Page 14 of Reluctantly You

For some reason, mentioning this makes me feel vulnerable, weak, and I hate that I even asked. I should have just gone on like I didn’t notice. Let him or his little gay assistant hand me my notice.

“It’s still the same. For now.”

I feel sudden relief, hating that this is how it is now. Rolling over and begging for scraps.

“I do realize that this transition was unexpected, and I assume you were not part of the discussion with your father…”

I grind my teeth audibly as I wait for him to finish. I can’t even look at him. Can’t fucking look.

“But I do hope that things can move forward seamlessly. I really don’t want to have to find a new director and train them.”

“And I really don’t like being threatened,” I bite back, my eyes smashing into his.

He looks perfectly cool and collected, handsome against the backdrop of the city and sea.

I hate him.

Disgusting rich prick who thinks he’s better than me.

“No one is threatening anyone.”

I scoff and look outside once more. I want to leave. I want to fucking run. I can feel myself starting to crack, darkness oozing out of me, and I hate that he can probably see it. That he can glimpse the man I am deep down, past the rough exterior and angry façade.

A broken, sad man.

“Anyway, I see that you’re in two more meetings before the day is through, and I expect to have some reports from you by Monday morning. Is that doable?”

I flick my eyes over to his. Those dark, knowing eyes.

“Yes.”

“Good. Alright, then I’ll let you get to it. If you need anything, you can let Shiloh know. He’s my right-hand man.”

I don’t respond, just stroll out of his office—my father’s former office—and straight into my new grim, crowded space.

I join the meeting like I said I would, but I’m late and I keep my camera off, trying to pay attention but simmering and hyper-focused on Gideon fucking Masters.

By the time I leave for the gym, I’m vibrating with anger. I’ve stewed on him. Obsessed. As soon as my hands are wrapped, I’m going to beat the punching bag to within an inch of it’s sad, pathetic life. I’ll be imagining several faces while I do it, as well.

I change quickly and then wrap my hands, moving toward the room with the free-standing punching bags. The gym is fairly empty for a Friday, but as I pass the machines, I see the tattooed guy wandering around, a lollipop in his mouth and a confused look on his face. When he sees me, he shoots me a smile and waves, which I ignore.

No time.

And I’m angry. Pissed, even. I need to punch shit.

A few minutes later, my fist landing on the bag over and over, I feel a presence appear beside me and then hear an off-tune whistle.

“Wow, sorry about that,” Emery says. I don’t need to look to know it’s him. I can tell by the way he speaks. “I should practice my whistle. That was atrocious.” He tries again and it’s even worse, a long wobbly screech that’s cut off when he starts choking.

“Shit,” he wheezes, and I stop, leaning my forearm against the bag and turning to face him. My skin is warm from exertion, and I have sweat sliding down my face, but Emery doesn’t look like he’s been working out at all.

“Do you need something?” I bite out, trying to play it cool. Don’t want to accidentally use him as a punching bag.

“Oh, I just…you know, wanted to say hello and see what you were doing.” He leans a little closer, smelling distinctly like cherry candy. “I don’t know how to use those machines out there. They’re frightening. One almost killed me the other day. Just tried to smoosh me.”

“You can ask a trainer and they’ll show you how to work them.”

He bobs his head and pops his lollipop back in his mouth. “I think I’d like to try these hanging bag thingies that look like ball sacs.”

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