Page 42 of Our Little Cliche

Chapter Forty-One

HOLLY

I swear to the unholy or whoever lives upstairs that if I see one more sheila fanning her face meeting Cyrus, I’m going to blow my cover. I’m not the jealous type by any stretch… but seriously get a bloody grip . These women are quite literally throwing themselves at him as if they have no morals.

I mean, what did I expect? Look at him… it’s hard to not have the thought of lathering yourself up in butter and slapping yourself onto a silver platter to serve him. Everything about him makes you want to throw yourself onto him… I know I do, even right now.

But it’s not just his looks, even though he’s painfully delicious to look at .

I see way past that, unlike these girls.

It’s the way his eyes glow when he talks about his writing.

The way he fidgets with that damn pen whenever someone asks about his next work in progress—the one only I know about, beyond what anyone else ever will.

The way his stubble sounds when he caresses it in deep thought.

…Yeah.

All of that, is mine .

I smile my fakest of smiles, pretending to be just a meaningless personal assistant for Mr. Stone, packing signed books and merchandise into the gift bags and handing them to the needy little horn bags the same way I’ve been doing for the past five hours.

Just like I’ve been purposefully altering the image quality when taking photos of them with my man .

Fuck these bitc?—

“Here you go… Lisa ,” I almost snarl, intentionally addressing her name wrong as I hand over her book to break up her grip around Cyrus’s waist. She’s been lingering for long enough, taking a million and one selfies with him and it’s making my eye twitch.

She ever so slightly pulls herself into his side a little closer, ignoring the bag of books I’m dangling in front of her, and curls her lips. “It’s Tiffany .” And for reasons I don’t understand, her tone sizzles over my skin as if someone set it alight.

Is this bitch for fucking real right now?

No… I’m not the jealous type.

I’m not the jealous type.

I’m not the jealous type.

That’s right. I’m not jealous, I’m god damn territorial.

A smirk lifts the corner of Cyrus’s cheek and it’s here and now I can see that he clearly loves this possessive side of me that I never knew existed. Well, I guess it makes sense he would like it—it’s all he writes about.

“So sorry,” I huff condescendingly. “It’s been a long day. So many fans… you know how it is.” She eventually takes the bag and the next horn bag moves forward, flushed in the face and looking all giddy.

Yeah, I need a break. This is getting too much.

“I’ll be back in a minute.” As the words leave my lips it almost seems as if I’ve crushed his soul—his facial expression changing from his professional businessman with a poker face to something is wrong with Holly and I need to stop the world effective immediately to ask her what’s wrong— because he knows he can’t ask me why I need a minute until we’re alone again.

My feet lock to the floor for a moment, waiting for him to grab me by the ass and shove me into him with interlocking tongues or something, but he doesn’t, and I think a little part of me dies.

I’m going to blow my cover with the way I’m looking at him right now, it’s absolutely not the way a personal assistant should be looking at her boss.

Cyrus frowns. “Okay.”

Rotating on my heels, I trot off to the restroom.

“Come on Holly, pull yourself together,” I huff at the visibly wired reflection of myself in the mirror, then re-lather a coat of lip gloss and pep talk my way back out into the shit show, stopping by the door to scan over the room.

I hadn’t paid much attention until now to just how many authors are here, and I haven’t even visited them.

I feel like I’m at a casino, packed in like sardines to spend all their cash.

My work phone buzzes and I jolt, completely forgetting that I had it in my back pocket. I barely use it since Cyrus is rarely out of my peripheral vision these days. Leaning back against the wall by the door I flick open the message, smiling instantly.

Cyrus Stone aka Sexy Boss:

Are you okay, my love?

I don’t know how he’s managing to text me with a line of customers, and Quinn hovering around over his shoulder, but right now it’s a breath of fresh air.

Me:

I didn’t even think to text you.

Three dots appear at the bottom of my screen and something in me feels the urge to add to my message. Crap.

Me:

Yes… I’m okay. I just needed a breather.

Cyrus Stone aka Sexy Boss:

You’re very lucky you sent the second message.

Me:

Oh, why?

Cyrus Stone aka Sexy Boss:

I would have had to put you over my knee if you’d said “nothing” or “I’m fine”

Over his knee .

My heart palpitates in my chest with excitement.

Me:

Are you trying to scare me or flirt with me?

I tap the blue send button and curiosity sparks, finding myself wandering into the abyss. How many times would he spank me? Would I like it? Would he like it? It’s a moment before I get a reply, assuming he’s trying to text me without Quinn noticing and in between readers.

Cyrus Stone aka Sexy Boss:

From the color of your cheeks I’d say you know damn well I’m doing both, Miss Cate.

He can see me? I shuffle my eyes through the crowd to our table and see him sitting down.

Me:

This is what you do to me. You cause the colour of these cheeks.

Cyrus Stone aka Sexy Boss:

And you should see what you’ve done to me.