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Oh, shit.
I try to control the downward swing of my arm, but it’s too late.
A moment later, we both hear something crack.
And then—-
“BLOODY HELL.”
The mug slips out of my grasp and crashes into the floor.
I stare at my boss in stupefied horror, thinking numbly, Bloody hell indeed.
I think I’ve just given my boss cause to sue me for manslaughter.
WHEN MR. ROCHESTER emerges out of the E.R. with the coldest-looking expression I’ve ever seen on a human face, I open my mouth immediately to say sorry—-
“Later,” my boss snaps.
I shut my mouth. Still rude as ever, but I have to let it go, considering how I’m the reason for the ugly cast covering his right hand.
Outside the hospital, Mr. Rochester’s limousine is already waiting and when he glares at me, I take it as a non-verbal command to get in or die. My teeth start to grind, but I doggedly remind myself being subjected to tantrums is getting better than being sued.
Mr. Rochester takes a seat in front of me, and soon after the limousine starts to move. The silence between us is horrible, and I wonder gloomily if this is the aftermath before a storm, AKA the moment before I get fired.
But...surely Mr. Rochester can’t be that petty?
When I steal a look at my boss, I barely notice how hot and utterly British he is in his pinstriped suit and oxfords. All I can see right now is the hideous cast covering his right hand, and a sick feeling forms in the pit of my stomach as I recall the E.R. doctor saying how Mr. Rochester’s fracture requires two to three weeks of recovery period post surgery, and that’s only assuming no complication arises.
Mr. Rochester shifts slightly in his seat, and my gaze reluctantly moves up. I’m disconcerted and dismayed to find his sapphire eyes studying me, and I sit up self-consciously even as I prepare myself for the worst.
“So...”
Oh God. How can one word be so damn expressive? Is my imagination running wild or do I really detect fury, disdain, and a distinct need to extract revenge in that one word?
I wait for him to say something else, but he only gazes at me with narrow blue eyes that do nothing to keep my heartbeat from escalating.
Oh God, oh God.
What do I do if Mr. Rochester decides to press charges?
Several worst-scenarios occur to me, and I shove my hands under me, sitting on them so I don’t accidentally start pulling my hair.
Whatever happens, Reed, you are going to accept your fate with dignity.
Okay?
But when I hear Mr. Rochester speak again, saying, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to—-”
Not okay.
And I hear myself snap, “You can’t blame me for what happened!”
Mr. Rochester stills. “I...can’t?”
I have a feeling I’ve said the wrong word, but I’m too far gone in a haze of anger and panic to pause and think about it. Instead, I hear myself say hotly, “No, you can’t.”
A smile starts to play on Mr. Rochester lips. “Perhaps you’d care to enlighten me, Ms. Reed—”
“Gladly,” I snarl.
“Why do you believe I require your permission to do anything?”
My mouth opens...and closes. He has a point there. Shit. But then Mr. Rochester raises a brow, and the sight infuriates me so, my mouth ends up running away from me again.
“Don’t twist my words,” I snap. “It’s so petty.”
“Petty?” Mr. Rochester echoes very softly.
Shut up now, Reed, my sensible side pleads. Please shut up and stop trying to commit verbal suicide.
But I can’t. I just can’t. There’s something about Mr. Rochester that makes me lose my head—-
And so I lift my chin, saying, “Yes. Petty.”
Silence.
And then Mr. Rochester says with a sigh, “Now, you’ve done it.”
I start to tell him I don’t care, but Mr. Rochester shakes his head. “Enough.”
The word is laced with ice, and it startles me into silence.
I watch him cross his legs. It should have made him look gay but somehow Mr. Rochester makes it work. He still looks sophisticated, masculine, and scary as hell.
As the silence between us lengthens, my mind begins to replay all the words I had uttered in the past five minutes—-
And the urge to puke comes back with a vengeance.
Wasn’t this exactly what Ms. Fairfax warned me about?
No sass.
And yet—-
Numbers suddenly start running through my mind.
The thousands of dollars I still owe on my student loan—-
The hundreds of dollars I spend every month for daily expenses—-
And all of it will be gone in a blink of an eye, I realize sickly, if this man chooses to fire me.
In front of me, Mr. Rochester’s lips curve in a smile that’s dazzling and terrifying at the same time, and I gulp.
I’m dead. I’m so dead.
Mr. Rochester’s fingers begin to tap on the armrest, and my heart drops to the pit of my stomach.
I just know...I just know...whatever’s going to happen—-
