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And like Lydia said, I’m not just dating a coworker. I’m dating my boss. Everyone’s boss.
God, what am I doing?
Ronan knocks on my door and pokes his head in. “Ready? I was thinking Indian sounds good.”
“Can we just meet here really quick?” I ask. “I have a lot to do.” And I don’t want to be seen leaving for lunch with you. Again.
His brow furrows. “What’s going on that has you so busy?”
“Nothing,” I say with a wave of my hand. “Just the usual.”
“Then I’m pretty sure you can come have lunch with me,” he says.
I keep my eyes on my computer screen. “No, I really can’t.”
He quietly shuts the door and takes a seat across the desk from me. “Selene, what’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
He rests his elbow on the arm of the chair and puts a hand to his chin, looking at me with those piercing gray eyes. “Yes, there is. Tell me.”
I don’t know if I want to discuss this with him. He’s set above the world of office gossip. Untouchable. He won’t care what people say about him because he’s the owner. What are they going to do? They have to respect him. Not to mention there’s a maddening double standard. In the minds of most people in the office, Ronan sleeping with me makes him, at worst, an opportunist. He’s a man, having sex with a woman. Not a slut or a whore. But me? Oh, they’ll think all sorts of things about me, none of them flattering.
“I heard some people talking in the break room,” I say. “About me. About us.”
“What did they say?” he asks, his voice completely neutral.
“They were speculating as to whether we’re sleeping together,” I say. “Apparently people are saying I came out of your office the other day with sex hair.”
The corners of his mouth turn up. “You probably did.”
“Fuck you, Ronan,” I say, a flash of anger burning through me. “This isn’t a joke.”
The lines of his jaw stand out and his eyes narrow. “I don’t consider it a joke.”
“I work my ass off for this company,” I say. “I earned every bit of respect I have from the team. But now people aren’t going to see Selene Taylor. They’re going to see Ronan Maddox’s fucking mistress.”
I regret the words—and my tone—as soon as I say it. I shouldn’t lash out at him. It’s not his fault. He was persistent, but I made my own choices.
“All right,” he says, and stands. “I’ll back off.”
His tone is so cold, it’s like a slap to the face. He walks out of my office and shuts the door behind him.
I lean my head back against my chair and breathe out a heavy sigh. Fuck. I just made that situation worse.
Maybe Ronan and I should have been more open about our relationship from the beginning. The fact that we’ve been more or less hiding it makes the potential for gossip even higher. People love to think they’ve discovered a dirty secret. If I’m going to date Ronan—if we’re going to have an honest to goodness relationship and not just a hot fling—I’m going to have to live with what some people in the office think. I can’t control their opinions, and what they think of me shouldn’t matter so much. But it does. I’ve spent my entire career navigating the ins and outs of snap judgments and misinterpretations of who I am.
I’m aware of what I look like. I’m tall and beautiful, and there’s no conceit in me knowing it. But it means a lot of people don’t take me seriously. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been told I should “go be a model.” Sometimes it’s meant as a compliment, but often buried in the comment is the implication that my best assets are my face and my body. That the fact that I have long legs, big boobs, and a fortunate bone structure means there must not be much more to me.
There’s some irony in complaining about being beautiful. I understand that plenty of women would kill for a body like mine, and I appreciate it for what it is. But I’ve always felt like I have to work a little harder to earn the respect of my coworkers, and I hate that dating Ronan is jeopardizing that.
Is there a way to make this work? And is this more than a hot fling? Am I putting my career at risk for a man who’s going to chase the next sexy pair of legs that catches his eye?
I close my laptop and unplug the power supply. I need to get out of here. I send a quick text to Kylie, telling her I need to talk, and gather up my things. I’ll probably get more work done at home anyway. At least I won’t be wondering what everyone is saying about me on the other side of my door.
My focus isn’t much better sitting at my dining table than it was at my desk. Around five, I give up and pour myself a glass of wine. I’m not being very productive, so I figure I ought to stop staring at my computer screen.
There’s a knock at my door. I’m expecting Kylie, but not till later—and she would just use her key. I set my wine glass down on the coffee table and go to answer the door.
