Page 63 of Reckless Vow

Get out of here now, idiot.

“Baldo.”

I look at her, stopping the door with my foot. She steps forward, worrying her lip, but before she says anything my phone rings.

I pull it out of my pocket. “I got to take this.” Not really.

“Sure. It’s okay. We’ll talk later.” She smiles. It’s tentative, but it’s there.

And coward that I am, I take it as permission to avoid her and leave.

* * *

I’m an asshole.

Complete, despicable piece of shit.

I’ve successfully avoided Brook for three days now. Between all the fires I needed to put out in several of my clubs, the slot machine supplier in Budapest, a potential hospitality workers strike in France and a million other things, I’ve been too busy.

It’s a partial truth.

But I wasn’t that busy. So many times I entered the elevator then stopped myself.

Part of me is fucking mad at her rejection. Part of me is confused. And the sober, reasonable me knows that we’re better off surviving this without poking at the past, or tempting the current attraction.

But I can’t claim I’m being rational here. While I’m staying away, I’m checking on her even more obsessively than I used to before.

Like right now. My eyes trace the column of her neck as she sits at my dining table. The table where she’s been taking her meals. Alone. Yep, definitely an asshole.

I should be concerned about my lack of boundaries, but this is the first time I’m really grateful I had the cameras installed upstairs.

When Art Mathison, my security consultant, suggested it, I didn’t see the point. But I live so close to the club and the building is constantly full of strangers. Besides me though, only a few people have access to the private elevator. Brook is now one of them.

In the last three days, Brook has danced, worked on her computer—a little too much—and slept. She doesn’t eat enough. She goes out once a day for a few hours and I have one of my bodyguards follow her.

According to him, she works at a cafe or takes a walk, sightseeing. She texts me when she needs something but keeps it brief.

Right now, she’s sipping wine and chatting with her friends, whose faces are stretched on her laptop with equally large glasses in their hands.

“Are you even listening to me?” Chloe huffs.

She flew in today to discuss… I don’t even know what. Fuck. I pinch the bridge of my nose and turn to face her. “Sorry, I’ve been distracted.”

“No way, I haven’t noticed.”

I sigh and lean in my chair, grabbing a stress ball someone once gave me that I’ve never used before. “You were saying?”

“What the fuck is going on, Baldo?” She stands up and starts pacing. “You extend your trip to New York without explanation, then you come back, but you’re only half present.”

“I got married.” That fucking stops her.

Her expression would be amusing, but I’m more busy with the revelation. Why the fuck did I tell her?

I don’t have friends. I’m on a friendly basis with some of my business associates, but I don’t let anyone get close enough.

It doesn’t pay off, as I learned early in my life. I never knew my father, my mother chose Micah over me, and Brook… well, that heartbreak still hurts.

But this fucking situation has been living in my head and I need to get it out, so poor Chloe gets a dose of her boss’s private life.

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