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.
