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“I need you to present a united front,” he had said, pacing his office. I was forced to hunch in the seat, feeling like I had been called in to the principal’s office for poor behavior.
“It’s morale building. If you accept the change, others will follow.”
“You got that from a seminar you had me download for you,” I’d accused, scowling.
“What difference does that make?” Caleb replied, obviously casting his mind back to the numerous management seminars he had attended over the years in order to regurgitate this crap. “I want him to restructure this firm from scratch. It’s paramount to the well-being of every employee—”
I had given up at that point, because he’d been treacherously close to sounding like a rambling old hippy that was going to stand over Oliver and me and make us sing Kum Ba Yah.
My history with Caleb was as complicated as my history with Lucas was.
I had skulked off when Caleb had dismissed me.
And now, whilst I didn’t entirely hate the new CEO, I still feel annoyed at being forced to work with someone who dismisses people with a whim, not caring about how they would struggle to find a job again, not giving a single fuck about how they would feed their families.
After the initial people he had fired through me, Oliver has been randomly calling employees into his office, conducting rapid-fire rounds before telling them to pack up and leave.
Whatever good will I had started harboring for him has vanished into thin air, being replaced by a desire to strangle him. It doesn’t help that his presence makes me feel unnerved, his voice like a physical caress on my skin.
At times, I see him watching me, a strange gleam in his eyes, as if he doesn’t know quite what to make of me. He’s not the only one.
When Oliver suddenly slams the lid of his laptop shut, I jump at the sound.
“Let’s go get some lunch,” he says out of the blue.
Surveying all the work that has to be done, I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I hardly think—”
“Lucas told me about this Italian place nearby,” he says, ignoring my protests, already putting on that trench coat of his, which makes him looks so British.
“I have a lot of—”
“I haven’t had breakfast, and I think skipped dinner last night. Maybe that’s why I’m lightheaded,” he murmurs, making me blink worriedly.
The sneaky bastard takes advantage of my momentary weakness. He has me on my feet and halfway out the door before I can say anything.
I try to dig my heels in, but he isn’t having any of it. “It’s just lunch, Miss Hill.”
When I had insisted he call me Miss Hill because the way he says ‘Lana’ with his accent makes me weak at the knees, I had thought it would be a good way to fight against my growing desire. However, every time he calls me ‘Miss Hill’, his tongue rolls the words, flirting with them, adding a teasing quality that makes me blush.
Right now, it isn’t any different.
“I’ve been stuck with you in your office since morning. I have other work to do.”
“No, you don’t,” Oliver says, behaving strangely today.
He’s almost cheerful.
Usually, he’s growling or snapping at somebody. He doesn’t do it to me, though. It’s always polite banter, laced with hints of amused arrogance, as if every time I say something, he’s fighting the urge to laugh.
Highly unprofessional, I think darkly.
I’m herded down the street, my complaints falling on deaf ears, as he tucks my hand in the crook of his elbow. He strolls leisurely on the sidewalk, seeming to soak in the thrum of life around us.
Twenty minutes later, I’m seated at a cozy little table with a plaid cloth and a menu in my hand. I glower at the man across from me. “We could have ordered in.”
“We could have,” he agrees amiably. He glances through the menu, and I grit my teeth before perusing my own.
When he places the orders in fluent Italian—to the delight of the owner of this quaint little place—my irritation is replaced by surprise.
