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“No, you listen.” She tightens her grip. “He’s spending time with you and he’s all that. And suddenly you’re handing over the company. You—who hate rich, entitled assholes until this one decides to wrap you around his worldwide cock.”
Something twists deep in my belly. “I know how it looks.”
“Is that or is that not the timeline?”
My pulse races. “I don’t care.”
“You need to start caring. This rich boy is playing you,” she warns. “Your first instinct was not to trust him. You need to honor that.”
“My instinct is to trust him now.”
Warmth slides over me. I turn to see Henry coming toward me alongside Bron.
Latrisha swears a blue streak, but I’m not listening.
Henry’s all sweaty and wearing his big gloves. They’re carrying something they made out of the rebar. Henry smiles at me, and the smile hooks to something deep in my belly.
“Don’t be a fool,” Latrisha warns, voice hard as steel. “This guy is leading you by the vajeen.”
Chapter Twenty
Henry
Our eyes lock and she smiles, and hell if that smile doesn’t light up the raw, cavernous space. Her true habitat. Cool as shit.
Her pink work shirt stretches tight over her tits in a way that reminds me of the roof and gets my cock stirring. Though that would suggest my thoughts have left that roof. The way she felt.
They haven’t.
Latrisha is so serious beside her.
I glance down at my watch and back up at Vicky. She rolls her eyes. We’ve developed our own code, way beyond spray-painted scribbles on the ground. The way we click blows my mind.
Her strange promise in the elevator has me hopeful for the first time in weeks. She asked me to trust her. I do.
Screw it. I do.
More than trust her—she’s making me feel things I haven’t felt in years.
And I trust her on that strange promise. Things will be restored. Made right with the company.
Was there a side letter from Bernadette? Something binding her to silence? More messing with me from the grave?
I go right up to her and kiss her. Latrisha doesn’t seem to approve of the PDA, but I do.
We get to work. I find myself watching Vicky when she’s not looking. Waiting for her to smile. I watch for her face to light up when she likes an idea. When she doesn’t like something, she tips her head and narrows her eyes, like she’s not quite seeing it. Not getting the person’s vision. So diplomatic.
My favorite is when our eyes meet and she straightens her glasses in that sexy, I’m-looking-at-you way that she uses to put an underline under our silent agreement.
My phone pings. Brett.
Can u talk?
I can. I don’t want to. Being here is like a vacation from myself. The Henry Locke extravaganza. But I see that he’s called a bunch of times.
I get up and wander to the lounge area, which is the one genuinely shabby part of the place, and call him.
“I’ve been trying to call for the last hour,” Brett says. “Our PI got back.”
