Summer Worthington doesn't hate her corporate job, per se. It's her god-awful boss, Mr. Griffin - or, as her roommates like to call him, Mr. Grouchy - who's the problem. He's cruel, cold-hearted, and the most attractive man she's ever seen.
As his p...
Seeing him like this, one side of his mouth tipped up in a boyish grin, reminds me that not only were Zac and Jacob drinking tonight, so was Max. And that's precisely where my problem lies.
He's not drunk—what we did wouldn't have happened if he was—butI'm sober as a freaking judge, and I wish I wasn't. I wish I had an excuse, something to explain why I'm acting so strange and out of character. Better yet, I wish I could forget tonight, but I know the memory will be scorched into my brain, sluicing through my veins, for the rest of time. The feel of my ex-boss's lips on mine, his hand between my legs, will surface regularly . . . and holy shit, I don't know how I'm supposed to see him and not want to do it again.
It's all I'm going to be thinking about from now on.
ओह! यह छवि हमारे सामग्री दिशानिर्देशों का पालन नहीं करती है। प्रकाशन जारी रखने के लिए, कृपया इसे हटा दें या कोई भिन्न छवि अपलोड करें।
After Mr. Griffin finally agreestolet me book him an Uber, I follow him outside and watch him climb into the backseat of a Toyota Camry that smells distinctly like feet and even has the tissue box sitting on the parcel shelf. It's a downgrade from the Bentleys he's used to, but we don't all have infinite zeroes in our bank accounts (or Black subscriptions). Save for letting him spend the night on my couch, this is as good as it's going to get.
As much as the morbid curiosity is there—I'm one hundred percent certain Max Griffin would be the best sex I've ever had—logic prevails. I can't deal with the morning-after awkwardness. Not with him. Not when he's offered me an olive branch: a once-in-a-lifetime job I'm seriously considering.
If I had time to create an aesthetic vision board, it would be a collage of CEO women and motivational phrases about making my dreams happen, and how I "don't need no man." I refuse to lose sight of that.
Just because it's not hanging on the wall in my bedroom doesn't make it any less true.
As I wait for the silver car to disappear around the corner, backfiring as it accelerates, I tell myself that I've done the right thing. That the emotion climbing up my throat isn't regret or concern but overwhelming relief.
It takes a herculean effort, but I manage to turn around and trudge back inside. I'm so tired, too—the sleep deprivation, travel, and emotional upheaval catching up to me—but the lure of hot water is strong.
Stepping into the shower, I scrub away the memories of tonight and my ex-boss—our ridiculously hot (and stupid) moment of weakness on the couch. My forehead drops to the tiles, and I squeeze my eyes shut, exhaling a shaky breath.
I stay under the spray for a lot longer than I need to, paying extra attention to the areas he touched or kissed. From top to toe, I scour his very existence from my flesh until everywhere feels raw and . . . empty.
Fuck.
Not only has Max Griffin melted the perennial chill that's encased my heart, but he's also wrecked the unspoken agreement we had—to ignore this and keep things strictly professional between us.
