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I hurriedly pay the cab driver, generously, and run after her.
“Not even a kiss goodbye for your doting fiancé?” I ask, once I reach her.
She turns back toward me, and scowls—she’s furious.
I grin, enthusiastically. Another round of our game has begun, and this one, I know, is going to be fun.
“Tell me, Tanner. When were you going to let me in on this bridal line of ours?”
We reach the elevator, and she punches the button to her floor, repeatedly.
She continues to berate me, and we glare at each other from opposite sides of the steel box.
“Do you have any design? Any idea? Hell, we don’t even have anything in production. How in the hell do you think we can get a whole line done in three months?”
I’m thoroughly enjoying her show.
Her skin blushes as her anger heats it. And my eyes fall to her chest, observing it move up and down erratically.
I can tell she’s trying to stop herself from spiraling. Although it looks like she’s already fallen into a shit storm.
She stops talking and takes a deep breath.
The elevator reaches her floor and she rushes out, practically jogging to her office.
I walk behind her nonchalantly, appreciating the way her ass bounces from each dramatic step she takes.
“Tanner!” she yells, pulling my attention from the piece of art dangling in front of me.
“Yes, angel,” her nickname lingers off my tongue.
She clenches her jaw, and pushes her door open, aggressively.
“Please, join me.” She says in too pleasant of a tone.
It’s noticeable that she’s faking it; her body exuding nothing that resembles pleasantry.
“Well, if I must.” I stride into her office casually, and take a seat on the spot closest to the door.
“Looks like the housekeepers clean up well around here. But I think they missed a few things,” I eye some of the picture frames on the floor.
She ignores me and shuts the door, the sound sending vibrations on the floor.
“Now, tell me, how do you see us working together on this? From experience, we know the actual logistics of this dynamic are far trickier than we can plan.”
“Elsa, stop worrying. Let me show you something,” I wave her over, patting the cushion next to me.
She eyes me and makes her way over reluctantly.
I pull out my phone and show her the pile of text messages I’ve received since we—well I—made the announcement this morning.
Mark, one of our directors, is the first to pop up: “Great idea, Tanner. Let Elsa know that we’re VERY happy with this new direction.”
She relaxes a little, but I can still feel tension between us.
“Here’s another one. David, my financial adviser, sent me this link. It’s our stock prices.” I click the link, and it directs us to a graph, showing our numbers in green.
“We’re fucking soaring, angel. We have the market and our board in the palm of our hands.”
