Page 26 of Tall, Dark, and Grumpy

Pulling out my phone, I order an Uber as I walk to the front gate—also open. I don’t even have to wait, as there’s one available just around the corner and a sleek black SUV pulls up at the curb almost as soon as I’ve pressed the button.

The driver is an older woman with a polite smile, but even so, I feel worse and worse as the distance increases between Vito and me. Guilt and regret curdle in my stomach. I’m not even sure about what. Last night? Or leaving like a little thief?

But this is the right thing to do. I’m saving both Mr Blackwood and me a lot of discomfort in the morning.

I keep telling myself that, all the way home, and in bed when I can’t sleep.

I’m brave. I can do this.

Or rather, I am fuelled by an obscene number of tubs of ice cream, some tears, and pecking out a resignation letter, an apology, a love letter, a horny confession, and finally another resignation letter.

The weekend was exceptionally long and miserable.

Vito didn’t message. He didn’t call.

I should have stayed for the humiliation of him being awake in the morning, because between soggy tissues and ill-fated writings where I said all the things I didn’t know I felt, I realised I’ve fallen in love with my boss.

This weekend he didn’t make any demands of work I should do, and I missed that. I need his attention more than orgasms, but I’m also strong enough to be honest: I made a fool of myself on Friday night, and there isn’t any option but to move on, tend my broken heart so he doesn’t realise I ever gave it to him.

Because however kind he is, he’s my boss, a billionaire, and cared for me in a fatherly way last night. I think.

The signed resignation letter is tucked into my handbag as I enter work on Monday morning. Mr Blackwood’s door is closed, and his secretary isn’t in yet, and I tell myself this is fine. Vito probably won’t be in for hours, and I have time to compose myself.

My office phone rings before I’ve sat down, and my pulse spikes. It’s still early. There’s only one person who calls outside of office hours.

“Hello.” My voice quivers as I answer, and my arm isn’t steady holding the receiver.

“Come to my office, Miss Meadows.”

My throat goes dry, and I fail comprehensively to say anything.

“Now.” Then he puts the phone down before my powers of speech return.

Snatching up my bag, I hurry to Mr Blackwood’s door.

Oh god I am not ready for this.

There are prickles behind my eyes as I knock. I don’t even understand Mr Blackwood’s answer—it’s just his customary bark—but I walk in with as much dignity as I can muster, and pin a smile on my face.

“Good morning, Mr Blackwood.” My smile falters as I take him in. He looks tired, and all of his forty years. His usual pristine blue shirt is rumpled, and despite it being first thing in the morning he’s not wearing a tie, or a jacket. There are dark circles under his eyes as though he slept about as much as I did this weekend, and he’s scowling. The personal raincloud is back, hovering six inches above his head.

He’s beautiful.

Seeing Vito again after thinking of him all weekend turns my brain into a bowl of soggy breakfast cereal, but the milk in this analogy is hormones, and cereal is longing. That makes no sense, but I am not logical. It’s all I can do to not throw myself onto my boss’ desk and beg him incoherently to call me his good girl again.

“Close the door, Miss Meadows,” he says, low and deep.

The snick of the catch is loud in the otherwise silent room. We’re the only people on this floor, probably in the whole building. My shoes tap as I walk over to his desk with more confidence than I feel, my heart trying to vibrate out of my chest.

“What’s this?” he asks as I place the letter on his desk.

I press my lips together and link my fingers in a death grip behind my back.

He reaches one big, dark hand across the shiny wood and pulls the single sheet towards him and all I can do is remember how that hand felt on me as he bows his head to read. How he clasped me to him, and played my body as though it was an instrument tuned perfectly to him. How he made me feel special and wanted and whispered in Italian as I broke apart from his touch.

A sob rises in my throat as his brows lower further and further. I’ve ruined everything with my ridiculous lie about him being my boyfriend. I could have just adored him from my office next door if I hadn’t been so stupid.

He tosses the resignation letter away and it floats to the floor, catching under my toes.