Page 49 of The Rebel

I was so mad at his lack of faith in me, I’d been tempted to fire off a curt email outlining what he needs to do if he wants the Rochester brand to be successful, but I’m not done with him yet so I didn’t.

I’m not done with Hart.

Professionally, I am. The campaign will be ready to launch first thing tomorrow morning once he gives the final go-ahead. And he will, considering I acquiesced to his hare-brained idea to tack the foster kids programme onto it without using him to bring both campaigns together in a seamless transition.

But being done with Hart professionally is a far cry from being ready to walk away from him personally. Despite my determination to view us as island sex buddies only, the thought of flying back to the mainland in a day or two is making me feel like crap.

Crazy, considering I knew this had an end date when we started up. It’s exactly what I wanted. Short-term gain with none of the long-term pain.

Sorbet, remember?

But what if one or two scoops aren’t enough?

What if I want the whole damn sundae with a cherry on top?

Not going to happen, but for an indulgent moment I allow myself to fantasise about what it would be like to stay.

If I finally believe in myself enough to resign and start my own firm, I can work with clients around the world remotely. And if a job needs a face-to-face meeting, I can do that too. What I can’t ‘do’ is Hart if we’re not together, and the thought of not having him hold me or be inside me is enough to send me into withdrawals before I’ve even left.

An email pings into my inbox. It’s him.

My pulse races as I open it. Read it.

‘What the fuck?’ I reread it, to make sure I’m not making a mistake.

I’m not. Hart has outlined succinctly what will happen once his precious bloody campaign goes live.

Absolutely nothing.

He’s saying goodbye and effectively ending us in a fucking email!

I won’t let him get away with this.

I fire back a polite response, asking him to meet me in the conference room in half an hour to discuss his email. I deliberately choose the venue, knowing that we can’t meet in an intimate place for fear of our rampant sexual attraction getting out of control again.

This time, not even his wicked mouth, his talented fingers, or his impressive appendage will derail me.

His response is quick, confirming the meeting. Good. I have thirty minutes to prepare myself for a confrontation I have every intention of winning.

I arrive at the conference room with three minutes to spare. Hart’s already there, looking surprisingly dishevelled with his pants creased, his shirtsleeves rolled up, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, and dark shadows circling his eyes. Good to know he had a rotten night’s sleep too.

‘Hi.’ I breeze into the room, giving the door a little kick to shut it, before joining him at the table where he’s glaring at me like a foe.

‘You read my email?’ His monotone doesn’t bode well.

I nod, and his jaw clenches as he crossed his arms before taking a seat opposite me.

‘If you read it, what did you want to see me about considering I thought I made myself clear?’

No preamble, no small talk, no acknowledging the simmering tension buzzing between us even now.

‘I call bullshit.’

He places both his hands palm down on the table and leans forward, his glower formidable. ‘Don’t do this, Daisy. It’s easier this way.’

‘Easier for you, you mean?’ I try to scoff and it comes out an embarrassing snort. ‘As hard as you tried to dismiss us in that email as being nothing beyond a professional partnership, I think you need to confess.’

His lips thin as his frown deepens. ‘To what?’

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