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My assistant is rigid, her expression strained. Each second of her clear misery pushes me lower. What the hell have I done? What was I thinking, touching her like that?
Kissing her and putting my hands on her body? Showing her my goddamn cock? I’m herboss.
And an animal.
A complete disgrace.
Those were the best minutes of my life, but that’s no excuse. The price of being in charge is putting everyone else first, and Fliss, above all others, is my top priority.
Her comfort and safety. Her happiness.
She stares at my shoulder, chin wobbling, and fuck. I want to die.
“Forgive me,” I say as I carry her back through the maze. It’s like holding a stack of firewood, she’s so stiff and unyielding. “I shouldn’t have done that, Felicity.”
Her laugh is pained. “No, I guess you shouldn’t, sir.”
But I’m weak. I let my instincts get the better of me. I’ve wanted this woman for so long, and she seemed to want me too, and I…
I bought into our ruse. Forgot we were playing roles.
It’s darker between the hedges now—the evening sky is bruised overhead, and the light’s draining fast. I squint at the shadowed dirt, stepping over half-buried roots. A bird rustles between the leaves as we pass, and it smells like damp soil and old stone.
How do I fix this? How do I make her smile again?
“I think I’ll walk from here.”
“But your feet—”
“It’s fine.” Fliss pokes my shoulder like she’s jabbing the button to get off the city bus. “Down, please.”
Ugh. Damn it.
The instant those hiking socks hit the ground, she scuttles away and puts space between us. We walk through the rest of the maze so far apart, her shoulder drags along the hedge. Birds chatter furiously as she ruffles up their leaves.
I’m such a jackass. Can’t believe I did this.
And I’mdefinitelysleeping on the floor tonight.
* * *
Here’s an understatement: the last thing I want to do right now is have a stuffy Bamford dinner. I’d rather be at home in my apartment, slamming my forehead against the granite counter tops. Or better yet, pulling one of those rare late nights at the office with Fliss, when she orders us both take-out from her favorite weird restaurants and tells me stories about her cat.
She’s been the light of my life for so long. And now she’s dimmed, and it’s my fault.
“Felicity,” my mother says from two seats down, leaning around a guest to stare at my fake girlfriend. “Is there a problem with the food? Would you like something different?”
My assistant forces a polite smile. She’s been chasing a cube of feta around her plate with a fork. “Not at all, Mrs Bamford. Everything is delicious.”
Delicious and boring. If our stuffy old chef ever met a spice, he’d die of fright.
I chew slowly, watching Fliss across the table. She’s in a green cocktail dress, her feet in Greek sandals beneath the table, and she’s fixed her hair again. It’s pinned up in a staid bun, all the pink streaks hidden.
My chest throbs.
She looks so tired. Exhausted by what I’ve put her through. Her hazel eyes are shadowed, and her shoulders curve forward.
My mother is not helping matters. “Goodness,” she says, craning her perfumed neck for a better look. “Is that a tattoo on your wrist?”
