Page 32 of Release Me

“No.” Now, I’m the one studying his features, watching for any micro expression that might confirm Elle’s suspicion about Sebastian’s lingering feelings for his ex-wife. “Regina didn’t say anything to me about Talia, which means she neglected to explain to me why you felt the need to hide me from her.”

I don’t voice any of the assumptions I’ve made about why he felt the need to go to such great lengths to keep me and his ex apart, but they bounce around in my head, taking turns launching themselves off of the inside of my skull. All of them centering around my lack of qualifications and Sebastian’s embarrassment over hiring me. Each one telling me that the moment he realized Talia and I were going to be in the same place at the same time, Sebastian decided it was best to spare her from having to interact with me. The worthless whore, the incompetent slut who can’t hold a candle to the woman he still trusts to oversee some of the most integral parts of his business on her best day.

Shame is a sharp current, cutting down my spine as I realize that the voice speaking the harsh words swirling around in my head is mine. Not Sebastian’s. Not Beau’s. Not even the regal, and maybe even a little snooty, lilt I assigned to Talia in my mind. Just mine. I don’t know when that happened. When I became the person feeding me lies about who I am and what I deserve.

Sebastian dips down to pick up what’s left of my bag’s closure and places it on the edge of my desk. His movements are precise and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to respond. I guess he does, because I’m not leaving this office until I hear what he has to say.

“I wasn’t hiding you from Talia,” he says finally, still watching my face to measure my reactions. “I was hiding Talia from you.”

“What? Why?”

In the seconds between my question and his response, I see Sebastian fight a battle between his desire to tell me the truth and the need to keep the inner workings of his mind to himself. His jaw clenches, and a vein in the center of his forehead pops out and begins to pulse before he speaks.

“Because Talia and I met when she was working for me, and I didn’t want you to hear that and think I’m the kind of guy who sleeps with every woman whose check he signs.”

I open my mouth to tell him that I wouldn’t think that of him, and then stop because we both know my mind is capable of jumping to some outlandish conclusions. Heat floods my cheeks, and my eyes drop to the floor, shame preventing me from holding his gaze.

“Oh.”

“Hey,” he says softly, urging me to look at him without touching me like he did last time. “That’s not an indictment of your reaction to our conversation at Ludus. It was just me trying to be cautious. I didn’t mean for my concerns to interfere with your day, though, and for that I apologize.”

Him apologizing for being thoughtful feels wrong even if his decision was a bit misguided. For some stupid reason, probably because I’m still not used to people thinking of me or considering my feelings at all, unshed tears sear the back of my eyes.

“That’s not what I was expecting you to say.”

Amusement turns his mouth into a jagged line, his lips caught somewhere between a smile and a frown. “What did you think I was going to say?”

“I just thought you would reach for one of those lines men love so much when they want a woman to forgive them without actually admitting they’re wrong.”

“Ah.” He crosses his arms, and it’s the first time I take notice of his outfit.

Today, he’s in an outfit that’s as casual as I’ll probably ever see him. A cream polo that gives me a dissatisfying peek at his impressive biceps. His shirt fits like the cloth was cut to his exact dimensions, tapering at his waist and disappearing into the band of a pair of white pants.

White.

The man is wearing white pants, and there isn’t a single spot on them. Why does that impress me? Upon further inspection, I mark the presence of a thin gold chain around his neck that matches the small hoop dangling from his earlobe. It occurs to me then that I’ve never seen his ears before, and that I’m only seeing them today because his locs aren’t in their usual ponytail. Instead, someone—I’m trying really hard not to think about who—has created several rows of rolled twists at the front and pulled the rest up into a bun that’s secured at the top of his head.

“You expected me to reach for the old ‘you’re overreacting’ or ‘it wasn’t even like that’ excuse?” He asks, forcing me to return my attention to the conversation.

I clear my throat, which is suddenly dry. “Something like that.”

Sebastian laughs, and the sound is a rich cloud of humor that washes over me. “I don’t do excuses. If I fuck up, I own it and do what’s necessary to make it right. So tell me, Miss Hendrix, what can I do to make this right?”

There’s no reason for a shiver to run down my spine when he calls me Miss Hendrix, but it does. It most definitely does, and it causes my brain to short circuit for a second.

“You can start by having Regina stay in her office tomorrow.”

He laughs again, stroking his beard with long fingers. “That one will be easy since she told me if she had to spend another day trying to keep tabs on you, she’d quit.”

“Damn, was I really that bad?”

“Apparently, so. She said something about spending her lunch break looking for you and finding you upstairs with Elle?”

“Yeah, I went up there hoping to sneak a small snack back to my prison cell and ended up hanging with her instead.”

His eyes narrow. “So you’re the one who ate my second piece of tuna?”

I nod enthusiastically, not the least bit sorry. “I am, and it was good too.”

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