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"James had no right to pay that. How did he even find out about it?" I ask, my voice shaking with anger. Not one phone call, or message from him. And now this.
"I didn't tell him." Parker raises his hands from the wheel in defense. "I can come up with you," he offers.
"It's really not necessary. I want to talk to him on my own about this. Besides, I don't want you two to get in a fight on my account."
"We wouldn't."
"I'll be fine Parker, really," I say, getting out.
"Okay. Call me when you decide if you want to go to the event tonight with me. Don't give him a hard time, okay?" Parker calls after me. "I’m sure he just wanted to help."
"I’m sure he did," I say through gritted teeth.
I slam the car door and walk inside the building, heading with determined strides to the receptionist.
"On which floor for James Cohen's office?" I ask the twenty-something blonde.
She looks at me from head to foot with a sympathetic expression I don't get until she speaks. "You're here for the interview?"
"Yes," I say at once, glad I don't have to come up with an excuse.
"Twentieth floor. I'll call and tell them you're coming up."
"Thanks." I swirl on my heels and run toward the six elevators on the other side.
"Good luck," she calls after me just as I slip into one of them. It's so crowded that the doors close half an inch away from my nose. By the time I step out, I'm completely out of breath.
I linger a bit in front of the elevator, not only to breathe, but to gauge which way I should go. There are too many desks in the room and too many people running around among them. It takes me a few seconds to realize there actually is one separate office too, with a door and everything. I bet I know who that office belongs to. Since no one stops me, or pays any attention to me for that matter, I head straight toward it.
My hand doesn't hesitate on the handle, but when I step inside, I wish I had hesitated, because I feel completely unprepared. But I guess nothing could have prepared me for this. Being away from his intoxicating presence for three weeks made it easier to bury it under all the pain. But now it's inescapable. The pang in my chest is neither pain nor anger.
I miss him. A lot.
I am glad that he isn't looking at me at this moment because his gaze would be too much to take. He's standing in front of his desk, leaning on its edge, immersed in some papers—a CV, I think.
It's only when I close the door that he becomes aware of the fact that he's not alone in the room. His blue eyes widen slightly, but there's no trace of the shock I expected. Of course not. It reminds me why I'm here. It is what brings the anger back.
He sets the CV aside, watching me intently. His tone is one notch too cool when he asks, "To what do I owe your visit, Serena?"
"You know exactly why I'm here."
He smirks. "I always knew that counting on that moron to keep his mouth shut was a long shot."
"You had no right to interfere in this, to pay that debt," I bellow. "I had it all sorted out."
"It certainly didn't look that way." He doesn't unhitch himself from the table, or show any sign of wanting to come closer to me. Thank God. Keeping a cool head is hard enough as it is.
He's dressed in jeans and a burgundy shirt, and the undone button at the base of his neck brings an inexplicable desire to undo the rest.
"I-I… don't want to owe you anything," I stutter.
"You don't. Jess does. Don't worry, Serena. I don't plan to interfere in your life again."
"Really?" I bite my lip. "You know what I think?"
"No, but you're welcome to tell me." He picks up the CV again and flips the page as if what I have to say doesn't interest him in the slightest. His indifference does nothing to relieve the pang in my chest. He's done a muc
h better job forgetting his feelings for me.
