Page 111 of Ruin

The ones I like? There’s only one I like. Giovanna, always Giovanna. Unfortunately, she’s not willing to fill the role of public anything, though I’d give anything to make her my wife.

My throat burns with agitation, but I only nod. He takes it as agreement, pats my shoulder, and leaves, the door to my office shutting behind him with a soft click.

Silence fills the office until Una stands from her desk, smoothing her skirt. I’d forgotten she was there and snap my head toward her, irritated that she’s in my space. She sways her hips slowly as she moves toward me, perching on the edge of my desk, smiling her soft, practiced smile.

“You know,” she says lightly, brushing her fingers against my sleeve, “if you wanted, I could be your girlfriend.”

I scowl at her and push her hand off me. “Not possible. Go back to your desk.”

She blushes and stands, self consciously touching her necklace. “Of course, we could fake it, pretend to be together for the cameras. It doesn’t have to be real.”

Something inside me snaps, and I practically growl at her, my voice low and lethal. “What did I tell you the day you were hired? Touch me again, and you’re fucking done here.”

The press is already speculating about Una and I and the last thing I need is Giovanna thinking that she’s my girlfriend. As if this whole thing between us wasn’t complicated enough.

Her smile falters and she nods, her fingers fluttering over her shirt then her skirt. “Of course. I didn’t mean to overstep, Tommy. I just know that you are not always comfortable with new people, and this way you could fulfill Donovan’s request and not have to entertain women you aren’t interested in every week to find a girlfriend.”

“Every week? Fuck that. Once a month at the most. And the so-called dates need to be public events that I have to attend anyway so I don’t have to talk to her.”

“Yes, of course, sir. Who would you like me to set up those dates with?” She pulls out her phone.

I close my eyes for an extra long second. Giovanna. My pulse thunders with the memory of her saying she regrets the time we spent together, but does she? She can’t. She still loves me. She has to. She wouldn’t cry if she didn’t care. “You heard what Donovan said. Whoever fits the bill, photographs well, willing to deal with the bullshit, all that.”

Una hesitates. “Would you like me to call the woman inthe photographs? Maybe if the press saw you together in a positive light the speculation would—”

“No.” I fucking wish.

“All right. Any preference, then? Brunette? Blonde? Tall, short?”

I rake a hand down my face, exhale hard. Preferences? Dark hair, olive skin, plump lips, hazel eyes that change colors with her mood, long nails that leave scars when she rakes them down my back when I fuck her. “I don’t fucking care.”

“Okay, well… should she work in a certain sector? Maybe a socialite, a charity girl, a girl-next-door type—”

I slam my palm flat on the desk. “I just fucking said it didn’t matter. This is an interview process for someone who is willing to be an acceptable sham girlfriend. You will be dealing with her more than I will.”

She nods quickly, typing. “Are you sure one date a month will suffice?”

I huff out a breath, replaying Donovan’s words. He seemed to want me in a press-forward relationship sooner than later. “One or two a month, but remember, schedule them only for events I have to go to.”

Una eyes me for a moment. “Sir, I don’t want to second guess your choices here, but don’t you think it might be easier to find someone who is interested in working with you in this capacity if she gets to know you? It’s even possible that you may start to enjoy one another’s company and potentially connect in a deeper way—”

I pin her with a glare sharp enough to cut bone. “If you think that’s possible, you don’t know me at all.”

50

Tommy

The woman holding a cocktail across from me—I can’t remember her name—is talking about Paris. Something about her spring travel, art galleries, fashion shows. I can’t follow the thread. Her voice is pitched high, and it grates against the noise of the fundraiser—glasses clinking, silverware scraping, people laughing too loud. It’s all crashing into my head at once.

I try to anchor myself on one detail—the fake eyelash clump askew on her left eye—but that irritates me, too.

When she suggests that I might like to go with her on a weekend trip to Paris and touches my hand, it’s too much. “You’re wasting your time.”

She blinks, confused. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not going to Paris. I don’t want to travel. I don’t even want to be here.” My words come out flat, unvarnished. “Save yourself the effort.”

Her face reddens like I slapped her. “Wow. You are unbelievable. Why did you ask me out if I’m such a bore?”