Page 22

My lips parted, but my brain wouldn’t work, confused with the hot and cold and the way my name sounded with his voice still so rough and raw.

He sat down at his computer to work, and my legs carried me to my chair on their own accord as one thought went through my mind...

He’d used my first name.

8

Gage

I fucked up.

I fucked up big time.

When Cliff told me Farrah had a heated exchange on the phone, my chest got this tight, protective feeling I didn’t quite understand. I’d planned to come into the office and ask if she was okay, if she needed me to hire extra security for her off hours, but when I saw that bruise on her face, the size and shape of a fist, I’d lost my fucking mind.

It was like that time this piece of shit assaulted Liv in the parking lot of a restaurant where I was meeting her. This guy had her pressed up against the building, and when I saw them, my mind had gone blank. I’d beat the guy so badly he’d needed a hospital visit. I’d broken ribs.

But I still didn’t feel guilty.

No one lays a hand on a woman. Especially not ones I cared about.

Shit.

Even in my head, I was fucking things up. I reminded myself I didn’t care about Farrah. No more than a boss cares about an employee. I tried to tell myself I’d have the same reaction if Mia came to work with a bruised face, but the truth was, I’d never once crossed a line like that with my assistant. Not in the last three years of working together sixty hours a week and sometimes more.

But just a week in with Farrah, and here I was.

An hour passed, two, with Farrah and me not exchanging a word. But I listened to her on the phone with different suppliers, smiling to myself as she spoke with them about installing lighting, bathroom fixtures, delivering massive soaker tubs made of waterproof material that looked exactly like Calcutta marble.

For the rest of the week, I kept my distance, only speaking to her when absolutely necessary and trying not to stare at her bruise as it faded from deep purple to sickly greens and yellows.

I could see the hurt in her eyes when she brought coffee Wednesday morning and I didn’t drink it, telling her I already had some. Heard the resignation in her tone when she offered me a stick of gum Thursday that I turned down.

But when she asked if I wanted to get lunch Friday and I declined, her face fell.

“Gage, I—” she began.

I shook my head. “It’s Mr. Griffen.”

Her eyebrows rose, and a small smile played along her lips. This woman was so confusing.

“Why are you smiling at me?” I’d just rebuked her, for crying out loud.

“You just reminded me of Andrew. Earlier this week, he decided he would only be referred to as ‘Flame.’”

A snort escaped me, too soon to repress. “Flame? Any particular reason?”

She lowered her voice, scrunching up the right side of her face. “’Because, it’s like, way cooler, bruh.’” She shook her head. “No one ever warns you that when you have boys, you’ll go from mama, to mommy, to mom, to...bruh.”

I chuckled, despite myself. The way she spoke about her children was so infused with love and humor it was hard not to get reeled into her world. “Unfortunately, Mr. Griffen is a little less cool than Flame, but it is more professional.” Something I struggled to be when Farrah was around.

She pouted. “But that means...” She sighed and shook her head, making her curls bounce around her chest in the most distracting way. “Never mind.”

“What is it?”

She closed her computer and pushed it away, frowning. “It sounds childish.”

I raised an eyebrow, keeping eye contact. “Now I have to know.”