Page 47 of Forbidden Boss (Manhattan Billionaires)

Rome shifted, glancing over at me with cold blue eyes. “Yes,” he replied.

There was a gulf between us, one that hadn’t been there in the week since he took me out for chocolate chip cookies. I could still feel the pressure of his thumb against my lip, could still remember the heat in his eyes when he’d met my gaze.

No one had ever looked at me like that—like theyachedfor me. Like holding back from kissing me was pure torture.

As a lifetime placeholder, being seen—being wanted—by a man like Rome Blakely was a particularly strong drug. Especially when he’d shown me glimpses of the man beneath the arrogance and the scowls.

I’d seen below the surface, and now I wanted more.

He was a complicated man who liked to distance himself from anything that might hurt him. I could understand that. Hadn’t I been doing the same with my romantic relationships for the past decade? Hadn’t I been doing the same with my friends?

I’d seen Bonnie again this week to help her choose a dress for an event she was attending while Rome and I would be in the Hamptons—a gala for her boss’s charity. Even though it would have been the perfect opening to share the secrets of my new job, I told her nothing about my situation. It wasn’t because of the NDA. I kept myself apart because I was afraid of her judgment. Afraid of her rejection.

Beside me, Rome was doing the exact same thing. I knew because it was familiar to me. I could tell he was putting a wall up between himself and the rest of the world in preparation for tonight, when he’d have to smile and clap and pretend to be happy that his parents were being honored by the upper echelons of the city.

Meanwhile, he’d be remembering all the ways they let him down.

I couldn’t stand the distance between us, so I reached over and slipped my hand into his. He glanced down at my velvet glove, then slowly curled his fingers around my hand. A tightness eased in my chest.

“We don’t have to stay the whole night,” I said quietly.

His hand tightened slightly, then softened. “Yes, we do.”

“I’ll be right beside you,” I said.

He glanced over at me, the tilt of his eyebrow slightly sardonic. “To protect me from the big, bad wolf?”

I met his gaze levelly. “If that’s what it takes.”

He huffed and looked away, but he didn’t remove his hand from mine. We sat like that as we snaked through the streets toward Midtown. All too soon, we arrived at our destination. In the few moments between the car stopping and Keith opening the door for us, I watched Rome don his armor. His face became remote. His hand slipped out of mine, and he straightened his tie and cufflinks. By the time the door beside me opened, there was no hint of the man whose gaze sparkled with amusement when I said something he didn’t expect, or the man whose gaze burned through me whenever we were alone. The man who had a surly baker at his beck and call, who had a photo of a high school basketball coach in the place of honor in his office.

This was Rome Blakely, business mogul, giant of the industry, and perfect son to the guests of honor.

I hated it. I wanted the real him. The man he kept hidden behind the remote exterior. But I had a job to do, so I donned my own mask. The pleasant smile and open expression that made it easy for people to approach us. I became his companion, his plus-one, and nothing more.

The dinner was held at a huge, airy space in Midtown that had been decorated in silver, blue, and ice-white. Delicate music floated through the space, exactly the same way it did at every one of these events. The far end of the huge room had a big stage with a clear podium and a fluttery curtain as a backdrop, with large round tables filling two-thirds of the floor space.

Where we stood, by the door, was a bar and a clear area for people to mill around and network. We were immediately accosted by an older couple who complimented our clothes, then commented on the space, then inquired about our attendance at the Garcia event this weekend.

“We’ll be there,” Rome said, sliding his hand down my spine. A shiver followed his touch. Even through the heavy fabric of my gown, I could feel the heat of his touch.

The woman smiled. “Marvelous. Garcia’s place is just magical out there.”

“We heard your work with him included some challenges,” the man said. “Delays in the planned launch schedule.”

Rome smiled. “Nothing out of the ordinary,” he said. “I’m confident we’ll be able to deliver on our promises.”

“You always do,” the woman said, smiling, but her eyes were sharp. She patted Rome’s arm, then led her husband away to speak to another couple. I was learning the language of these people—the subtle jabs, the taunts, the probing questions. Just as much could be said with the twitch of an eyebrow or a significant silence as could with words.

Rome was a master at it. With Joanne Blakely as a mother, I was sure he’d gotten a rigorous education in that particular style of communication.

The evening continued like that for the next twenty minutes or so. I did my best to be the charming companion who added color to conversations when I could, and stayed quiet when I thought it was called for. Rome stood a little further away than he usually did. Tension ran through him, evident in the set of his shoulders and the stiffness of his movements.

I wanted to fix it. I hated this distant, cold man who responded exactly as he should and showed no hint of personality. As we flitted from conversation to conversation, I wondered if anyone else noticed. They didn’t seem to; men joked with him and took his polite, wooden smiles as if Rome had guffawed along with them. Women flirted and charmed, not put off by my presence or Rome’s distance.

The longer things dragged on, the more uncomfortable I became. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t him. I didn’t like it.

Then a booming male voice called Rome’s name, and he put his fingers on my elbow to turn me toward the noise. His mother and father glided toward us, waving and nodding politely to the people who greeted them along the way.

---