Page 27 of Muddy Messy Love

Thank you for the lovely gift, Mr. Benedict. I would love to show you my appreciation…in person.

I add a smiling devil emoji to the end of the text and snicker under my breath. Rolling my eyes, I drum the delete button. But something happens. The message jumps up the screen in a sent grey bubble, and my deleting does nothing but slam the cursor against an empty white wall.

“Oh my God,” I gasp. “No, no, no, no.” My decibels climb with every word, and I stamp my foot on the floor, pleading with the ceiling. “I didn’t press it. I didn’t even press it!” The ceiling doesn’t respond to my flailing-armed cries, and I drop to sit on the edge of my bed with a whimper. “Please tell me this isn’thappening.” But it is, goddamn it. So, under duress and holding my breath, I type another message and hit send.

Me:

Oh my God. I’m so sorry. That was not meant to send.

And when that does nothing to alleviate the suffering, I send another.

Me:

It was a joke. I was being stupid. I intended to delete the last part. Please disregard.

And another.

Me:

I’m sorry. I have no desire to show you my appreciation. At least not in that way. Thank you for the phone. If you don’t want me to come in on Monday, I completely understand.

I curse my stupidity every time, but I’m possessed. The demon of panic muddles my thoughts and controls my will.

Me:

I can return the phone too. If you want. Fuck, I’m so sorry.

Regret drowns me, and I fall back on my bed, tucking my head under the pillow to muffle the wails. They don’t come from mebut rather the mortally wounded heifer dying by my side. My new spirit animal.

How could I be so freaking stupid?

A dull chime sounds, and I toss the pillow aside and reach for the phone. With one eye screwed shut and the other barely cracked, I open the new message and read.

Cole Benedict:

Language, Miss Masters.

I jolt upright, staring at his reply while heat and tingles rush through my body at the imaginary sound of his deep velvet voice. Holy moly. What is it about those three words that hits me right between my thighs and makes debauched scenarios play on a loop in my head? And how do I respond? Do I consider myself fired before I even start? I needn’t wonder for long because another message pops up.

Cole Benedict:

I hope your birthday finished better than it started.

An olive branch. Thank God. I reply within seconds.

Me:

It did, thank you! And I remember every minute, unlike my sister. But let’s just say Beth now has a bond with her toilet more solid than most marriages.

I hit send with immediate regret. Oh shit. A toilet, really? That was probably more information than he needed or that Beth wants divulged to the head of a rival firm, but my fingers andbrain seem to be operating without my permission, in collusion with this traitorous tech I swear pressed send on its own.

My heart stutters when the next message arrives. I’m expecting Cole to gracefully exit this conversation as fast as he can. But he doesn’t.

Cole Benedict:

Lol. That contradicts every rumour I’ve heard about Bethany Masters. Is it wise to assume you corrupted her?

I smirk, remembering how Jen, Liam, and I all thumped the restaurant’s bar, yelling “Skull” at poor Beth, who actually wore her fancy lawyer suit out on a Friday night, essentially painting a target on her back.

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