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My stomach twists oddly.
I never imagined Gram herself writing any restrictions into her will.
“No problem. Thank you, Waldo.” I end the call there.
Great timing since my cell buzzes.
Miles: I received Louise’s message. I’ll have a note out to creative this afternoon. We’re still not talking?
I don’t respond.
The whole point of not talking to someone is to not talk to them.
But he’s persistent, and my phone vibrates again an hour later.
Miles: I’ve instructed the team they need your approval for any additional edits. Satisfied?
Nope.
No insult.
No backhanded compliment.
No smartass remark dripping with innuendo.
I’m honestly surprised—and a little disappointed.
I never expected Normal Miles to feel so dull.
So I start typing back several times, but snark seeps out in every message. I go back and delete them, frowning at the screen.
Eventually, I decide to check my inner bitch and send him a simple thank you.
So, this is progress.
Resisting Miles Cromwell in all of his stupid sex-charged glory.
But why does it feel like two steps back and less than a half step forward?
It’s almost nine o’clock and you can stick a fork in me, I’m done.
My eyes are red and bleary, watering from way too much screen time with Sarah, piecing together one new video short after the next.
I should have left hours ago, but putting in more time now means this hell ends sooner. I’ll pull an all-nighter if it means being through with this.
With him.
If I’m lucky, maybe Waldo will turn up some clause that says the inn can’t be sold for the next century, and the grumpiest boss alive can go pound sand.
I grab my coffee cup and take a swig.
It’s gone cold and gross, just like my life.
I’m about to sign out of the company chat and drag myself home when my chat window pings.
I don’t need to look at the message to know who it is.
Who else has to message me after nine?
My office. Now.
I bite my lip.
Who does he think he is?
I should just ignore it and escape while I can. The well-behaved Miles I spoke with earlier is gone, but tearing into him feels weirdly satisfying right now.
So I pack up, throw my bag over my shoulder, and march to the executive elevator.
This time, when the elevator stops, the floor is empty.
A couple of security lights are still on, illuminating the way to the brighter hazy glow of his office.
Onward I go, my knees pulsing with every step.
I swing open the door without knocking.
“What do you want?” I’m trying to sound brave, but the fight goes out of me the instant I step inside and he overwhelms my senses.
Everything about this office screams Miles Cromwell.
It’s imposing and sleek and it smells just like him.
Earth and pine and obscene masculinity. Testosterone so thick I feel the hairs on my neck standing up.
It may look like a lavish office, but it feels like walking into a cave bear’s den.
The floor-to-ceiling window dwarfs the one in my office. His desk dominates the center of the room, white marble and walnut, and the landscape paintings on the walls demand respect.
And at the center of this universe, standing too wide, is its ruler.
Silver-blue eyes razor through me.
His lip curls slightly and his nostrils flare. If you blink, you’d miss it, but I can practically hear him inhaling me.
Oh, God.
All that’s missing is his spear of a tongue flicking over his lips to complete the predator look.
“Well?” I force out, throwing my hands on my hips.
“We need to talk about the unprofessional turn this work relationship has taken.”
“Oh, is that all? It’s only like the hundredth time that’s happened. For a minute, I thought you might’ve summoned me here to talk about work.”
He opens his mouth, but I don’t give him time to fire back.
“Dude, if you want to give me a lecture, save it. Our relationship—work relationship—” Dammit. “—it’s never been professional. How could it be? You’re obsessed with my land and you think just because you’re a billionaire and you knew my grandmother, you’re somehow entitled to everything. But you aren’t. Everything you’ve done since we met was a calculated move to convince me to sell the place. The only thing you’ve succeeded in doing is making me hate you more.”
He’s quiet for a heavy second that shreds me.
“You hate me?” His question comes out raw.
Vulnerable.
Oh.
Maybe I’ve been too harsh, laying the sarcasm on thick.
“...well... how would you feel if every interaction with you was so mechanical? A means to an end, and nothing more.”
“That’s fucking absurd,” he growls, his eyes flaring. “Mechanical? Nothing could be further from the truth. Was it mechanical when you moaned in my mouth?”
Crap.
He just had to go there.
I want to laugh like the crazy woman he makes me, but there are tears in my eyes.
He kissed me—really kissed me—and that was still about the freaking inn.
...wasn’t it?
