what I need to do.”
Ford shakes his head, a slow, deliberate movement. “Sorry, Spitfire. No. I can’t let you go. You’re far too valuable.”
I swallow, my stomach erupting into a storm of butterflies. I know he just means as his assistant. Training a new employee would be a nightmare. They’d probably have to hire three separate people to replace me.
But it still does something to me to hear Ford say, in that low, possessive voice, I can’t let you go. You’re far too valuable.
Get a grip, I tell myself fiercely.
“I’m not going back to being an assistant,” I say, lifting my chin slightly. “I have to move on. It’s been two years. I need to stop working a pity job and get back on my feet.”
Ford’s nostrils flare, his expression shifting in a way I can’t interpret. “I don’t want you to come back as an assistant.”
I sit up straighter, frowning in confusion. “What? What would I be if not your assistant?”
One of Ford’s brows shifts upward almost imperceptibly, and he leans forward a little, interlacing his fingers as he rests his elbows on his knees.
“My wife.”
8
FORD
The words leave my mouth, and the world narrows to the space between me and Maeve. To the shocked stillness of her body and the beautiful, disbelieving green of her eyes.
My wife.
She looks as stunned as I feel, but years of high-stakes negotiations have taught me to master the art of the unreadable expression. Despite the fact that I can’t quite believe what I just said to her, I lock it down. The mask of indifference I’ve perfected over a thousand hours spent in boardrooms serves me well now, giving nothing away.
I must have genuinely lost my mind. But I can’t even blame myself. I’ve never been especially logical when it comes to her.
The second I realized that she wasn’t going to back down on her decision to quit, I knew, with a certainty that bypassed all reason, that I needed to keep her close to me at any cost.
For a moment, we just stare at each other. I’m not sure which of us is more shocked, but I damn well hope it doesn’t show on my face, at least. I’ve been dealt a lot of surprising blows as I built a successful business with my two best friends, and I’ve sometimes jumped in during important meetings, or when closing a deal, and found myself saying something I didn’t mean to. It’s worked out for me every time, and one of the keys is a killer poker face.
I just have to hope that my poker face is holding steady now.
“Fake wife,” I add, the idea already forming in my mind. I can spin this. I can always spin things. This is just another business deal, in a way. I want something, and I’m going to get it. That’s all.
