Page 71 of Volatile Obsessions

A loud round of “Yes, ma’am” erupted around me, most of them nodding in agreement.

“Wonderful, then let’s get to work.” I smiled as genuinely as possible and tipped my head every so often as they all began filing in past me.

When the last few trickled in, I whipped out my phone and scrolled through my contacts for Roscoe’s number. The man was likely dead asleep but…he was basically all the help I had at the moment, aside from Ellie.

Me: Good morning. I hate to possibly wake you, but we have a problem. Roman was here at some point between last night and this morning. We have absolutely no power and, apparently, some of these guys already tried flipping the breakers before I arrived. It’s not a simple fix. I need someone out here to come take a look at it ASAP. Thank you in advance.

With the text delivered, I slipped my phone back into my purse and headed upstairs to my office, head held high—all seemingly calm, cool, and collected.

I was fuming, though, positively livid.

Burning.

Loathing every facet of what made up my acquaintance with Roman, and that visceral, overwhelming connection.

This mindset was good, how I needed to think at all times.

I welcomed it, embraced it with open arms.

Yes.

Thisis how things between Roman and I should be.

How they needed to stay.

Enemies.

Forever.

Anything else was unacceptable, a danger to well-being, to my sanity.

The past—though not vast—proved confronting him was pointless and, all the while, lethal, a deadly concoction of rage and unadulterated lust.

I had to stay away from him.

Wouldn’t be remotely easy, but I had to try.

My heart would never survive Roman King otherwise.

* * *

I failed,royally.

Despite being dead-set on not giving Roman the satisfaction of eliciting a reaction from me, I ended up doing just that anyway.

As the morning went on, the temperatures in the factory continued to rise, my office included. I was sweating bullets, could feel my hair protesting against the humidity, sticking to every inch of my damp skin. No doubt my make-up was smearing off, too.

By the time the electrician finally arrived, I was a hot mess.

Literally.

An irritable hot mess who went nuclear when said electrician explained all the wires had been snipped, thus confirming this would be a lengthy—and quite costly—process.

Right then, in that moment, denying Roman of what he so justly deserved suddenly seemed stupid.

What he needed was a taste of his own damn medicine. He wanted to get this petty?

No problem, I could do petty with damn eyes closed.

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