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Last night felt pretty fucking serious.
I growl to myself and slam the stop button on the machine, giving up and going for a cold shower. Hopefully that will shock me back to real life.
“Morning,” Shelley calls as I pass her desk. “Good weekend?”
“Not bad.” I smile—it’s strained—and push my way into my office. Dumping my bag on the floor, I drop into my seat and stare at the computer screen, as if I’ve forgotten what it is. I haven’t worked all weekend. It’s unheard of. I tried last night and got precisely nowhere, the information I was reading not sinking in.God damn you, Jude Harrison.
I reach for my phone and check the screen. There are a ton of unopened emails, endless news bulletins notifying me of movements on the market, acquisitions, breaking news from floating companies. I sigh and push my phone away, standing and going to the kitchen. I need coffee.
I shove a cup under the machine and hit the button for a flat white, resting my hands on the counter as I watch it drip out.
“How’s my favourite colleague this morning?” Leighton’s voice has my skin instantly crawling.
“Raring to go.”
“Good weekend?”
“Not bad.”
“But not good?”
I cast him a blank sideways look, pulling my cup off the stand. “It was fine.”
“But could have been better?” He smiles, leaning back against the counter next to the machine.
“Always room for improvement.”
Nodding, he drags his leering gaze down my dress. “You look nice in black.”
“Thanks.” I pivot on my heels, shuddering.
“Amelia,” he calls, stopping me by the door. I look back. “We never got to finish our chat last week.”
“What chat?”
“The one at the conference.”
Oh, he means the one when he was laying it on thick? Offering to get a room? I face him. “Do you want to finish it now?”
The smile that stretches across his face makes me want to slap it off. He wanders over, all casual. “Free for lunch?”
“Yes, I’m free,” I say, moving toward him, watching as anticipation crawls through his body and has him standing up straight. I lean in. “Are you asking me to lunch?”
“Sure.”
“Why?”
The look on his face tells me he’s taken aback by my question, but he soon gets his surprise in check. “I love how you play hard to get.”
His arrogance is exhausting, and I do not have the energy for him today. “I’m busy.” Turning, I walk out, wondering if my Monday isgoing to improve anytime soon. I get behind my desk, push every thought of Jude Harrison out of my mind, and start working through the structure plans and clearing down my inbox.
Chapter 22
By Wednesday, I’m back in my work groove and have caught up with all my emails and updated my portfolios. No contact from Jude. And I can’t lie, it hurts. I have no right to feel this way, I know that. But I do.
At four thirty, I’ve achieved far more than I thought I would, preparing for my calls tomorrow too. I click out of my email to catch the closing stocks, make a few notes, and email Gary my latest figures and projections. I can’t get away from it—my end-of-year forecast is optimistic and massively dependent on some big hitters throwing me their cash to invest. Tilda Spector would be the answer to my prayers. But I’m not a vulture. And, damn it, I know Leighton has some tasty potential clients lined up. Like those twins from Liverpool. God, I hope they see the slick slimeball I do and think better of handing over their financial interests to him.
It’s gone six by the time I’m done. I tidy my desk and grab my bag, leaving the office. As I’m walking to the elevators, I see Gary and Leighton in the conference room through the glass, both perched on the table rather than sitting in chairs, telling me it’s a casual chat. It doesn’t stop me wondering, though. Gary sees me and holds up a hand in goodbye. Leighton flat-out ignores me. It’s no hardship. Damn it, what are they talking about?