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She doesn’t comment on my retreat, instead offering, “If there’s anything I can do, just let me know. I’m here to help.”
My eyes shut, blocking out everything I can't focus on right now. Her electric touch, the low timbre of her voice, the innate sensuality she seems to radiate.
None of that matters. It can’t matter. She’s my assistant. It’s wrong to notice those things about her. I’m not the kind of boss who takes advantage of his employees.
I’ve got bigger things on my plate, anyway. Like figuring out how to run the billion-dollar empire Dad created. Appearing competent to the thousands of employees, board members, and stockholders as the new CEO. Coming to terms with the reality that my emotionally abusive, morally corrupt father made me his sole heir to spite my brothers.
Yeah, that’s not a lot to unpack.
A simple attraction to my new assistant is the last thing on my mind.
No sweat.
Chapter Two
Emma
Ikick off my heels and place them on the worn wooden shoe rack by the front door, being careful not to shift it too much or the whole thing might fall apart. Bending down, I rub my feet, hoping the ache goes away soon, then unzip my dress the tiniest bit to relieve the pressure. I have to get used to wearing nice things again after being stuck at home for too long.
“Emma? Is that you?”
I sigh, pasting on a smile as I make my way into the back bedroom to greet my mom. “How are you feeling?” I never know what kind of reaction I’ll be met with when I come home.
“Do we have any more Vicodin? I’m all out.” She shakes an empty pill bottle at me, and I take it from her, tossing it in the wastebasket by her bed.
“The doctor said you shouldn’t take it too often. You’ll get dependent otherwise.”
She grimaces, pain clouding her blue eyes. “I need it, though.”
I keep my smile going, my heart breaking at the pleading in her voice. But I have to stay firm. She needs me to be her rock. “I’ve got some ibuprofen in my medicine cabinet. Do you want some?”
She shakes her head, gripping her temple. “It’s not strong enough. What about morphine?”
“You used all of that last week.”
She shifts on the bed, wincing. “Can you call the doctor? Tell him I need a refill.”
I stroke her curly, red hair back from her forehead, so like mine, and make a mental note to brush it for her later. “Mom, I understand you’re in pain, but they prescribed what your dosage should be for a month and you’ve used it all already. I can get more in another two weeks.”
Her bottom lip trembles and she rolls over, turning away from me. “You don’t believe me either. I finally recover from chemo, finally get a diagnosis for my fibromyalgia, and you still won’t take my pain seriously.”
I firm my mouth, not wanting to get into it again with her. “Mom, I believe you. You know that. But I don’t have any other pills to give you. I’m just trying to make do with what we have.” You know, what I’ve been doing my whole life.
She lets out a muffled sob, still facing away. I reach out to rub her back and she flinches, scooting over more, and I remind myself she’s hurting and it has nothing to do with me personally.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
I get up and softly shut the door behind me, a heaviness settling in my chest as I return to the living room. It’s been like this with her more and more lately. How can I make her see my side of it?
A key sliding in the front door lock has my head turning, on high alert. Can’t I catch a break?
“Did Harold leave Connor the company?” Dad asks, barging in without even saying hello. I don’t know why I expected otherwise.
I plop down on the couch, the springs poking me. “Yes.”
“And did you convince him to buy Montague Media?”
“I just met him.”