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“Oh, yeah. What’s that?” She continued fussing with the potatoes, dashing around the kitchen like a tornado on a time limit to do as much damage in a short a time as possible. Her cell rang. She fished it out of her bag. “Shit. I need to take this. Babe, can you start dinner? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
She dashed off to his study, leaving him standing in the middle of a catastrophe. By the time she returned, he had the potatoes on the stove, the steaks were seasoned and ready to go into the pan, and the vegetables were in the steamer. He’d also downed two glasses of red wine. For courage.
“Oh, you’re an angel.” She took the glass of wine he held out to her. “Sorry about that. I’m living in the middle of a nightmare. I can’t promise that’ll be the last call of the night.” She flopped onto the sofa and gulped down half the glass of wine. “Ah. That’s better. What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
Zane sat beside her. Words flooded to the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t make them form a coherent sentence. He rubbed his temples.
“You not feeling great?” She pressed her hand to his forehead as if he was a child. “I might have some Advil in my purse. Let me get them.”
“No.” He put out a hand to stop her. “I’m fine. That’s not it. I—”
Her cell rang again. “Fuck. Sorry, babe. Hang on.”
“Brie, leave it. I’m trying to talk to you.”
“I know.” She flashed him an apologetic smile and answered the call anyway, mouthing, “Sorry,” before she disappeared for the second time.
Zane flopped against the back of the couch and waited. Fifteen minutes passed. Then thirty. He turned off the potatoes and put the steaks in the fridge. Downed a couple more glasses of wine. When an hour went by and she still hadn’t returned, he headed off in search of her. He found her mid-conversation, pacing his office, her skin flushed, and she was swatting the air as if to remove invisible obstacles.
“No, Mike. I’m not fucking having it. Tell them it’s no deal. That jerk-off isn’t going to—” She stopped, finally noticing Zane hovering in the doorway. She tapped the phone, probably to put it on silent. “Babe, I’m so sorry. I’ve got a crisis going on here.” She turned her back, effectively dismissing him.
Wonderful.
“Yeah,” she snapped. “I’m here. Like I said, Pallister can fuck off. I’m not playing games…”
Her voice faded as Zane closed the door. He ate the remains of last night’s pasta, grabbed the second bottle of wine and a glass, and went to bed.
He woke before dawn to find Brie sprawled out on top of the covers, fast asleep. She hadn’t even bothered to undress. He ran his gaze over her, then tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. She muttered something inaudible, shoved at his hand, and rolled over.
A heavy sigh crawled into his throat as the stray thoughts he’d had when talking to Calum yesterday returned. When was the last time they’d shared any kind of intimate moment? Other than a few snatched kisses here and there between dashing off to work or a meeting or, in Brie’s case, court, he couldn’t remember. Maybe this was just how things were after a significant period of time together. They were both ambitious people with demanding careers that used up most of their energy, leaving little remaining for each other.
Except Calum and Laurella had been together for more than two years now, and the way she looked at him and he at her… Goddamn, Zane yearned to have that with someone. He was too young to settle for a platonic relationship. He craved passion, love, the desperate need to be inside someone so much that you’d do anything, risk anything, just to feel their body sheathing yours.
He’d had that with Lori. He’d had all that and more with her. But just because he’d lost his first love shouldn’t mean he should settle for a passionless relationship with Brie.
Rolling out of bed, he showered, shaved, and got dressed for work. Brie still didn’t stir. He thought about waking her in case she had an early start, but knowing Brie, if that were the case, she’d have set her alarm. She didn’t need him rousing her.
What a fucking night. What a fucking disaster of a night. Somehow he had to encourage her to carve out a decent period of time for them to talk and figure out if they had a relationship worth saving.
He left Brie a note, asking her to call him if she was free for lunch, and set off for the office.
She didn’t call.
With no option other than to force the conversation, Zane left his office at six and drove to Brie’s glass-fronted building. She rarely left work until after seven, sometimes later. He signed in at reception and rode the elevator up to the eleventh floor where Brie’s large corner office was located at the end of a long corridor.
He rapped once, waited for her to invite him in just in case she had a client with her, then entered. Her perfectly plucked eyebrows rose as he appeared. She shouldn’t be too surprised. He’d visited her at work on many occasions although not so much in recent months.
“Hey. Got a minute?”
She laid her Mont Blanc pen on top of a yellow legal pad filled with her neat handwriting and check her watch. For some reason, that single action irked the fuck out of him.
“For you, of course. I didn’t know you were planning to come over.”
“We didn’t get to talk last night.” He sat in her guest chair and crossed his ankle over his opposite knee.
“No.” She grimaced. “Sorry. Last night went to hell in a handbasket.”
“Yeah. It did.”
