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You’re an idiot, Raven.
I’m sitting at my desk, looking through the mock-ups marketing sent, and I can’t focus. I should be excited to work at my dream job and run a campaign that, months ago, I could’ve only imagined overseeing.
All my mind can conjure is images of Charles between my thighs, pushing into me.
The sounds of our bodies merging.
The sensation of his breath on my neck.
That deep, sensual voice echoing across the room as he came undone.
I can’t escape it.
I never want to.
The horrible reality—I want to experience it again.
Knowing full well that’s impossible, I want a label.
I can’t have CharlesandCavendish Group.
It won’t work.
Some people can block out what others think of them, but that’s not me. It would be devastating if my colleagues thought I only got this promotion by sleeping with the boss.
It’s not true. But since when does the truth matter in this world?
Wouldn’t I think that, too, if it were someone else in this position?
I work too damn hard to be accused of something so heinous. Charles’s power or position doesn’t interest me. It’s the man.
The whole grumpy-ass package.
I wonder if I got him away from the office, he would loosen up a fraction. He’s damn good at his job and seems to have a good sense of humor. A caring nature exists below that gruff exterior; I can see peeks at times.
I come out of my daydream with a screech and jump when my phone rings.
I see it’s Asher and contemplate between sending him straight to voicemail or screaming down the line at him. He’s the last person I want to talk to, but I can’t ignore him forever. We have history, and despite my anger, deep down, I know it was an accident.
Hazards of working for competitors.
I answer.
“Asher,” I say, with as little affection as I can muster.
I might be speaking to him, but I’m not about to forgive him immediately.
“Raven. Hi,” he says, sounding awkward for what might be the first time ever. “You’ve been impossible to track down.”
“That happens when your best friend stabs you in the back.”
He sighs. “You know that’s not what happened. I’d never—at least not intentionally.”
“I know, but it’s going to take me a bit to come to terms with that.”
“I understand.” He’s quiet for a moment, and I’m about to ask if there’s anything else when he finally speaks again. “What are you up to today? Could we grab lunch? Talk?”
My petty side screams to say no, but the other half—the loyal to a fault part—of me says we need to hash things out. I’ve never been one capable of holding grudges, even when it’s more than justified.
