“Hi, Mom.”
“Lucy.”
I wince. Christ, that tone.
“Mrs. Mills down the street has just sent me some links. Lucy, why on earth are you squabbling with your boss in public? What the hell has gotten into you?”
“Hold on,” I drawl. “You see a picture of my boss groveling at my feet and you automatically assume I’m to blame?”
“It’s not exactly professional. You need to consider the fallout of your actions.”
My eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. Something inside me breaks, like a ten-year-old dam. She’s hit a nerve. Just the right mix of words, tone, and timing has tipped me over the edge I’ve been teetering on for years.
“You know what, I’ve had enough of this. You’re either in my corner or you’re not. I can’t do this right now. Call me when you’re ready to play the role of a supportive mother instead of pumping venom into my life. As if I don’t have enough crap to handle.”
I slam the phone down, my heart pounding as I slump next to the bath. Mom’s name pops up on the screen again but I mute it. I’m physically trembling.
No wonder I’m all tangled up about what people think, trying to outwork myself at the office. I’ve endured her sniping, backhanded comments for years. Ever since she figured out that Dad was sometimes a bit of an asshole-sorry, dead dad-and maybe she hadn’t quite bagged Prince Charming after all.
I take a deep breath and rest my head against the bath. It’s time I sort my shit out.
As usual, the neon arrow follows me into reception, no longer pointing at the Memoryless Woman, but the Memoryless Woman Who Had A Thing With The Boss.
People who usually wouldn’t give me the time of day now stop and stare. All eyes turn to me, judging, dissecting. I force a bright smile as my heels click-clack conspicuously across the floor.
Not that I think heels make me a better creative or anything, but why shouldn’t I wear them if I want to? I’m a woman on the edge, so if any of these nosy bastards say the wrong thing, they’ll be getting a spiky heel up their crack.
“Hi, Abigail,” I call out loudly across the reception and wave.
Her eyes nearly make a break for it out of her skull before she plasters on a smile and waves me over, no doubt looking for gossip.
“Can’t stop, sorry!” I yell as I nearly crash into Logan the security guard. “So sorry for breaking into Mr. Wolfe’s car. Hope I didn’t get you in trouble or anything?”
Logan looks startled. “No, no trouble. I was just worried about you.” How sweet.
“You’re too kind.” I give a wave and stride toward the elevator.
The elevator bay is packed, but suddenly everyone is tripping over themselves to make room for me in their carriage.
Just as the elevator doors are about to close, a polished black shoe wedges in.
My heart leaps out of my chest, does a little somersault, and lands with a splat on the elevator floor.
Of course it’s himJP fucking Wolfe.
You could hear a pin drop as all eyes volley between us, the tense elevator now a living tennis match. I wish I could melt into the floor and disappear. I give JP a tight smile and stare desperately at the closing doors.
Despite his suave exterior, dark circles under his eyes betray exhaustion. Part of me aches to run my hands through his hair, to hold him, to kiss him. The mere sight of him makes my body ache.
As we ascend, I agonize over how to play this. Shit, is he getting off on my floor?
The doors open and everyone deferentially steps back to let the boss exit first.
I consider riding this thing to the top just to avoid him, but that’s too obvious.
So I follow him out, pulse quickening as those penetrating eyes find mine. Unfairly handsome in his tailored suit, he waits for me.
“Lucy,” he rumbles in a deep baritone, his gaze seeking answers. “How are you holding up?”
“Spectacular,” I snap sarcastically through a tight smile.
He acknowledges my tone with a sad half-smile and inhales deeply, drawing my attention to his broad chest and the heart beating underneath. A swell of emotion chokes me.
I wish he’d stop looking at me like that.
“Things are going to change around here,” he says. “I’ll do whatever it takes to make you comfortable at work.”
My throat constricts. Is this his way of saying he’s done fighting for us?
I don’t know what he’s getting at, but it doesn’t matter now. I’m taking control of my own destiny, starting with the Project Tangra presentation.
“It’s fine, really,” I manage to choke out, forcing myself to hold his gaze. “Look, I’m sorry for Libby chucking a saucepan of water over you.”
He lets out a soft chuckle. “It’s not the worst thing that’s happened to me lately.”
I make a noncommittal grunt, too choked up to quip anything in return. “I gotta run.”
“Hold on.” He pulls a white envelope from his jacket pocket. “I want you to have this. Look at it when you’re alone.”
I accept the envelope, hoping my trembling hands aren’t too noticeable. What is this? A severance package?
Before he can see the moisture pooling in my eyes, I turn and walk away. My heart feels like it’s being stomped by my own stilettos.
I make my way through the open office plan to my desk, bracing myself. I’m half expecting a “Congrats on banging the boss!'” balloon waiting for me.
But everyone just stops and stares with needle-prick eyes as I pass. Even the hardcore coders halt their typing. This is worse than when I first came back with amnesia.
To my shock, Matty is already at his desk, working diligently.
“Matty! Look at you, a new man,” I say.
“Yeah, don’t get used to it,” he snorts. “Tried the whole ‘responsible adult’ thing, but turns out I’m still a lazy asshole. You’ll have to pick up at least 60 percent of my slack as usual.”
I laugh for the first time in days. I’ll take 60 percent over his normal 90.
Then they descend-my colleagues swarming in with their endless questions. From the mundane to the outright outrageous.
“So what’s the deal with you and Wolfe then?”
“You two an item now or what?”
“I heard he’s being indicted for smuggling drugs. That legit?”
“Think he’ll give us a budget bump?”
“Is it true Wolfe’s in the mafia?”
“Can you sweet talk him into extending the deadline?”
In the commotion, Matty leaps up, rolls up his sleeves, and does a perfect impression of Andy, sniffing his pits theatrically. “All right, people, show’s over! We’ve got actual work to do here.”
Reluctantly, the crowd around my desk disperses.
I dip my chin and smile, while inside, my heart shrivels like a sad little raisin. I put on a mask, keeping my head high and my heels steady. But the truth? I’m barely holding it together.
I race to the bathroom, JP’s letter in my white-knuckled grip. Hands shaking, I tear it open. Photographs spill out-snapshots of a life erased from memory. My breath catches as I stagger back against the cubicle wall.
There we are, paddleboarding at Bear Mountain, so happy and carefree. A selfie of us nestled between towering trees, his strong arms around me. A picture of us on his mansion’s viewing deck, the mountains as our backdrop. Him kissing me as I laugh.
Candid shots he’s taken of me when I wasn’t looking. One of us lounging on his couch. One where we’re fumbling to kiss while taking a selfie.
And there’s a note in his scrawl: “These are my memories. JP.”
I sink to the floor, photographs scattered around me like memories I’ll never get back.
Two hours later, we’re presenting the final grand Tangra solution to the terrifying Quinns and the rest of the vulture suit circus.
Taylor’s at the helm, with Angry Andy-God love him-bouncing out of his seat, offering his pearls of irrelevance at the worst moments.
Killian Quinn, in a rare occurrence, smiles at me. He knows everything. Of course he knows.
JP, though, is conspicuously absent. A pang of disappointment twinges within me. Despite still feeling utterly betrayed by the man, I want him to witness me in action, maybe beam with a bit of pride. Ugh.