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“Exactly. If she’s anything like me—”
“A lot like you.”
“Then she resents that you got to her,” Evan’s wife says as if that explains everything while she reaches for the powdered creamer.
“I’m still lost.”
Nia huffs. “Do you get mad at someone if they don’t mean anything to you?”
“No.” And finally I grasp what this brilliant woman is telling me. “I doubt she does, either. That would explain why she’d been crying.”
“Crying, too? Oh, then you’re in a heap of shit. How did you not figure that out?”
“I thought she was angry that I played her. Or panicked that I might have ruined her opportunity to win her dad’s affection. Or…” But as I’m explaining, I realize that, while Sloan cares about that stuff, she’s never had her father’s affection. She’s too pragmatic not to know she might never.
That means she cried about me. Because I bruised her heart. Because she doesn’t show her vulnerable side easily, and I conned her into doing just that.
That thought disturbs and thrills me at once. I hate that I hurt her, but I love that she cares enough to let me past her defenses. Or at least she did.
But now that I really think about it, I know she cares. Otherwise, she would never have kissed me, gotten naked with me, or begged me for an orgasm. Yeah, maybe she did that to torment me because she had to know I was hard as hell for her. But it’s likely she did that because, deep down, she wanted me, too.
Hot damn. I can work with that.
The rest of the day is a blur of statistics, analysis, and reports. Evan calls to say he’s secured a meeting with Michael Astor directly after Sloan’s, and we all breathe a sigh of relief—before we start creating a follow-up presentation for him to give, finally emailing it at close to midnight, which is eleven a.m. the following day in London. He reads it over quickly and requests a few changes. Poor Nia climbed into bed a couple of hours ago, after losing a bout with nausea and most of her dinner.
At nearly two a.m., I send Evan the final draft, then head back to my condo.
After a quick shower, I crawl into bed, exhausted. But sleep won’t come.
It might be stupid or perverse, but I can’t resist texting Sloan, where her morning is just starting. I’m thinking about you.
And the more I do, the harder I get.
Immediately, she writes back. Fuck off.
That makes me laugh. Clearly, Sloan is still angry. That means she still cares. I’m absolutely going to capitalize on that. I just need to figure out how.
April 13
By Wednesday, Evan jets home after what he termed successful meetings…but Wynam refused to say whether we actually won the account. The good news is, Michael Astor listened carefully to every word Evan said. The bad news is, Wynam’s CEO is apparently a difficult bastard to read.
Come Thursday, I return to the office, glad to find Nia and Evan there, too. The day starts with meetings and quickly turns into a shit show. Sloan stays on my mind.
As I grab a quick lunch at my desk, I can’t resist reaching out to her again. You enjoy London? Make it home safely?
Fuck off, she replies right away.
Well, she’s consistent in her responses. They all sound like she wants to spit nails at me. But I’m still counting that as a win since she’s not ignoring me. In fact, she’s responding with the very reply guaranteed to keep me trying to mend our fences. I wonder if she needles me because she wants me to make things right between us.
Maybe that’s a stretch, but I’m rolling with it.
Friday comes and goes with no word from Wynam. Evan is visibly disappointed but doing his best to calm down a pacing Nia. They’re both concerned that Sloan managed to sway Astor and close the account. They might be right…but I know how to find out for sure.
With a grin, I pull my phone from my pocket and text her. Did you have a great Friday? You at home with a bottle of wine?
Sloan won’t be able to resist gloating if she beat Evan out of this account.
Her reply comes swiftly. Fuck off.
